Zoe is now a parrot

Zoe stood there naked now, jeans and top gone, skin bare under the lights. Her expression was derpy, vacant, mouth slack in a goofy half-smile. Her hands were balled into fists, tucked tight under her armpits like makeshift wings. She let out another high-pitched squeak, sharp, bird-like.

The hypnotist spread both arms wide, motioning to her like a ringmaster.

“Ladies and gentlemen! Meet Polly!”

Zoe flapped her “wings” once and screeched, “Meet Polly! Meet Polly!” Another parrot-like squeak followed, loud, ridiculous.

The crowd erupted in laughter, some clapping, others mimicking the sound back at her.

“You see,” the hypnotist continued, “Polly doesn’t care about any of that feminist stuff like before. She’s a good parrot who can only repeat what she hears… and eat sausages and chillies. Don’t you, Polly?”

Zoe squeaked again, sharp, excited. “Polly wants a sausage!”

The hypnotist laughed, gave her a little push toward the edge of the stage. “Off you go, birdie.”

She waddled forward, arms still flapping like wings, making little parrot hops with each step. The audience howled as she disappeared into the crowd, still squeaking “Polly! Polly!” every few feet.

Chuck sat there, stomach churning. Dear god. The man had made her think she was a parrot.

On stage the hypnotist dusted his hands like he’d just finished a simple trick. Behind him, the remaining two women shifted nervously, eyes darting, waiting for the next name to be called.

Chuck’s head stayed locked forward. He couldn’t look for Katie anymore. Couldn’t see where she’d gone, or what table she was kneeling at now. All he had was the sound of distant laughter from the floor, the occasional wet slap or groan, and The hypnotist’s voice rolling out again, calm as ever.

“Next participant, please.”

None of the remaining two women stepped up. They stood frozen in place, shoulders hunched, eyes darting between the stage floor and the crowd like they were hoping someone else would volunteer for them. The hypnotist let the silence hang for a beat, then laughed, low at first, then louder, rolling through the speakers.

“Shy now, are we?” he said.

He walked behind them, placed one gloved hand on each of their backs, and pushed them forward, with enough **** that they stumbled a step toward the front of the stage. The spotlight caught them both square.

“Come on, ladies,” he said, voice bright again. “Introduce yourselves. Tell the nice people what you do for a living.”

The first woman, Indian, wavy dark hair falling past her shoulders, tall and pretty in a modest blouse and skirt, swallowed hard. She took the mic when he offered it, fingers trembling just enough to show.

“I’m Anahita,” she said quietly. “Anahita Farahani. I’m twenty-two. I’m training to be a therapist. I’m here studying in the US.”

The second woman stepped forward without waiting for the mic to be handed over. Fit, lean, long blonde ponytail, blue eyes sharp with anger. She wore tight leggings and a cropped top that showed off her toned stomach, clearly someone who lived in the gym. She seemed familiar.

“Delilah Kane,” she said, voice steady but edged. “Twenty-five. Fitness trainer and influencer.”

Chuck realised that’s where he knew her from, she was a pretty famous influencer, even Chuck followed her.

The hypnotist shook his head slowly, like a disappointed parent.

“Women these days,” he said to the crowd. “No imagination. Therapist. Fitness influencer.” He sighed theatrically. “Foolish occupations, really. So many options and they pick the same tired paths.”

He turned to Anahita first, leaning in close enough that she flinched.

“Anahita,” he said softly, “despite what everyone seems to think, there’s not a lot of money to be made in being a therapist. You know that, don’t you?”

Anahita’s mouth opened, then closed. She glanced at the audience, then back at him. **** nod. “Yeah,” she whispered. “I… I know.”

He clapped his hands once, sharp and delighted.

“Perfect! Then I’m sure you won’t mind if I change your career ambitions a bit.”

“What? No! Pleas—”

He moved fast. Covered her eyes with both hands. “Sleep!”

Anahita’s head dropped forward. Her body went limp, swaying slightly where she stood.

The hypnotist turned to Delilah without missing a beat.

“And you, Delilah,” he said, tilting his head. “Do you like being just another skinny chick in an internet sea full of them? Posting the same poses, the same captions, chasing likes?”

Delilah’s jaw tightened. She stared at him, eyes hard.

“Just be done with it,” she said. “I know it doesn’t matter what I say.”

The hypnotist’s head snapped toward her. For the first time the mask didn’t hide the flash of irritation.

He slapped her with an open palm, quick and loud across her cheek.

The sound cracked through the room. Delilah’s head jerked to the side. A red mark bloomed instantly on her skin.

“No one,” he said, voice low and cold, “is allowed to ruin my flow.”

Before she could recover, he covered her eyes with both hands.

“Sleep!”

Delilah’s body sagged. Head to chest. Arms limp. She stood there beside Anahita, both asleep on their feet, breathing slow and even.

The crowd murmured, some shocked, some laughing nervously. The hypnotist straightened his suit jacket, smoothed his cape and turned back to the audience with that same charm as before.

“Two more to go,” he said lightly. “Let’s make them count.”