The First Thread Pulled

Three weeks ago.

The office felt cavernous without Laila’s voice in the next room. Farida noticed the silence more than she cared to admit. She preferred quiet—it made work cleaner, calmer—but here, in a place where openness, loud discussion, and self-expression were prized above all, silence felt suspicious. People here thrived on sharing: their weekend escapades, their identities, their causes. Farida kept her head down. In the progressive culture of the university, where every conversation seemed to orbit around activism, identity politics, and social campaigns, she felt like a mismatched piece in a puzzle that didn’t want her. Her neatly pinned hijab framed a face that rarely betrayed her thoughts, another quiet barrier between herself and a world that demanded constant openness.

Sometimes she caught the way certain colleagues’ eyes lingered a beat too long on the folds of her hijab—curious, assessing, occasionally patronising. A few had tried to draw her into “open” discussions about her faith or “liberation,” their tone coated in politeness but edged with judgment. She’d learned to nod, smile faintly, and retreat before the conversation could turn into an intervention.

She liked rules. They were her shelter. She liked knowing exactly what was expected of her and delivering it without deviation. But here, such traits were treated as relics—outdated, even suspect. In a culture that celebrated spontaneity and constant self-disclosure, her need for order made her feel… wrong. Old-fashioned. Out of step. She often wondered if her way of doing things—measured, reserved, deliberate—belonged to another time entirely. It was safer that way, but also lonelier, as though she stood apart from the current everyone else moved with. That distance was familiar. Her mother had warned her about white men all her life—not with hatred, but with caution. They always want something. The phrase had been etched into her since girlhood, shaping a quiet wariness rather than hostility. Ironically, that wariness was one of the few things she shared with most of her colleagues, who wore their disdain for white men like a badge of belonging. To fit in, she sometimes echoed their barbs, joining in the criticism—not from conviction, but to soften the edges of her separateness. Distance was safest.

She was aligning a stack of investor dossiers—each edge perfectly flush—when the door opened.

Garrett stepped in.

Instinctively, she leaned back a fraction, her pulse ticking faster. Too close. Too unexpected. His presence was out of place—too self-assured in a space where men usually moved like they were trespassing. Her mother’s warning echoed in her mind, and she found herself glancing at the door as if marking her escape route. His eyes scanned the room, then landed on her with a calm, almost disarming smile. She kept her voice neutral, her body language guarded.

"I hear you handle all the administrative requests for funding proposals?" he asked.

She swallowed. “Among other things.” Her voice came out softer than she intended, betraying her uncertainty.

“I’ve got a form here for a funding application—special case. Needs to pass quickly, and I’d rather not have it buried on someone else’s desk. Thought you might know the right path.”

Her fingers tightened on the dossiers. “That’s… possible. Depends on the details.”

“Good,” he said, sliding the folder toward her. “If you have a moment, maybe we could go through it together in my office? I’ve got all the supplementary documents there.”

She hesitated. Her mind caught on the irony—I’m supposed to avoid men like him, aren’t I? The words of her mother and the shared disdain of her peers rattled in her head. And yet… with the others, I can’t talk. They don’t get me. “I’m not sure that’s really my role.”

He smiled easily. “Farida, you’re the only one I trust with this. You know the systems, and frankly, you’ll see problems before anyone else does. It won’t take long.”

“I guess… I just don’t really talk to people here much,” she admitted, almost surprising herself.

“You talk to me now,” he said lightly. “That’s something.”

Her lips twitched. “I mean… I can’t talk to the others about anything real. They don’t get me. You… might.”

“Then maybe you should,” he replied, voice calm but deliberate.

He pushed the folder toward her again. “Take these home for tonight. Look them over, and tomorrow we’ll finalize everything.”

As she glanced through the top page, her brow furrowed. “This… this looks like it’s about behavioural adjustment. Isn’t that… basically brainwashing?”

He gave a faint chuckle. “Yes—but don’t worry. Reading it won’t affect you.”

That evening, she sat at her small kitchen table, the folder open under a warm lamp. The material was dense, but she found herself drawn in despite herself. About halfway through, she noticed a QR code labeled Audio Supplement. She hesitated, her mother’s warning echoing in her mind, and almost laughed to herself—what was she expecting, that the big bad white man would hypnotise her through a recording? Curiosity pushed back against caution. What could really happen just by listening? With a small shrug, she scanned it.

His voice filled the room—steady, deep, warm. At first it was commentary on the paper, but soon it slipped into something more personal. Words about the comfort of order, the peace of stability, the fulfilment of having a role that mattered. About the satisfaction of keeping things perfect. Her instinct told her to be cautious, but the cadence made it easy to keep listening.

Her shoulders loosened. The day’s tension ebbed. She imagined his eyes on her, approving, and the thought made her chest tighten in a way she couldn’t name. She replayed the last minute twice before closing the file, her suspicion dulled but not gone.

Lying in bed later, she caught herself silently mouthing one of his phrases—keeping things perfect—and the sound of her own voice startled her. She turned onto her side, trying to dismiss it, but the words lingered like an echo she couldn’t shake. In the haze before sleep, she dreamed of his presence—warm, steady, guiding her through a space where every movement had purpose and every task felt like service.

Author’s Note:

As many of you probably guessed, Nila was chosen as the test subject, while Farida has taken on the role of the House Maid. Due to the voting results, I had to go with the second or even third place in two cases, since Priya was clearly imagined by many of you in a variety of roles. I felt the same — I could barely decide myself.

I’d really appreciate feedback on this chapter, as it dives rather abruptly into a flashback. I thought it would be interesting to confront the reader with it first and then explain how Farida’s journey begins. I might use this style here and there in the future — unless it ends up creating more confusion than tension.

No worries, there are no more flashbacks of this sort planned from this point onward. I agree that what happened with Laila might have felt a bit rushed, but I wanted to add some variation so that not every training arc plays out in exactly the same way. For upcoming characters, the number of chapters will also vary — sometimes more, sometimes fewer.

In any case, I’m always happy to receive feedback.