“Well, they’re dirty now again, aren’t they?” Brey shrank as his master grew. He never seemed to stop growing. 6 feet, 10 feet, 20… Towering like a beast, casting Brey down, down, down into his shadow. So dark he’d never find his way out. Even if he wanted to. “I didn’t mean throw all the clean clothes on the floor, baby. I didn’t know I had to specify that.”

“Sorry—sorry! I can—I can—” Wild, panicked eyes snapped away from the bundle of sin on the ground and back to the awaiting dark eyes. Brey twisted his fingers, a nervous habit that he had adopted throughout the years. He’d grab one digit, then turn and turn, nearly pulling the skin straight from the bone. “—fix it—I can—I can—”

Kit’s smile was all teeth and slow warmth, that kind that settled on top soft and smooth and yet curdled underneath. He leaned forward, palms flat on his knees, making himself smaller as if to offer comfort. “You are such a stupid little thing.”

Brey’s throat was slick with fear. “Yes—yes, master. A stupid—stupid puppy. Sorry, ‘m sorry.”

“You know I hate messes.” Theatrical disappointment coated the master’s voice, almost like a grave lullaby. “And yet you throw perfectly clean clothes to the ground?”

“No—no, mas—Kit, please, I didn’t mean—” Brey’s apologies were a rapid, ragged percussion. He edged backward reflexively, as if distance might diffuse whatever storm was gathering.

The sound barely left his lips before Kit’s hand lashed out, the crack of palm against cheek echoing in the basement. Brey staggered back, clutching the side of his face, eyes wide and wet.

“Kit?” The word was poison in his master’s mouth. His smile stretched thin as glass about to shatter. “Who gave you permission to say my name, baby?”

“I—s-sorry, master, sorry—” Brey’s apology stumbled out, his body folding inward, small as he could make himself.

“Do I look like your friend?” Kit hissed, circling him slowly, each step deliberate. “Do I look like a boy you grew up with? A name you can just toss out whenever you like?”

Brey shook his head frantically, hands twisting, breath catching on every inhale. “No, no, master. You don’t. I was wrong—I didn’t mean—”

“Oh, but you did mean.” Kit bent low, voice velvet, brushing over Brey’s ear. “It slipped out of that pretty little mouth because you were comfortable. Because you forgot.” He let the silence sharpen for a beat, then whispered, “What happens to puppies who forget?”

Brey’s breath rattled, his lips trembling on the word. The bandage around his hand, barely healed, throbbed. “They… they get punished.”

“Mmm. Exactly.” Kit tapped two fingers under Brey’s chin, forcing him to look up, savoring the trembling wide eyes, the way blood had already flushed the cheek he’d struck. He lingered there until Brey’s knees trembled with the effort of not collapsing.

Then Kit straightened abruptly, his expression smoothing into something lighter, almost curious. “Speaking of forgetting… I meant to ask you something, sweetheart.”

“Y-yes, master?”

“Remember your little escapade upstairs?” Brey froze, throat tight. “Remember my fish tank I have up there? I think you’ve seen it a handful of times now, right?”

No words. He couldn’t.

But Kit continued on anyway, pulling out his phone and twisting it around. The screen was bright, burning Brey’s eyes until he blinked and found himself staring at a picture of the tank, zoomed in on one of the striped fish that Brey remembered. The color was not as vibrant, almost a dull orange, and her fins wilted like flowers.

“This one isn’t doing so well.” The master turned his phone back around, lips quirking to the side as he studied the picture himself. “Strange, isn’t it? She was fine a few days ago.”

He tilted his chin down, eyes cast upon the terror bleeding over his precious’s face. “You wouldn’t happen to know why, would you?”

Brey’s lips parted, but nothing came out—just a soft croak of denial. His knees bent instinctively, shrinking, as if that could shield him. “N-no, master. I didn’t—I didn’t touch—”

“Ohhh, didn’t touch?” Kit chuckled softly, too softly. “But you were upstairs, weren’t you? Near the tanks. Near her.”

Brey’s chest tightened, his hands twitched at his sides. “I—I only looked. Just looked, master. I didn’t touch—”

Kit’s head tilted, the faintest flick of amusement in his eyes. “Just looked?” He moved closer until Brey could feel the warmth of his breath. “You have such sticky hands, darling. How am I to believe you at your word?”

“M– mas— I swear! I swear, sir—master—please. I just—I just looked. She’s pretty and—and I remembered that movie with the uh—the fish like her and the uh—uhm…”

Brey’s words tangled themselves into silence, and his face burned hot. He wished he could shove the stupid sentence back into his throat, bury it deep where Kit couldn’t reach. Puppies didn’t talk about movies. Puppies didn’t think about pretty fish.

Kit’s expression shifted—first sharp, then curiously smooth, then a smile crept across his lips. Not the cold kind this time, but something soft, amused. “A movie,” he echoed, and then, to Brey’s horror, he chuckled. “Sweetheart, were you standing in my house thinking about Finding Nemo?”

Brey flinched, his stomach curdling, but Kit only shook his head slowly, still smiling. “Oh, my darling boy.” He leaned closer, voice velvet-sweet. “That’s almost cute. You—down on your knees, all big wet eyes—and in that head of yours, you’re thinking about cartoons. That’s adorable. Almost makes me want to forgive you.”

“Master, I didn’t mean—”

Kit cut him off with a finger pressed lightly to his lips. “Shhh. Don’t spoil it. Let me have the picture, baby. My puppy with his silly little movie thoughts.” He laughed again, a quiet, private sound, as if Brey were an inside joke only he could understand. “You really are a soft, stupid thing.”

The warmth in his tone didn’t last. Kit’s eyes sharpened as they flicked back to the photo on his phone, then to Brey. The smile lingered, but it had curdled at the edges. “Still,” he murmured, “she’s sick. And it happened right after you looked. That’s not so cute, is it?”

Brey’s throat clenched. His lips trembled against Kit’s finger, still hovering at his mouth. “I—I only looked, master. Only looked. Didn’t touch.”

Kit withdrew his hand, but the smile remained both fond and frightening. “Does it really make that much of a difference?”

Brey’s whole body convulsed at the words. Heat flushed his face, and the bandage across his hand ached like a fresh bruise. He couldn’t find the courage to answer; only a wet, broken sound escaped him. 

Kit’s smile softened—so soft it felt like a hand closing over Brey’s throat. He crouched, bringing his face level with the trembling boy, and let his fingers trail down Brey’s jaw, deliberate, possessive. He tapped the photo on his phone until the image zoomed in, then swiped to a short video he’d recorded the day before: the clownfish flicking, then idling oddly near the surface. The movement was small, but Brey felt it like an accusation.

“You looked and looked and forgot your place. That slideshow in your head—cartoons, pretty fish—what else was in there, Brey?” He leaned so close Brey could smell the faint soap on his skin, the clean scent that always made Brey feel smaller. “Tell me. Imagine I believe you. Imagine I think you’re innocent. Wouldn’t that be… dull?”

Brey choked on a sob and shook his head, words falling out jagged. “N-no. I didn’t touch—only looked. I swear. I don’t—”

Kit hummed, delighted by the flailing. “You swear.” He tapped the screen, watching the fish drift in the dim light. “You know, I could make you prove it.” The tone shifted, the amusement curdling into something colder. “Come here.” He extended a hand—not rough, not yet—but the command in it was absolute.

Brey crawled forward on his knees, fingers scraping the basement floor. His palms trembled as they met Kit’s. Kit took his hand, held it there a second, then let it go. When it dropped useless and broken to the ground, a heel was there to meet it. Hard leather, digging against the bandages, pinning that treacherous hand to the floor. Blood seeped out, the wounds reopened. “Say it again. Out loud. Tell me you only looked.”

Brey’s breath hitched into ragged little sobs. The bandage around his palm tore as the heel dug into it; hot, metallic pain flared, and he gasped, the sound half-choked by the sting. Blood beaded against the coarse fabric, dark and quick. “I—” he tried to speak, voice thin as tissue.

“Out. Loud.” Kit’s voice was patient, clinical, as if he were asking for a grocery list and not the truth from a broken animal. He pressed his boot a fraction harder. Brey’s nails scraped uselessly against the floorboards.

“I only—only looked,” Brey croaked, each word a splinter. He tasted copper. His throat worked; tears slicked his cheeks. “I didn’t touch her. I swear—I swear—”

Kit’s smile was a slow, private thing. He lifted his heel, letting the pressure ease so Brey could breathe, then tapped the floor with the toe as if testing a note. “Again,” he said softly. “And mean it this time. Look me in the eyes when you say it.”

Brey’s head snapped up, eyes wide and raw. He stared at Kit’s face—the angles of his jaw, the calm behind the smile—and forced the words through his shaking mouth. “I only looked. I didn’t touch. I promise, master—please believe me—”

Kit watched him for a long, delicious second. Then he reached down and brushed the wet hair from Brey’s forehead, fingers gentle enough to be tender. “Oh, my puppy. My sweet little thing. See what happens when you look at things? When you want things? You look so harmless and yet you are poisonous.”

He straightened and pulled Brey up by the hair, not roughly, but with an authority that left no room for bargaining. Brey stumbled, legs made of liquid, palms slick with blood. “Pretty things don’t last around you, do they? Flowers wilt. Innocent creatures die. Even thoughts of them make trouble.”

Brey pressed his good hand to his mouth, muffling a sob. “I don’t—I don’t want—I don’t want to hurt anything—”

“You don’t get to want.” Kit’s laugh was small, bitter. “Wanting is what gets you in trouble. You look, and the rest follows. I hold you down so you can keep from killing whatever you happen to admire next. Someone has to keep a dangerous dog like you on a leash.”

“I… I didn’t—didn’t mean for her to get sick, master. Is she… is she going to die? Did I— my-my fault?” His words tumbled out jagged and frantic, each one a desperate plea.

Oh, he loved his puppy. Loved him so very much. Such a small creature, incapable of hurting even a fly. Yet he had ruined the laundry, poisoned the fish, and all that without a single intention in sight. Kit could do this all day long.

“Why would you care?” His expression fell, cold, no warmth that Brey could huddle up against. The only thing keeping him from freezing was the hot blood dripping down his wrist, slick against the floor.

Why would Brey care? The question sank into his brain before his mouth could run off. Brey wasn’t supposed to care. Not about movies. Or fish. Or flowers. He was only supposed to care about his master.

But…

His voice cracked as he slunk forward, using his clean hand to reach up toward his master, seeking refuge from God. “I didn’t mean to! I didn’t—I don’t want to hurt anything, sir—I won’t ever look again! Master—please—please I promise I won’t!”

Kit marveled inside, drunk with power and love for the shaking, pathetic thing at his feet. It was sweet as nectar, slipped down his throat so smooth, rushed straight to his brain. “Oh, my darling. Puppy, come on now. Do you really think I’d let her to die? All because you couldn’t keep your pretty little eyes to yourself?”

Kit moved the constant back and forth, the sway. The harshness followed by the kindness. However, Brey could not say the same. It made him dizzy, spinning around and around, feet stumbling, never knowing which way the world would tilt next.

“You’ve torn your hand back open, baby. Look at the mess everywhere. What did I say about messes?” Kit tsked, standing to his full height, seeing the blood speared in beautiful swirls around his pet. “You can’t help it though, it’s okay. I’ll make sure your pretty fish survives another day, as long as you don’t try to poison anything else, okay?”

“O–o… kay…” Brey managed out, dropping his head to the ground, curling his wounded hand to his chest. He didn’t feel the pain anymore, but he knew once his mind returned to his body, he would.

“Stand up for me. Let’s get you cleaned up, then you can redo the laundry. And if you’re extra good, maybe we can watch Finding Nemo, alright? There we go, such a good boy. Don’t worry, I’m here. I’ll take care of you. Forever and always. I won’t let you hurt anything.”

The puppy, limp in his master’s arms, barely able to get his trembling feet beneath his heavy, useless body, managed to nod. Exhaustion coursed through him. Laundry… Kit… Fish. His cheek stung first, then his hand.

“Thank—thank you, mas—master. Thank you—thank… you…”