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In public he's known as Elias Selby, CEO of Selby Security Systems. Behind the scenes he is called Miraj: head of the infamous criminal organization Mirage Corporation. He is a collected, calculating individual with a deceptively kind face.
The Tactician
Age 29
Doug is the Boss' right hand man and oldest friend. He is a shit disturber by nature and occupation as his ability to test people's patience and boundaries makes him excellent at intel gathering and personality profiling.
The Doctor
Age 32
Sold to a criminal organization at a young age, she apprenticed under morally ambiguous engineers and became highly skilled in her field. When she aged out of her contract, she tried to start her own crime organization only to be raided by a more powerful organization and forced into service. They gave her the moniker "doctor" though she has never been to school and lacks a phd of any kind.
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It came to me in a vision and I had to design out the stupid pun. A kusarigama made for catching and tickling victims into submission.
Tropes: Power Imbalance, Mad Science, Enemies to Lovers, Slow Burn
Content Warning: electric shock
The knock is not loud. Not even particularly early. Still, she startles awake. For a disorienting second she does not know where she is, or when. Her hand flies instinctively to her left side. Cold metal meets her searching fingers.No IV lines. No restraints bolted to a hospital bed. Not the hospital.
The door swings open without waiting for an invitation, spilling a wash of hallway light across the narrow room.
“Good,” Doug says from the doorway. “I was worried you slept nude. I don’t think I could live with that visual.”
She squints against the light. She must look a disheveled mess. Hair flattened on one side, shirt twisted, bruises yellowing along her ribs.
Doug steps inside, chain already in hand. He gives it a testing rattle, clearly preparing for another day of deliberate provocation.
She says nothing. Instead, swings her legs over the side of the bed and presents her ankle.
He pauses for half a beat then he crouches and fastens the manacle around her leg. “It’s creepy how much you like this,” he mutters, snapping the cuff shut.
“I do not like it,” she replies sharply. “But I respect the wishes of leadership. No matter how inconvenient I find them.”
“What a good little pet,” he says, patting her head. “He might even give you a treat for that.”
She scrunches her face and bites her tongue to avoid biting him.
He leads her toward the door and she follows without resistance, then halts abruptly at the threshold, tugging back just enough to catch his attention.
“This place better have a washroom.”
He looks her up and down with exaggerated scrutiny.
“So we agree you look like garbage then? Good. I don’t want to be stuck in a room with you all day smelling like that.” He tugs back, pulling her into the kitchenette area.
On the small table sits several neatly folded stacks of clothing.
He gestures at it with the chain.
“Got your new uniforms and everything,” he says, slapping the pile.
Plain black shirts. Deep purple trousers. A crisp white lab coat. Even a pair of gold-trimmed boots that look more ceremonial than practical.
She stares at them. “You dress all your assets in costume?” she asks.
“Only the ones worth branding.” He nudges a pile toward her. “Bathroom’s through there,” he says, pointing to a narrow door off the kitchenette. “Five minutes. I’m not escorting you on a spa retreat.”
She gathers the clothes carefully, mechanical fingers flexing against fresh fabric. The quality is obvious. Inside the washroom, the space is compact but immaculate. Mirror. Sink. Shower stall with frosted glass. No exposed fixtures that could be easily removed. She catches sight of herself in the mirror and recoils.
The hot water stings her ribs at first, then seeps in, loosening tight muscle and old tension.
When she dresses in the new uniform, it fits too well. The boots lace snug around her ankles, the gold trim catching faint light when she moves. She studies herself one more time in the mirror. Presentable, she determines. Pulls her wet hair back into a high ponytail and steps back out into the lab where Doug is sipping coffee.
He gives her a long, assessing look.
“Well,” he says. “Look at that. Almost respectable. But that was definitely longer than five minutes so I’m deducting points from today’s rating.”
“Next time I’ll ask the explosives to tone down the debris. The extra couple minutes won’t kill you.”
“Hmm true. But can the same be said for you?”
She rubs her hand over a small burr in her prosthetic thumb. “I will compensate accordingly.”
Doug laughs “You’ll just fall for anything, eh? I thought a lead tech would be more of a challenge.”
She rolls her eyes and proceeds to the lab without him, cuff rattling in a wild trail behind her.
“Hey now! Don’t get ideas,” he says, hurrying to catch up with the end of her chain.
She doesn’t even look up. “About outrunning you? Please.” She continues to arrange her tools and settle straight back into her work, taking no note as Doug re-locks her leg to the table.
The first hours are casing plates. She rejects two curved shells before settling on a segmented band design that allows adjustment along each vertebral ridge. It has to sit flush, no visible seam to pry.
Doug leans back in a rolling chair, boot hooked on the workstation leg.
“You’re overengineering.”
“This is regular engineering,” she replies, adjusting the cinch housing.
He tosses a small screwdriver at her prosthetic shoulder. She squeaks and fumbles to catch it before it clatters to the floor. Dropping her project, and the case falling open. She glares.
“That was uncalled for.”
“Boss just said collar. Didn’t say crown jewel. You are definitely overdoing it.”
She finally glances up. “If he wanted crude he could have commissioned any junior technician for this. I was brought on as a specialist. So I’m specializing.” She turns back to her work, more focused, clearly tense.
He grins. “Ya think so? Huh.”
She almost asks him to clarify - but figures he’s baiting. It isn’t worth the time.
Notification systems come next. Speakers in device and control with volume adjustable at the remote. She threads lights into the buttons, installs a small screen on both pieces.
Meanwhile, Doug tests her boundaries like a cat. He nudges components out of alignment. Swipes a pen. Flicks the chain at her ankle so it rattles against the table leg. And eventually, walks straight up to her workbench and leans both hands down on it. Directly over the component, blocking her access.
She looks at his hands. Then at him. “Move.”
“No.”
“I am in the middle of alignment.”
“Looks aligned.”
“It is not.”
He studies the panel without actually understanding what he’s looking at. “Seems fine.”
“It is not fine.” She exhales slowly. “Doug.”
“What?”
“You are obstructing progress.”
“I’m just mapping the boundaries.” He shifts, deliberately leaning a little more weight onto the table and rattling her project.
“You are consistently disruptive. How does the boss feel about active internal sabotage?”
She adjusts her grip, pulls away from the table and continues tightening a connector at her chest.
Doug marches around the table and nudges her metal shoulder with two fingers. Just enough to shift her balance.
She stiffens. “Is there a point to this?” she asks slamming her work back down to glare.
Doug reaches to poke at her neck with one finger. She reacts quickly, grabs his wrist with a shockingly firm grip. “Interference introduces error,” she hisses.
Doug looks at her hand then her face. “That a threat?”
“No.” She releases him. Steps back as far as the chain allows but holds her defiant stance. “It is a request for reduced variance. Physical disruption compromises quality. Verbal, delays delivery.”
He huffs a quiet laugh. “Most people would shove me by now.”
“That would escalate the situation unnecessarily.”
“Yeah but it’d be funny.”
The doctor glares. Takes a deep breath, then pulls her project down the work bench to continue working.
“Just so we’re clear — I’m gonna keep poking.”
“I assumed as much.”
She tightens the prototype around her own thigh and activates the cinch.
The metal segments glide inward with a soft, decisive hum and lock perfectly.
Doug whistles. “Comfortable?”
“It’s not about comfort.”
“Good answer.”
She runs the auto-fit algorithm again. The band releases, resets, cinches to identical tension. Flawless.
She smiles with a flicker of pride.
By mid-afternoon she’s mapping framework for remote control: tightening, loosening, shock, audio control. She designs the interface intuitive enough that an idiot couldn’t misuse it.
Doug watches her code for a while.
“You’re assuming whoever wears it won’t sit still.”
“Of course they won’t,” she says. “if someone’s in this, it’s because they’re resisting something.”
Doug studies her face for a second too long. She doesn’t notice. She’s too busy refining.
“I thought you said you were designing around drone use cases?”
“Clearly you’ve never worked with Berserkers.”
When the initial supply drawer comes up short, she frowns. “I’m missing components.”
“Boss is on it,” Doug says, scrolling through his tablet.
She presses her lips together and keeps working. The casing is complete by the time Miraj arrives. He enters quietly, as he does. Materials in hand. Doug straightens instinctively. This time she notices before she’s ambushed.
“Sir,” she gives a polite bow.
Miraj sets the upgraded diodes on the table. “You requested modifications.”
“Yes.”
He waits. She swallows, suddenly aware she is presenting. “The,uh, previous configuration relied on direct contact for energy transfer. That leaves margin for error.”
“Define.”
“Conductive materials. Insulating layers. Intentional abrasion to disrupt contact points.” She gestures to the collar. “Arcing diodes will transfer energy without requiring perfect surface continuity. Less risk. Less sabotage. This doesn’t care what the wearer wants.”
“And these?” he asks, pointing to additions not in the original brief.
“Enhanced thermal sensors for polygraph readings. Quicker, more accurate read outs. Drones especially have more minute reactivity windows.”
Doug glances between them.
Miraj looks at her “You’re improving interrogation reliability.”
“Yes. As well as overall state monitoring and security.”
Miraj steps closer to the workstation, the chain at her ankle shifts with a quiet scrape against metal. He studies the display, then her profile. She tenses.
“But ah, most of the accuracy comes from this.” she ads hastily, pointing to a piece that was already provided. “I wish I had thought of it. Your current design was far ahead of us in accounting for sub-surface readings. ”
Miraj tilts his head slightly. “Us?”
“Er…” she freezes, realizing her error, “Syndicate, I mean.” She forces herself to meet his eyes. “I apologize, sir. Force of habit.”
“Habit,” he repeats.
“Yes, sir. It-it was a structural reference, not an ideological one.”
“Hm.” Miraj folds his hands behind his back, taking a step forward to force her gaze upward. “And just how long were you with them?”
“3 years.”
“3 years,” he echoes thoughtfully. “Long enough for language to calcify.”
She nods once.
“And long enough to build attachments.”
“My…My associations with them were exclusively professional an-and incidental.” Doug lets out a soft, humorless huff. She ignores him. Keeps her eyes on Miraj. Miraj watches the effort it takes her to remain composed. The way her breathing goes shallow, her posture draws inward, yet she does not look toward the door. “I hold no loyalty to them.” she asserts.
His hand lifts, rests at her throat.. She stops breathing, tenses, the tiniest flinch as he makes contact but she does not pull away. She braces, shuts her eyes. Prepares.
He feels her pulse flutter under her skin, strong enough to read through gloves. “I am inclined to believe you,” he says softly. Holding just long enough for her to take a forced shallow breath before withdrawing his hand. Watches confusion and relief dance across her face before it angles down, eyes settling awkwardly on the lapels of his coat, chest heaving to retake air.
“And what of your lie detection algorithm?” He pushes.
With a slight tremor she pulls up a stress graph on her tablet display. “I-It can be tuned manually to account for individual deviations. But by default it checks for correlative peaks in temperature, heart rate, tension, galvanic, and respiratory readings…”She trails off nervously. Weighs the possible repercussions of expounding further and swallows hard.
“There is a caveat.”
“I knew it.” Doug perks up. “There’s always a caveat.”
She zooms in on a spike. “If the subject’s physiological response exceeds the sampling threshold too sharply, you lose clean data for approximately half a second.”
“Oh boo, half a second’s nothing,” Doug pouts.
“The system recalibrates almost immediately, but a spike strong enough will create a blackout in the reading.”
Miraj’s gaze sharpens. “Meaning?”
“Meaning if someone is panicked enough to exceed the threshold, they won’t be flagged. Easily overcome with repetition after they stabilize. The algorithm excels at pinpointing discrepancies in those at ease with lying. But ironically struggles with overly flighty subjects.”
Doug’s eyes flick to Miraj. Miraj does not look at him. Instead, he smiles faintly at her, steps closer, examining the band. “You’re building something awfully difficult to escape.”
She nods without hesitation. “That’s the goal.”
“And you assume the wearer deserves no leniency?”
“I assume that is up to the operator to determine.” She reaches for the upgraded diodes. “I should only need a few hours to get these wired in.”
The chain at her ankle shifts when she turns back to the table.
“Take your time,” he says softly. Taking his leave with an exchange of glances behind her back.
Doug tips his head towards her, gestures to imply her lacking sanity. Then turns to watch her work again — watches the careful hands, the intent focus.
The next several hours are circuitry. By mid-afternoon she’s lost track of time.
Doug orders ramen. Brings her a cup. Sets it within reach.
“Eat.”
“In a minute.”
“If you pass out on the job I have to file an incident report.”
“Don’t tempt me.”
He huffs and peels the lid back halfway for her anyway and returns to the corner, slurping loudly while scrolling through his tablet.
She adds vibration motors next, small enough to hide within the segmented casing. She tests them against her palm first. A subtle hum.
“Warning pulse,” she says, mapping it to a soft, rhythmic buzz.
“How Polite,” Doug notes.
“Conditioning works better with escalation,” she replies absently. “Eventually a warning stimulus could be sufficient to command behavior.”
“You’ve thought an awful lot about this.”
“Beleive me, not by choice.” She sets her tool down with more force than she meant to, causing her to pick it back up and set it down more gently.
Doug watches the irrational reflex play out. “Right…”
Once the upgraded diodes are seated into the inner channel of the collar, she recalibrates everything from scratch. The remote rests open beside her, its casing stripped, intensity dial exposed while she rewrites the control curve.
She connects electrical readers and clips leads to the contact nodes.
She programs a two-axis matrix into the firmware:
One axis for power output.
One for dispersion pattern.
“Low,” she murmurs, turning the dial.
The meter climbs gently. Smooth rise. No jitter.
“Mid.”
A stronger arc crackles faintly between the internal prongs. The readout holds steady. No stutter.
“High.”
She cranks it to maximum, watches the numbers waver lightly between max spikes at the arcs peak.
From there she watches the intensity diffuse and sharpen as she plays with the other axis. Targeted delivery focuses between two points for sharp, punishing precision.
Diffuse spreads the charge across multiple nodes, broader and harder to localize.
Doug watches the graph populate.
“You’re giving whoever holds that thing too many options.”
“It’s functional. You would be surprised what the human spirit can adapt to. Variety prevents stagnation.”
“If you say so.” he returns to his reading.
A few tweaks and the matrix stabilizes. The output curve becomes beautifully obedient. Power rises and falls exactly with the dial’s rotation. No lag. No spike jitter.
She tests diffuse-to-targeted transitions mid-pulse. Smooth crossfade.
She stares at it for a moment, holding the thing delicately. Wavering then…
She straps the collar around her thigh again to test contact response under movement. The cinch glides inward perfectly, conforming to muscle and fabric without pinch.
She takes a breath and triggers a balanced pulse. She jerks harder than anticipated, rattling the chain and startling doug who looks up, takes a moment to decipher the scene in front of him then burst out laughing. “Oh that was beautiful. Do it again, I wasn’t watching.”
“Shut it,” she snaps, already adjusting the curve.
Low targeted. A sharp bite of electricity cracks across her skin. She inhales sharply through her teeth.
Doug grins wider. “You some sort of masochist?”
“I’m thorough,” she mutters, cheeks warm with irritation more than pain. “But if you would like to volunteer instead.”
“No no, I wouldn’t want to hog the fun. Though I can scream very convincingly.” He studies her — the chain at her ankle, the collar hugging her thigh, the way she doesn’t seem to connect the two.
“You think he’ll like it?” he asks.
She hesitates just long enough to betray uncertainty. “If he can be impressed…Yes.”
Evening creeps in unnoticed.
The ramen cold, untouched.
By the time Miraj returns for his check-in, the device gleams on the workstation. Nearly seamless from the outside. Elegant. Minimalist. Brutal in potential.
She straightens when he enters but doesn’t step back from the table.
“It’s stable,” she reports immediately. “Output scales cleanly across intensity levels. Diffuse and targeted modes respond without delay. Warning motors installed.” She picks up the remote and rotates the dial so he can see the readings rise on the tablet display. “Low to high power on one axis. Dispersion control on the other. The arcing diodes eliminated contact dependency. It will work efficiently even through thick material.”
She sets the collar down carefully.
“Remaining components are straightforward,” she continues. “Chemical dispenser in the rear housing. Position tracking and tethering controls integrated into the remote. Biometric lock so only an authorized user can activate it.”
“Timeline?” Miraj asks.
“Tomorrow evening.”
Doug gestures toward the cold ramen. “She hasn’t eaten since this morning.”
She waves him off. “Irrelevant.”
Miraj’s gaze lowers briefly to the chain at her ankle. Then to the collar on the table. Then back to her.
“You’ve worked all day,” he says.
“Yes.” She doesn’t hear the weight in the question. She is busy searching his stoic face for approval.
Miraj reaches out and lifts the collar. It’s heavier than it looks. He turns it once in his hands, examining the flawless seams.
“You’ve done very well,” he says.
Her breathing halts mid intake, her body pausing as not to betray her excitement, and in doing so betrays anyway.
He sets the collar back down. Looks at her with crisp judgement. The momentary joy caves to dread instantly.
“But do not make a habit of skipping meals. Or I will make arrangements to force the matter.”
She nods, lowers her gaze, and scrambles for the cold noodles to hold them obediently indicating compliance. “Understood, sir.”
Doug watches then looks at Miraj.
Miraj does not look amused now. He looks thoughtful.
“I look forward to seeing what you will manage at full capacity. Carry on doctor.”
Doug waits until she’s about finished eating before saying anything.
“Time.”
She blinks up at him, disoriented for half a second like she’s surfacing from underwater.
“What?”
“Bed. Before you start getting any wild ideas.”
She makes a face but doesn’t argue. He unlocks the chain from the workstation and gestures toward the hall. She looks at the clock, then glances longingly at the components before finally standing up and moving to her room.
He locks her door behind her. There’s a muted click, then silence.
When Doug exits the lab, Miraj is waiting at the far end of the corridor.
“Sorry to keep you waiting Boss. Slow eater. Easily distracted."
Miraj steps forward, hands clasped loosely behind his back.
“Well?” he asks.
Doug scratches at his jaw, considering.
“Any sign?” Miraj clarifies.
Doug snorts quietly. “She’s dense as lead.”
Miraj’s mouth curves faintly.
“She hasn’t questioned the scale. The specificity. Nothing?”
“Nope. She thinks she’s anticipating ‘operator needs’.” Doug air quotes and leans one shoulder against the wall. “Been referencing old drone requests all day. Pulling patterns. Trying to impress you.”
Miraj says nothing.
Doug continues, amused. “She’s building it like she expects someone dangerous to be in it. Keeps talking about resistance profiles. Sabotage prevention. She hasn’t once asked who or what it’s for.”
Silence stretches between them.
“And otherwise?” Miraj asks.
Doug grins.
“Compliant. Focused. Easy to throw off balance. Bit of a control freak.”
“Explain.”
“She zones out when she works. You can walk right up and she won’t notice until you’re practically breathing on her.” He chuckles. “And definitely does not want me touching anything.”
“Disposition?”
Doug considers more seriously this time.
“Stable,” he says. “No agitation. No dramatics. If anything she’s… eager.” He smirks. “She zapped herself twice to ensure working order.”
Miraj’s gaze flicks briefly toward the locked door.
Doug pushes off the wall. “She wants approval. That’s the whole engine right now.”
“And you’re certain,” Miraj says carefully, “that she hasn’t connected the dimensions.”
Doug laughs under his breath. “She measured that thing against her own thigh six times and never blinked.”
Miraj’s expression smooths into something unreadable. "Well then. She may be less of a liability then I feared."
"Has science gone too far?" Not yet it hasn't. Pass me that unlabeled beaker with a skull and crossbones on it, will you? This is going to revolutionize multiple fields.
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Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
Mad scientist who has the same relationship with mad science that many authors seem to have with writing. They don't really seem to like mad science, and they certainly don't appear to enjoy doing it, but once they get an idea they have to test the hypothesis, because if they just let it lie it will bother them.
Tropes: Power Imbalance, Mad Science, Enemies to Lovers, Slow Burn
Content Warnings: Suicidal Ideation, Restraints
The hallway beyond is nothing like the tunnels she's used to. No exposed pipes. No flickering fluorescents. The walls are paneled in dark wood veined with brass seams. The lighting is diffuse and warm. A dazzling crystal chandelier casts a loose glitter over what appears to be a waiting parlor. The only exits were a single antique elevator and a doorless frame leading to a wide metal staircase.
Doug steers her toward the elevator. The doors ratchet open to reveal a large glass window. The tower is tall. taller than she realized. Clinging to a high sloped mountain overlooking a dense cluster of trees before it evens out and gives way to the city. Doug pushes her inside, finally releasing her to stand on her own. She uses the momentum to steal distance between them. He allows it.
Night sprawls outward in constellations of white and gold. Traffic threads through the streets in luminous ribbons. The moon is just cresting over the distant mountains and smoke rises faintly some miles away. A dull orange glow illuminating the plumes.
She steps closer to the glass without thinking.
“Pretty, isn’t it?” Doug says. “It’s reinforced, by the way. Before you get any ideas.”
She withdraws sharply.
“I don’t have any ideas,” she nips, shoulders pulling inward.
“Mm.” He watches her reflection instead of the skyline. “You had plenty upstairs.”
“If you’re referring to how I spoke,” she begins carefully, “I was under the impression I was about to be executed.”
Doug snorts. “And that was your strategy?”
“If someone intends to kill me, I’d prefer they get it over with.”
“Ah,” he says lightly. “So you thought we were going to torture you.”
She remains carefully still. The elevator rattles downward, the trees swallow the view and shortly after they dip underground, the view becoming a solid concrete chute. She returns his gaze through the reflection.
“I considered the possibilities,” she says at last. “I miscalculated. It won’t happen again.”
He arches a brow. “Which part? The defiance or the groveling?”
She turns to face him, grinds her back teeth, fighting to keep herself turned away, disengaged. She does not know his rank or how close he stands to Miraj. She settles for fixing her eyes on the panel of buttons behind him.
Doug watches keenly. He lets the silence stretch longer than is comfortable. The elevator slows. Stops. The doors open but he blocks the path. Holds the door open yet keeps her inside.
“You should probably know that neither impresses him. You’re not here to beg. You’re here to be useful.”
Her gaze remains on the buttons.
“I know my place. And how to handle myself in front of people like him.”
“Oh, I highly doubt that.”
Her eyes flick to him before she can stop them. He sees it. A flare of emotion behind her eyes. Of pride. Indignation. Temptation to bite back.
He keeps his tone conversational. “Because upstairs you sounded like someone trying to prove she had teeth.” He tilts his head. “But do you?”
Her chin lifts a fraction. Defensive, but controlled. They lock eyes. She holds ground. When she finds her voice it's tight and strained.
“What I have is expertise that was deemed worthy of an elaborate extraction from a high security penitentiary hospital and arson,” she says. “You tell me.”
He smiles faintly. Steps aside. “Right this way, doctor.”
The doors open onto a corridor lined with pipes and bundled wires. The air is cooler here. Controlled. Sterile. Overall it’s a far more familiar ambience than the glamor of the upper tower. A reinforced door scans Doug’s tablet before sliding aside.
The lab beyond is pristine. Not cobbled together from stolen equipment and modified scrap. Organized shelves, polished counters, thorough lighting. She steps inside slowly.
“Try not to look so dazzled,” he says. “It ruins the fear factor.”
“This is mine?” she asks before she can stop herself.
“For as long as you’re useful.”
She nods.
“Most of what you need is here I’ve been told. Anything extra will be delivered as requested,” Doug continues. “You’ll have monitored access to fabrication. No external communications. No unsupervised network privileges.”
“Of course.”
He saunters through the space casually, as if inspecting it, but his attention never fully leaves her.
“And just so we’re clear,” he adds, “I’m not your assistant.”
She glances at him. “Then what are you?”
He smiles, easy and unbothered. “Babysitter.”
They lock eyes again. She bites her tongue and he glows with self satisfaction. He waits. For defiance. For a complaint about constraints. For a demand. Instead, she walks to the main workstation and sets the tablet down carefully. She studies the collar schematics again, parsing improvements and calculating timelines in her head.
“If I’m afforded design optimization,” she says without looking at him, “I’ll require conductive composite diodes rather than standard alloy. As it is, the contact points can be thwarted by a strip of paper slipped between it and the wearer.”
Doug watches her posture, how her shoulders ease as she starts pulling open drawers and taking stock of materials. How she seems to quickly lose herself in the task despite observation. She wastes no time arranging components along the worktable. Wires and lights. Speakers and switches. Tiny motors, strips of metal meshed fabric, an assortment of bearings.
“I have enough to get started. None of the more specialized components are accounted for, but I presume that’s what fabrication is for.”
“You’ll get what you need,” he promises, searching for the instability Miraj suspects might be there. The volatility that could make her disastrous. What he finds suggests his next actions might be overkill. But that only made it more fun. He rattled a long chain out of a drawer, The metallic scrape cuts through the sterile quiet. She spins at the sound, confusion flashing across her face before it settles into stiff judgment.
“You really think I'd run from an opportunity like this? You take me for an idiot?”
“Maybe. Maybe not. Wounded animals are unpredictable.” he says, stepping forward with the open cuff.
Her spine straightens. She hides her wrist behind her back on instinct.
“I can’t have that dragging across the workstation and tangling in my deliverable,” she says sharply. “If you want precision, don’t introduce variables.”
He watches her posture. Not fear exactly. Annoyance?
“Concerned about your efficiency? How responsible.”
“I’m concerned about your timeline,” she deflects. “I’m already at half capacity.”
The air between them tightens. He studies her a moment longer, weighing whether the resistance is pride or panic. Her pulse flutters in her throat, but her gaze stays level.
No bolt toward the door.
No darting glance toward exits.
No calculation of distance.
“Fine,” he says at last.
He clips the cuff around her ankle instead. The metal is cold against her skin. The chain pools briefly across the floor before he draws it taut and secures the other end to the reinforced leg of the table. The length allows movement but not much.
“There,” he says. “Minimal interference.”
She tests the slack with a small shift of her foot. Measures the radius. Calculates. Nods approvingly.
Doug lingers a moment longer. If she were going to lash out, it would have been then. Instead, she adjusts, turns back to the tablet and begins reviewing schematics as if the chain is merely another constraint to engineer around.
Interesting.
She works steadily, as carefully as she can with only one hand. The chain shifts softly when she moves. Components are laid out in ordered rows. She catalogs each piece, cross-references materials against the schematic, records substitutes where tolerances demand it. Her movements are slower than she likes. Inefficient.
Her eyes drift, unbidden, to a broom propped near the far wall. She drafts a quick image in her head. Tweezers taped along the end. Crude counterbalance lashed to her shoulder. It would be ugly. Unstable. But enough to brace delicate wiring while she solders.
She refuses to ask Doug. Even when he hovers close enough to cast a shadow over the workstation.
“Need a hand Gimpy?”
She doesn’t look up. “Get Bent.”
“Ooh Spicy.”
He reaches toward a tray of components. She rolls her chair sharply between him and them, blocking him with her body.
“You aren’t my assistant,” she says without turning. “You said so yourself. Babysitter. So sit.”
Doug’s first reaction is irritation. Then it shifts. A smirk curls slowly into place as he saunters around the workstation to face her. She looks up at last, another insult poised to fire when a gloved hand slides around her throat from behind. A single leather-clad finger scratches lightly at the side of her neck. The touch is almost idle but Goosebumps rise across her skin anyway.
"How is our little delinquent behaving?" The bosses voice drifts from behind her.
Doug’s grin turns openly entertained. "Oh I am so glad you asked..."
“S-sir,” she says, voice stiff and overly formal. “I didn’t hear you come in. What can I do for you?”
“I merely wished to check on the progress,” Miraj says coolly. His hand stills but remains resting lightly at the nape of her neck. “And, I come bearing gifts.” He withdraws his hand to set a briefcase onto the counter beside her. The one from the hospital. “Cleared through maintenance,” he adds, as though that clarifies everything.
It does not.
Her eyes flick from him to the sealed case. He gives a small nod. She reaches for it carefully. Inside, wrapped in loose protective padding, is a mechanical arm. Her arm.
Her heart skips, “You retrieved it!” She reaches for it and stops short. Miraj moves past her, examining the materials already laid out across the workstation. His gaze travels over circuits, alloy housings, the beginnings of structural planning. She forgets her arm, and searches his expression for any indication of danger. She had been working at a pace that often spared her unpleasant corrections. For something this intricate, this complex, she had assumed the same calculus applied. But as his eyes move methodically over the table, she realizes she has no idea what his expectations are.
“The production speed will more than double now,” she says quickly, gesturing toward the arm. “With full dexterity restored, I can complete the framework by morning. Possibly sooner.” She hears the faint edge of desperation in her own voice and peeks over at Doug just once. He is watching from across the room, silent but visibly amused.
“I will not have you assembling important instrumentation sleep deprived and in your condition,” Miraj says simply, his gaze sweeping her injuries without sympathy, “You look as though you have been dragged through a demolition site.”
“I may as well have been,” she says quietly.
“Your only goal tonight was inventory and preparation. Now it will be recovery.”
His smile settles into place. Polished. Unwavering. He tucks his arms behind his back. “Doug,” he says, without looking away from her, “do you have a shopping list for me?”
“Right here, boss.” Doug lifts his tablet, screen already populated with requisitions.
“Excellent. Forward that to me when you’ve wrapped up here.”
He turns toward the door. She exhales before she realizes she is doing it. The door closes behind him and Silence settles back into the lab.
“Alright. You heard the man,” Doug says, pushing off the wall.
He crouches and unclips the chain from the table leg.
“Wait. Now? It’s not even midnight.”
“I can’t be expected to supervise you all night, now can I?”
“I am literally chained to the workstation.”
“And?” He glances pointedly at the empty sleeve pinned at her shoulder. “You expect me to believe you wouldn’t cut off another limb to escape?”
She bristles. A frustrated sound escapes her before she can smooth it over. “That is not how that happened!”
He straightens and gathers the loose length of chain into his hand. “I will not be held responsible for any damage caused to the Boss’s property,” he says lightly, giving the chain a small tug.
She stumbles forward a half-step before catching herself. She is keenly aware that “property” in this context does not refer to tools or parts.
“Or,” he adds, tilting his head, “if you’d prefer to question him directly, I can call him back in. I’m sure he would love to repeat himself for you.”
Her jaw tightens but she does not test that. She snatches her mechanical arm from the open case and tucks it protectively against her side. Doug waits just long enough to make it clear he is allowing this courtesy.
“Let’s go,” he says.
He leads her through an adjoining set of doors behind the lab. The transition is abrupt. Sterile workspace gives way to something homely. A small kitchenette sits just beyond the threshold. Stainless sink. Compact refrigerator. Small table with 3 chairs. Beyond that, another door.
The room inside is barely larger than the bed it contains. The walls serve as both headboard and footboard. One single-person mattress sits raised off the floor with storage drawers beneath it. A narrow nightstand stands empty beside the bed. One overhead light. No window. No visible vents. A coat rack bolted to the far wall serves as a closet for the closet.
“You better not be chaining me to this bed,” she says flatly.
She intends it as a crude joke. Something to needle him with. Something to reassert a sliver of control. Instead, the words make her own stomach turn.
“You wish,” Doug replies. There is the faintest crack in his tone. A hairline fracture in his ease. As if she has brushed up against a subject neither of them wants to explore. He steps forward, crouches, and removes the cuff from her ankle. The chain falls away with a heavy metallic thud. He gathers it and tosses it outside the doorway.
He lingers in the doorway. There is something almost like pleading beneath the sarcasm when he says, “Just. For the love of God, don’t go offing yourself in the night.” The door closes and the lock engages from the outside with a quiet, definitive click.
“You wish,” she echoes weakly into the empty room.
She stands there for a long moment. The room is stripped of obvious hazards. No cords long enough to knot. No glass. No loose hardware. Even the drawers beneath the bed slide shallow, designed to discourage concealment.
They are legitimately afraid she will kill herself.
This is good. This means I’m more valuable than they let on.
And yet. If she truly wanted to die, there were still options. Fabric can tear. Metal can bruise. A body can find a way. And…She looks down at her loose arm. Clicks it back into socket. The gears catch and spin and with a soft hiss the whole thing springs to life. She flexes the fingers feeling her shoulder settle into the heft. At least someone seemed to understand this was not a tool.
She sits on the edge of the bed. All things considered, the room is almost cozy. The mattress gives beneath her weight, firm but forgiving. When she lies back, she finds it is longer than it appeared, long enough to stretch her legs fully. Though, had she been any taller, she might’ve had complaints. She reaches up and turns off the overhead light.
Darkness folds in, only the faint spill of emergency lighting cutting beneath the door in a thin ribbon of dull amber. She lets her eyes close. Her ribs ache when she shifts. Her shoulder throbs in time with her pulse. But the room hums with the bass of distant machines, and sleep comes all the quicker for it.
One year ago today I opened an apple note and started writing what I thought was just another self indulgent drabble for a life long fixation. Oh how I was mistaken.
My muse started to hold me at gun point, demand more and more of my creation. More chapters. More fluff. More art. It grew out of my control. I cannibalized and condensed scenarios from a decade of writing. I spiraled into a fervor and came out the other side with something deeply mine. Somehow, healing. Wildly indulgent.
I am Terrified to share this. But after years of lurking and hiding, I want to step into the spotlight and contribute. I've been inspired and emboldened by others I see here and want to join the fun.
Tropes: Power Imbalance, Mad Science, Enemies to Lovers, Slow Burn
Content Warning: Thoughts of Suicide, Abduction, Restraints, Mad Science
The lab smells like hot brass and formaldehyde, as it often does these days. The doctor sits hunched over an array of mapped neural networks of three separate subjects. Their brains in jars line the counter within arm’s reach. She layers sheets of clear glass over the diagrams, marking, erasing, marking again.
She isn’t a biologist. The network of loose organic wiring is just reminiscent enough of engineering to feel within her grasp, but far enough removed to remain permanently out of reach no matter how often her fingers brush the edge of understanding. The pathways branch, collapse, reform. Every iteration is only almost right.
Behind her, the remapping device lies open, its casing peeled back to expose a ribcage of wiring and greased cogs. Her junior technicians work in strained whispers.
“No,” she mutters, more to herself than anyone else. “That curve doesn’t make sense unless…”
A tool slips and the clash of metal echoes against tile.
“What was that?” The words crack as she springs from her chair.
One of the technicians freezes halfway bent, eyes wide. “I… sorry, Doctor. I just dropped-”
“Do you understand,” she cuts in, her voice rising, “how sensitive that interface is while it’s exposed?”
“I didn’t touch it,” he says quickly. “I swear, I didn’t.”
“That is not the point!” She’s already moving, stalking toward them, eyes flicking over their work with ruthless speed. “The point is you broke focus. And if you break focus, you make mistakes.” No one speaks. She gestures at the device. “You’re running behind. All of you. This should have been sealed an hour ago.”
“We’re moving as fast as we can, Doctor. You said yourself this timeline-”
“Don’t finish that sentence. I know what I said.” She rubs at her temple, already feeling the pressure building there. The familiar dread. The math she can’t stop doing.
If this goes wrong. If they are careless. If they fail.
“I want this delivered by end of cycle,” she says. “Not revised. Not adjusted. Delivered.”
“That’s…” The technician who dropped the tool swallows. “That’s not possible without cutting-”
“Then cut,” she says immediately. “Sleep. Redundancy. Anything that is not listed in the minimum viable spec. I can’t drop this to clean up after you. Make it work. Make it on time.”
She turns back to her maps before any of them can respond, shoulders creeping toward her ears, fingers shaking as she resumes work. Behind her, the technicians move faster.
Then the first explosion rattles the walls. The technicians pause, heads cocked, listening.
Then the second blast hits. It jostles the pipes; a crack splinters across the ceiling. The lights flicker. Alarms stutter to life like startled animals. Down the hall, chaos breaks loose with shouting and gunfire.
“Everyone out,” the Doctor orders, but the techs are already crammed near the bay door, struggling to force it open manually. The hydraulics hiss from a puncture just visible through the widening crack.
With a third deafening boom, the walls careen inward. A slab of concrete clips her shoulder and spins her sideways. She hits the floor hard enough that the world bursts into stars. Pain arrives late, dull, and spreading in the way only the worst pain does. Her left arm is pinned at the wrong angle, the prosthetic’s gears crunching through loose debris and whirring uselessly as she tries to free herself from beneath a wooden beam. Dust clouds roll in low and gray, boots thunder past, and she finally pieces it together.
A raid. Police. Rival maybe. Someone has finally pulled the thread hard enough to unravel.
So this is it. The thought brings terror and shameful relief. Finally over.
She laughs weakly and immediately regrets it as pain lances through her ribs. Her vision narrows. The alarms stretch into a single long note. A handful of men in black uniforms step through the brume, weapons raised, faces masked.
Police, then.
She closes her eyes and complies.
The whole affair ends in restraints at a penitentiary hospital. Leather tethered at her wrist and ankles. The bed itself chained to the floor. They confiscate her arm despite pitiful protests.
“A liability,” they label it aloud. She would call it spite. What threat would it pose tied down like the other? “You’re being treated,” the officer says without warmth, “until you’re well enough to stand trial. To serve as an example.”
She finds frustration enough to scoff, “Charges?”
The man looks at her with disgust. “What do you think?” He spits, tossing the clipboard at her just to watch her brace against the pain. She scans the list as he slams the door behind him.
Illegal and unethical human experimentation. Murder. Organized crime. Most of the crimes are hers. All of them are Syndicate.
“Yeah. That tracks,” she tells the air, then slumps back into the stale linens. The lighting is a dull yellow. The corners are rounded to prevent self-harm, though everything else is designed to remind her she’s a captive.
This ends in a cell. Or in death. But it ends.
It’s far too quiet. No ticking vents, no strained pipes. Only the ringing in her ears and the ache of her body slowly knitting itself back together. She sighs. Letting the weight of surrender pull her into sleep and those three hours are perhaps the most rest she’s had in years.
Noise wakes her.
No alarms yet, but a hurried stampede and the clatter of wheels on tile, followed by a crash that rattles the bedframe. At first, she thinks she’s hallucinating. Reliving the explosion. Or maybe she dreamed up the hospital and is waking back up in the thick of it.
Her door slams open. They most certainly aren’t doctors. They wear uniforms, but none she recognizes. Black and purple coats with gold trim. Military flavored but too pristine to be practical.
One of them meets her eyes, a scruffy blond whose expression is utterly unimpressed. “This is her?” He glances at a datapad, then back at her. He shrugs “Hold this for me would ya,” he says piling a metal briefcase onto the hospital bed and taking bolt cutters to the chains.
They move quickly. The others wheel the bed into the hall and away with the efficiency of a practiced routine, the blond peels off in the other direction shouting something about a loose end.
She doesn’t protest. Doesn’t ask questions. She watches the ceiling lights streak past as they roll her through smoke-filled corridors. Fire alarms finally kick in and pierce the air with long rhythmic tones. Outside, night hits her face, cold and sharp. Fire climbs the side of the building behind them, painting the night sky orange. She turns her head just enough to watch it burn.
As the world disappears beneath a thick linen sack she can’t help but wonder if this fate was preferable to the drawn out media parade of a proper sentence. She could only hope that whatever revenge this was would be swift.
From straps to ropes. Her new captors bind her arm to her ribs, her wrist to her waist, and shove her over a threshold into another building. The familiar and ~ pathetically ~ comforting sounds of a maintenance tunnel surround her. Their voices and footsteps echo as they prod her down the corridor and through yet another door.
The ground lurches and she nearly loses her balance.
“Watch it,” a guard snaps, though a pair of hands steady her anyway. An elevator, she realizes after a delay. When it stops, she braces properly this time, only to stumble on the stairs shortly after. Her head throbs. Her ribs protest when she inhales, the ropes biting into the bruises. They shove her to her knees on thick, plush carpet and pull the sack from her head without ceremony.
The room swims into focus. Tall windows, organized book shelves, leather seating, an ornate wooden desk.
And behind that desk sits a man: silken hair spills over a tailored coat, his sharp, dark eyes framed by gold, he leans forward, fingers steepled, and posture relaxed in a way that belongs only to people accustomed to power.
“So. You’re this Doctor the news is losing its mind over? I’m not sure what I expected exactly, but it wasn’t quite…” His eyes flick down, then up again. “You.”
“What do you want?” her voice is steady, but her breathing comes more shallow now. A man like this was not likely in the business of dispensing quick and merciful deaths.
“Nice to meet you too, Doctor.” he responds evenly.
“Kill me or don’t, but don’t pretend this is a conversation.” Her voice starts to tremor as her heart veers towards a most upsetting conclusion. The guards behind her rustle and bark a warning, but he silences them with a raised hand.
“You’re injured,” he says. “And still you posture. Tell me, do you always speak to your executioners this way?”
She swallows, runs a quick estimation of everything she would never dare say to the Syndicate, and chooses that as action. Resolved to drive this car off the cliff herself. “Let me guess. Personal vendetta?”
“Of a sort.” He leans back in his chair, one hand resting thoughtfully at his chin as he observes her. “You have a hypothesis as to why you’re here, then?” He smirks.
She laughs. It scrapes her throat raw. She forces herself to stand, daring the guards to shoot. Disappointingly they don’t.
“Oh, I’m sure I’ve wronged you somehow. A friend. A lover. Someone you expect me to feel sorry for.” Her shoulders square, but tremble with nerves. “But in case it wasn’t obvious, I’m not the remorseful type. The best you’ll get is the satisfaction of being the man who ends my sorry life.”
“I see,” he hums, amused. “You’ll be delighted to hear you are wrong on all accounts.”
She eyes him dubiously.
“If I wanted you dead,” he continues calmly, “I would have chosen a far more efficient method. I have no connection to any of your victims or experiments. And I certainly expect no remorse.” He leans forward and traps her gaze. “No. I intend to offer you a deal.”
“You…what?” the fight drains from her. Uncertainty winning over her resolve to finally force an end to everything.
“Right now, the hospital wing treating you is burning to cinders. By morning, you will be pronounced dead. The public will feel safe again. One more big name in villainy scrubbed from the streets. None the wiser to your survival here.” He gestures around the room, his eyes fixed on her. “In return, you work for me.”
Her voice comes out small, “And just who are you exactly?”
He smiles.
“Coming from the Syndicate, surely you are familiar with our services. Perhaps Mirage Corporation rings a bell?”
Fear hits her like a train.
Miraj.
The name carries weight. Whispers. Power.
He studies her, looking past the damage and the bravado, straight into the machinery underneath. He watches the realization sink in, and inhabit her stance, shoulders pull in, knees bend, chin lowers. He looks delighted.
“I require a mind like yours,” he says, “One that understands compliance systems intimately enough to improve them.”
Her throat goes dry. “You want me to work for you?”
“Yes.”
Her mask falls away entirely, leaving only instinct.
Survive. Endure. Be useful.
Fear is prevailing but threaded through with something else. Something akin to excitement.
“Well?” he prompts softly. “Have we a deal, Doctor? I’m sure I needn’t elaborate on what happens should you refuse.”
“Yes. Yes, of course. I… Thank you. I’ll do whatever you require.” The words spill fast, practiced, and eager to please. “It would be my greatest honor, sir.” She bows as best she can, bound and wounded. “I apologize for my behavior. If I had realized…” The hot weight of taunting caving to the more comfortable routine of self preservation. Relief tangled with hope and dread.
When she finally dares to look up, he is studying her with calm calculation.
“We are aware of your work, and your breakthroughs in compliance conditioning. Neural obedience pathways. Behavioral override systems. We’ve seen the product. And we see room for improvement. You will continue that research here, with resources the Syndicate could only dream of…But first,” he adds, “a test.”
“Anything. Of course.”
“I require a device,” he says, retrieving a slim tablet and sliding it across the desk. “Built to my specifications. Materials will be provided. You will design it, engineer it, and deliver it functional.”
She approaches cautiously, watching carefully for objections. The guards are still. Miraj is patient.
She peers down at the schematics. A collar and a remote interface designed for correction, conditioning, enforcement. Easy. Short turnaround. Her area of expertise.
“Is this acceptable?” he asks.
“Yes,” she says immediately. “Absolutely.”
He stands, eye level rises 45 degrees as she becomes uncomfortably aware of just how tall this man is compared to her five foot nothing stature.
“Good,” he says. “Then we understand one another. Doug.” The blond from before steps forward “The rest of you are dismissed,” The guards cow their heads and file out quietly while Doug unbinds her hand from her waist so she can take the data pad being held out to her.
“Doug can assist you anywhere this might become cumbersome,” Miraj grins, gesturing to the scuffed metal socket in her left shoulder. Her face reddens and she angles away from view. But Miraj is already turning his eyes to the man beside her. “See her to her quarters, let her inventory supplies, and report any additional materials to me directly... And Doug.”
“Boss.”
“Play nice.”
“We’ll see. This way, Doctor,” Doug sneers, taking her by the elbow and steering her out the doors.
