interlude

The brief reprieve on Sunday evening following our return from the Havelland had been nothing more than a fleeting interlude. By Monday morning, well before the first rush-hour traffic, the surgical-steel padlock snapped shut with that familiar, dry click. It was no jarring restart, but rather a seamless return to the order that had governed my life for several weeks now. The family getaway was over, the bourgeois masquerade before Richard checked off—and with that, the customary structure resumed its hold.

Over the following two and a half weeks, my daily routine unfolded with that well-rehearsed precision to which my body and mind had long grown accustomed.

At the Charité, I functioned like clockwork. In the pharmacology seminars and at the dissection tables in pathology, I delivered immaculate work, precisely as expected of a prospective physician.

Yet my condition had not remained entirely unnoticed: Emma and her close circle knew exactly what I wore beneath my clothes. Even though Loona had reprimanded her severely after that transgression and unequivocally forbidden her from having any further contact with me—a prohibition Emma had strictly observed ever since—chance encounters in the hallways and foyer were unavoidable. Whenever she or her friends walked past me, a fleeting, condescending glance at my groin or a muffled giggle behind a raised hand was enough to instantly rekindle the burning echo of that humiliation. They kept their distance, but their silent knowledge hung over me like the sword of Damocles.

And then there was Mira. My study partner, with whom I had been hitting the books side by side for semesters. She was entirely different from Emma—no mockery, no overt malice. But ever since the practical and the ultrasound course, she had clearly grown suspicious. Mira possessed that razor-sharp, clinical eye that missed almost nothing, paired with an easy, almost playful curiosity. She knew something was amiss down there, and she seemed to take mischievous delight in subtly drawing me out of my shell without any fuss—whether through pointed remarks, idly toying with her high-heeled boots under the table, or a touch that brushed a fraction too close to the concealed metal. Not cruel or sadistic like Loona, but with a disarming ease that made me break out in a sweat every single time.

To everyone else—the lecturers and the rest of my fellow students—the facade remained spotless. The occasional friction of the metal struts against my perineum while walking briskly between lecture halls, the mute, futile flare of every bodily impulse—all of it had long since become a familiar background hum. It no longer distracted me; instead, it compelled me into a stoic, almost somnambulant focus.

After lectures, my day belonged to Loona's household. I ran the errands, kept the high-ceilinged pre-war flat in immaculate order, did the laundry, ironed, and cooked. To maintain my physical fitness, I continued jogging my rounds through the Volkspark three times a week. The friction of the metal beneath tight sportswear had become part of the routine by now; with the right amount of soothing balm, the pain had settled into a steady, familiar pressure accompanying every stride.

In the evenings, when Loona returned from work, I naturally remained at her service. She claimed my hands and mouth entirely according to her needs. While my own flesh remained relentlessly locked away, I gave her pleasure with practiced devotion, kneeling before her, massaging her feet, and listening to her breath until she was completely relaxed. It was the familiar arrangement of our day-to-day life: her satisfaction took absolute precedence; my own existed only as a reflection of her favor.

At the same time, she allowed me the leeway I needed to stay stable in the eyes of the outside world. The familiar gaming nights with Timo on the console remained part of that. When we spent hours roaming virtual worlds over our headsets, Timo venting about university stress and the two of us cracking old jokes, everything felt normal—even while I sat at my desk chair locked in the cage. Whenever Loona casually set down a bottle of Mate in passing and idly ran her hand through my hair, my two worlds collided in absolute silence, without Timo harboring even the faintest suspicion.

The weeks slipped by in this well-ordered quiet. Yet Loona had no intention of leaving me confined purely to domestic routines indefinitely. The private circle she cultivated away from her family demanded its next step.

One Thursday evening, she set her wine glass on the dining table and regarded me with that calm, calculating gaze that tolerated no evasion.

"You have managed your daily routine impeccably over the past few weeks, John," she said smoothly. "University is on track, the flat is running smoothly, and you function precisely as I desire. That is why tomorrow we are taking things a step further. I spoke with Nadja yesterday. Tomorrow evening at eight, you will be dressed and ready—we are heading to her place, having a drink, and discussing what comes next, just the three of us, in peace."

When Friday evening finally arrived, a palpable, tingling anticipation hung over the drive through the city. We parked the car on a quiet side street and climbed the creaking stairs of a stucco-adorned pre-war building. The heavy apartment door swung wide open; Nadja welcomed us with that radiant, infectious smile that instantly lit up the entire hallway, greeting us brimming with exuberant warmth, and waved us inside with high spirits.