Jacob regained consciousness to the sound of metal.
He had not yet opened his eyes when he heard a short, heavy clank — close, almost inside his own body. Then came the pain: a dull weight at the back of his head, dryness in his mouth, an ache in his shoulders. Warmth returned last. It struck his face in uneven waves and smelled of smoke, resin, and old wood.
Jacob tried to raise a hand.
Metal pulled taut.
The clank came again.
He opened his eyes.
A fire was burning in front of him. The flames slowly broke the logs apart, sent up occasional sparks, and immediately drew them back in. Beyond the windows stood a solid black wall of rain. The living room was the same, yet everything seemed to have shifted while he slept: the sofa had moved to the side, the table had been pushed back, and the rough wooden chair that had once stood beside the hearth was now positioned in the exact center of the room.
And he was sitting in it.
His red-and-white university jacket was gone. His black T-shirt clung to his chest with cold sweat. His wrists had been pulled behind the backrest and bound with heavy construction chains. Metal wrapped around his ankles, crossed his waist and chest, coil after coil fastening his body to the wood. Between the links were strips of thick fabric — Simon had placed them wherever the iron might cut most deeply into his skin.
That thought made it worse.
Jacob jerked against the chains.
The chair shifted but held. The chain dug beneath his ribs, wrenched his shoulders backward, and sent a sharp burst of pain through his wrists.
— What the…
He pulled again — harder, with his entire body. The iron thundered, the wooden legs scraped a few millimeters across the floor, then stopped.
— Simon!
The house swallowed his voice.
— SIMON!
There was no answer.
Only rain.
Only fire.
And a quiet metallic click from the far corner.
Jacob turned his head.
Simon sat in the shadows beside the kitchen island. The gray hoodie was gone; he wore only a plain white T-shirt and dark jeans. The fire barely reached his face, but sometimes caught his hands. A large pair of tailor's shears lay across his knees. Simon slowly opened and closed them, as though testing the movement of the blades.
He was not smiling.
He did not look agitated.
He simply watched.
— Untie me, — Jacob said through clenched teeth.
Simon stood.
He walked slowly, without theatrics, and that frightened Jacob more than anything. Not one wasted movement. Not one visible tremor. He stopped in front of the chair, and for the first time in three years their usual geography was reversed: Jacob had to look up at him.
— I'm glad you're awake, — Simon said. — I was beginning to worry I'd made a mistake.
— A mistake with what?
— The amount.
It took a moment for the meaning to reach him.
— You could have killed me.
Something flickered across Simon's face — a brief, almost childlike fear.
— No.
He said it too quickly.
— I calculated everything.
— Calculated? — Jacob strained against the chains, and the metal pressed into his chest. — You drugged me, chained me to a chair in the middle of the forest, and you're telling me you calculated everything?
— You're alive.
— For now.
Simon flinched.
Jacob noticed.
Beneath the white T-shirt, the old Simon still existed — the one who could be made to shrink with a single look. The cold mask cracked for only a second, but Jacob seized it.
— Look at me, — he ordered. — You don't understand what you've done. Take off the chains. Now. We'll leave and forget all of this.
— No.
— Simon.
— You're doing it again.
— Doing what?
— Deciding that all you have to do is give an order and everything will go back into place.
Simon raised the scissors.
Jacob's body tightened before the thought could form.
The sharp blade slid beneath the collar of his T-shirt. For one second, the cold metal touched the skin near his collarbone.
— Don't move, — Simon asked quietly. — I don't want to hurt you.
— Get that thing away from me.
The shears closed.
The fabric split with a dry rip.
The cut traveled downward — across his chest and stomach, all the way to the waistband of his jeans. Simon pulled the torn edges apart and slipped them off Jacob's shoulders as far as the chains allowed, exposing his torso. Then he stepped back half a pace and looked at him for a long time.
There was no triumph in his gaze. More like the quiet, painful disbelief of someone who had finally seen the object of his obsession as closely as he had dreamed — and discovered that .
— Why? — Jacob asked hoarsely.
Simon looked at the red-and-white jacket neatly folded on the sofa.
— I wanted to see who you are without it.
— Without the shirt?
— Without the uniform. Without the team. Without Craig. Without Priscilla. Without all the people who laugh when you laugh. — He looked Jacob in the eyes. —
Simon ran his fingers over Jacob's chest — not as a caress, but as if checking whether he was real. Jacob inhaled sharply.
— Don't touch me.
The hand stopped.
Simon slowly lifted it to Jacob's face and took hold of his chin — the same way Jacob had once done to him beside the lockers. His fingers were cool. The grip was not strong, but now strength was unnecessary.
— If you want me to be gentler with you… — Simon said almost soundlessly, — ask me nicely.
Jacob's own words returned in someone else's voice.
For one moment, the locker room appeared between them in full: hot steam, wet lockers, the thin towel around Simon's hips, his frightened eyes, and Jacob, certain that another person's weakness existed only for his pleasure.
Jacob jerked his head free.
— Fuck you.
Simon lowered his hand.
— That's how you always answer when you're afraid.
— I'm not afraid.
— Then why are you lying?
Jacob laughed — briefly, viciously.
— You chained a man to a chair, and now you think you know how to read him?
— I've been studying for three years.
Simon pulled an armchair closer and sat across from him.
Less than a meter separated them. Firelight lay across Jacob's bare chest like a spotlight on a stage from which there was no exit. Simon remained at the border of the light, and it seemed the roles had been assigned in advance: one would speak, the other would judge.
— Talk, — Simon said.
— About what?
— Everything.
— This isn't a conversation. It's kidnapping.
— You promised to come and talk.
— I came voluntarily. I didn't agree to chains.
Simon lowered his eyes.
— I know.
He admitted it without trying to justify himself, and the simplicity of it unsettled Jacob.
— Then let me go.
— You'll leave.
— Of course I'll leave.
— That's why I won't.
The logic was insane, but within it everything stood exactly where it belonged. Jacob finally understood: threats, pressure, attempts to restore the old order did not work here. Simon's world had closed in on itself and no longer required validation from outside.
He needed another way out.
— All right, — Jacob said, forcing his voice to become even. — You wanted the truth. Ask.
Simon looked at him.
— Why me?
Jacob had expected accusations. A list of everything he had done. Shouting. A blow.
Not that short question.
— What do you mean, why you?
— There are thousands of people at the university. Dozens weaker than you. But for three years, you kept coming back to me. Why?
— You were an easy target.
Simon nodded, as if that were exactly what he had expected.
— Was that the only reason?
— Yes.
The lie came too quickly.
They both heard it.
— Then why didn't you tell other people about me?
Jacob stayed silent.
— Why did Craig stay outside the door when you wanted to be alone with me? Why did you get angry when he hit harder than you allowed? Why did you memorize my schedule? Why did you call me baby even when Priscilla was standing beside you?
— Enough.
— Why did you come to the locker room that day?
— I had practice.
— Forty minutes later.
Jacob froze.
Simon knew.
Maybe he had always known.
— Were you following me? — Jacob asked.
— No. — A faint, painful smile appeared on Simon's lips. — I just noticed you as carefully as you noticed me.
The words settled between them too close to the truth.
Jacob turned toward the fire.
— You want to hear that all of it was love? — he asked sharply. — That I tormented you because I was secretly losing my mind over you? Would that make you feel better?
Simon did not answer at once.
— I want to hear what was real.
— What was real is that you were a pathetic freak who never fought back.
Simon went pale, but did not look away.
— I've heard that already.
— Then why ask?
— Because it isn't an answer.
— What answer do you need?
— An honest one.
Jacob pulled against the chains. Not to escape — only so the pain could restore his familiar clarity.
He saw the hallways. Locked doors. A gray hood among hundreds of others. A pale face he found in every crowd before he had time to decide he was searching.
For three years, he had called it irritation.
Then entertainment.
Then ownership.
Anything except the word that could destroy everything his life stood on.
— You came up to me first, — he said.
Simon went still.
— Freshman year. You asked where the lecture hall was even though you were standing directly under the sign. Your hands were shaking. You looked at me as if I were…
Jacob stopped.
— As if you were what?
— As if I were someone good.
Simon did not breathe.
— And I wasn't, — Jacob continued. — I knew that. But you looked at me and didn't know. And it made me furious.
— So you decided to prove me wrong?
— At first, I only wanted to see when you would understand.
— And you spent three years proving it.
Jacob closed his eyes.
— Yes.
The single word sounded worse than a confession.
Simon slowly rose and walked to the fireplace. He stood with his back to Jacob, staring into the flames.
— So it really was that simple.
— No.
— I saw a good person in you. It made you angry.
— I said no.
— Then explain.
Jacob jerked against the chains.
— Because you kept looking!
His voice struck the room.
Simon turned around.
— After everything. After every time. You were afraid of me, you hated me, but you still searched for me with your eyes. I walked into a hallway and you already knew I was there. I touched you and you…
He stopped himself, breathing hard.
— And I what?
— Nothing.
— Say it.
— You froze.
— From fear.
— Not only fear.
Simon stared at him in horror.
Not because he did not understand.
Because he understood too well.
It was a mirror — a mutilated reflection of his own obsession.
— You wanted my attention, — he said quietly. — Not me.
Jacob did not answer.
— You liked being the center of my fear. You liked knowing I thought about you when I woke up, when I fell asleep, when I walked down a hallway. You made yourself the only person in my life, and then hated me because it worked.
— Shut up.
— You wanted to belong to me as badly as you wanted me to belong to you.
— I said shut up.
— Only when you felt it,
— SHUT UP!
Jacob lunged forward. The chains drew tight with a grinding sound, and the chair rocked before its legs slammed heavily back onto the floor.
Simon did not retreat.
There were no lies left between them, and the truth made Jacob more helpless than the metal.
Simon picked up the scissors from the floor, but did not come closer. He held them lowered beside his thigh, like an object he had forgotten about.
— Do you remember the blue barrel? — he asked.
Jacob went still.
The memory struck before he could shut it out.
The spring courtyard behind the athletic building. Sunlight reflected in water. Craig holding Simon by the neck. Wet hair plastered to a white face. Eyes open beneath the surface.
— I remember its color, — Simon continued. — I remember the scratch along the rim. I remember the smell of plastic. Sometimes I wake up and for several seconds I don't understand why I can breathe.
— Craig went too far.
— Craig did what you taught him to do.
— I stopped him.
— When you decided I'd had enough?
— When I realized he could drown you.
Simon slowly nodded.
— There. You always knew the exact limit. How much pain you could give me without breaking me completely. Where to hit so no one would notice. How tightly to squeeze my throat without leaving marks. You never lost control, Jacob. Not once. You understood everything.
— I was an asshole.
— No. That word is too simple.
Simon stepped closer.
— Do you remember the locker room in our first year? Craig wanted to force me onto my knees in front of everyone. You hit me in the chest and said I'd learned my lesson.
— I stopped them.
— You saved me from humiliation by humiliating me yourself.
— I wasn't going to let them…
Jacob fell silent.
— What? — Simon asked. — You weren't going to let them touch your property?
There was no answer.
— And the bathroom? — Simon continued. — Craig stood at the door. You came in alone. I was sitting on the floor, asking you to stop. You did nothing for several minutes. You only watched.
Simon moved almost right up to him.
— I still remember your expression. That was when I first understood you didn't keep coming back because you hated me. Hatred wants to destroy and forget. You wanted to watch. You wanted to see what remained after you.
Jacob lowered his head.
— Enough.
— No. — Simon's voice trembled. — You're going to listen. That's why we're here.
He threw the scissors onto the floor. The metal struck the boards and flipped several times before coming to rest.
Simon stood before Jacob with empty hands.
— Three years, — he said. — You did so many terrible things to me. Do you know what the worst part is?
The first tear slipped down his cheek.
— I wanted it.
Jacob raised his head.
— What?
— Not the pain. Not the humiliation. You. — The words came unevenly, as if each one had to be pulled from an old wound. — I wanted you to come back. I wanted to feel that I meant something to you. When you hit me, I hated you. Then I lay awake at night thinking: if he came back specifically for me, then there must be a connection between us. Then I exist in his world.
Simon wiped a hand across his face, but the tears kept coming.
— I endured it and called it love. You hurt me, and I turned the pain into proof. Because otherwise I would have had to admit that you weren't coming back to me. You were coming back to my fear.
Jacob stared at him, and his familiar facade finally shattered.
— Simon…
— I hated myself more than I hated you. For every second I wanted your touch after you hit me. For the locker room. For reaching for you. For the fact that even after you called me a pervert, some part of me still waited for you to change your mind.
He sank to his knees in front of the chair.
Not in submission.
Not because he had been ordered.
His legs simply could no longer hold him.
Now his tear-streaked face was very close. The cold mask was gone from his eyes — only exhausted, diseased hope remained, surviving everything in defiance of reason.
— Jacob, — he said. — Tell me the truth. Why did you do it?
The athlete's massive chest rose and fell heavily beneath the chains.
— I don't know.
— You do.
— I was angry. I liked the power. I…
— No.
— What else do you want to hear from me?
— The truth.
— I'm telling you the truth!
— Why me?! — Simon's shout broke apart and struck the ceiling. — Why did you choose me? Why didn't you let me go for three years? Why did you come every time yourself? Why didn't you let other people finish what you started? Why did you look at me as though you hated the entire world for seeing me too?
Jacob jerked as if every word struck him physically.
— I don't know!
— Why did you do it to me, Jacob?
The predatory part of him, cornered by chains, tears, and his own truth, reacted before anything else could. Jacob saw not a person asking to be saved, but a threat — a mirror in which he could finally see himself. And .
— Because I wanted to! — he snarled. — I wanted to watch you suffer! I wanted to know I could do anything to you — and you would still look only at me!
Silence fell instantly.
Simon did not flinch.
Did not recoil.
Something simply left his face.
The last hope — the one he hated in himself but had still secretly kept alive — went out without a sound.
— I see, — he said.
One calm phrase frightened Jacob more than any scream.
— Simon, I…
— You only wanted to watch me suffer.
— That isn't what I…
— All right.
Simon rose from his knees. His movements became even again, quiet and frighteningly precise.
— I'll show you one last time.
Cold passed through Jacob's body.
— What does that mean?
Simon walked toward the bag.
— Are you going to kill me?
He turned.
There was no pleading left in his eyes. Only infinite exhaustion.
Simon came back, bent down, and touched Jacob's cheek with impossible tenderness. His thumb moved slowly over the cheekbone — where Jacob's own hand had rested minutes earlier in an old memory.
— I would never hurt you, — he said sincerely.
Then he straightened and stepped into the shadows.
Simon knelt beside the black travel bag. In the dead silence, the sound of the zipper opening was deafening.
He pulled back the blanket beneath which the chains had once lain and took out several plastic bottles.
The pills rattled dryly inside.
Jacob stared at them, not understanding.
Then his gaze darted to the empty bottle on the floor.
To Simon.
Back to the containers.
And the true design opened before him — cold, final, more terrifying than any scissors or chains.
Simon was not going to torture him.
He was not going to kill him.
He was going to die himself — here, in front of the man who had wanted for three years to watch him suffer. And Jacob would remain chained, close enough to witness every breath, yet too far away to change anything.
The punishment was not pain.
— No, — Jacob breathed.
Simon took one of the bottles and stood.
— Simon, that isn't what I meant.
He surged forward. The chains cut into his skin, but he did not feel it.
— I lied! Do you hear me? I just wanted you to shut up! Let me explain!
Simon stood beside the bag without turning.
— Listen to me! — Jacob's voice broke. — Simon, fucking no!
The fire trembled in the hearth.
The bottle clicked dryly in Simon's hand.
The screen fades to black.
Continued in the next episode.