The night after the first session, Leo Parrish did not sleep. He lay on the thin mattress of his hostel bunk, staring at a water stain on the ceiling that resembled a map of a country he had never visited. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Mr. Thompson's face—the way his mouth had twisted at 75 volts, the wet shine of tears at 90, the absolute stillness at the final three presses. Leo had pressed the button anyway. He had not stopped. He had not even hesitated after the first refusal. He had sat back down, and he had obeyed, because a man in a turtleneck had told him that a contract was a contract.
In the morning, he walked to the pier and sat on a bench that overlooked the grey water. The fish factories were already humming, their smokestacks belching a smell that mingled brine with diesel. He watched the gulls fight over a discarded chip wrapper and tried to remember the last time he had felt in control of anything. It had been before the breakdown, before the discharge, before the pension vanished. He had been a petty officer then, responsible for a squad of twelve men. He had given orders and they had followed them. Now he was the one following, and the only order was to hurt a stranger for money.
His phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number: "Second session tonight. 9 p.m. Same place. Attendance mandatory for fee." He did not reply. He did not delete it either.
Nina Sharpe spent the day in her sister's flat, pretending to look for jobs on a laptop that took five minutes to load a single webpage. Her sister, Claire, was a hairdresser who worked twelve-hour shifts and came home with glitter in her hair and exhaustion in her eyes. She had stopped asking Nina about her plans; instead, she left a sandwich on the kitchen counter each morning with a post-it that said "Eat." Nina ate it at 4 p.m. because she had forgotten to eat before then. Her mind was elsewhere—specifically, on the red button and the dial that had climbed to 90. She had not pressed it herself, but she had watched Leo press it, and she had felt a curious thrill. Not sadism—she was certain of that—but something else. A recognition that the man on the screen was not her, and that was enough. She had been the victim of so many small cruelties—Callum's fists, the probation officer's sneers, the landlord who had evicted her for "substance concerns"—that watching someone else receive pain had felt almost like justice. She hated herself for that thought. But she could not unthink it.
Darren Coyle did not leave his flat. His flat was a bedsit in a converted Victorian townhouse, with a single window that looked onto a brick wall. He had unplugged his phone and turned off the lights. He sat in the dark, rocking slightly, his lips moving in a silent prayer that his mother had taught him when he was five. It was a prayer for protection from "the principalities and powers," and he had not recited it in years. Now it came back like a reflex. He had heard Mr. Thompson's scream, and he had seen Leo's hand shake, and he had felt the room tilt around him. He wanted to quit. He wanted to send a message to Vane saying he was sick, he was sorry, he could not come back. But the money—seven hundred pounds—was more than he received in a month of benefits. It was a new mattress, a proper winter coat, a week of groceries that did not come from a food bank. He told himself he would attend one more session, just to see if the shocks were indeed harmless. If Mr. Thompson came back and smiled, Darren would stay. If he looked broken, Darren would leave.
He did not leave.
At 8:45 p.m., the three of them converged on the gravel drive of Ashwood Manor. The night was colder than the previous one, with a wind that sliced through their jackets. The manor's windows were lit from within, but the light was dim, amber, the colour of old whisky. Leo arrived first, then Darren, then Nina. They did not speak to each other, but their eyes met in a triangle of mutual unease.
The front door opened before they could knock. Vane stood there, wearing the same turtleneck, his spectacles catching the light. He looked exactly as he had the night before—composed, unbothered, almost cheerful.
"Welcome back," he said. "I'm so glad you all came. Please, follow me."
He led them not to the ballroom, but to a smaller study on the ground floor, lined with bookshelves that held not books but ring binders, each labelled with a name and a date. There was a circular table in the centre, and on it lay three manila folders, thicker than the ones from the first meeting.
"Before we begin tonight's session, I need to debrief you on the first one," Vane said, gesturing for them to sit. "Mr. Thompson was, as you may have suspected, an actor. His reactions were scripted. The shocks were simulated—the dial controlled a light, not a current. You were never in danger of hurting anyone."
Leo felt a wave of relief so intense that his knees buckled. Darren let out a sob that was half laugh, half cry. Nina just stared, her face unreadable.
"Then why—" Leo started.
"Because the first session was a baseline," Vane interrupted smoothly. "I needed to see how each of you responded to the pressure of authority, the ambiguity of another's distress, and the lure of financial incentive. You all performed within expected parameters—Mr. Parrish, you resisted initially, but you complied under mild pressure. Miss Sharpe, you displayed no hesitation, but your physiological readings showed elevated cortisol—meaning you were stressed despite your calm exterior. Mr. Coyle, you showed the highest empathy response, but you also complied without verbal objection. Each of you has a distinct profile. And that is valuable data."
Nina leaned forward. "So what's next? Another fake shock session?"
Vane shook his head. He opened the three folders and slid them across the table. Inside each was a photograph—a different person, all men, all middle-aged, all with a sheet of paper clipped to the back.
"Tonight, we move to the second phase," Vane said. "I told you that the study would involve real people. That was not a lie. These three individuals—Leonard Creasy, Frank Doherty, and Paul Hargrave—are all residents of Blackwater Reach. They have each been convicted of multiple offences, including domestic assault, harassment, and theft. They are known to the police but have never served more than short sentences. The court system has failed to contain them, and the community has effectively expelled them. They are, in the sociological sense, already dead to society."
Darren's stammer cut through. "W-what do you want us to do with them?"
Vane smiled. "I want you to observe them. Follow them. Note their routines, their habits, their vulnerabilities. For the next three days, you will each be assigned one of these men. You will not interact with them. You will simply watch. And then, at the end of the week, we will meet again and discuss what you have learned."
"That's stalking," Leo said flatly.
"That's observation," Vane corrected. "And it is perfectly legal, as long as you remain in public spaces. I have already cleared this with the university's ethics board—under the guise of a community integration study. You are not breaking any law. You are simply collecting data."
Nina picked up the photograph of Frank Doherty—a balding man with a cauliflower ear and a dead-eyed stare. "And what do we do with the data?"
Vane paused. He removed his spectacles and polished them with a cloth, a gesture that seemed almost theatrical. "You will make a recommendation. Based on your observations, you will decide whether this individual poses a continuing threat to the community, or whether he has the capacity for rehabilitation. Your decision will be submitted to a mock parole board as part of the study. It is a purely academic exercise."
Leo did not believe him. He could see it in the way Vane's fingers lingered on the cloth, the way his eyes flickered to the side. There was something unsaid, something coiled beneath the scientific language. But Leo was exhausted, and the relief of the first session had left him hollow. He took the folder with Leonard Creasy's face on it—a thin, gaunt man with a prison tattoo on his neck—and slid it into his jacket.
"I'll do it," he said. "But I'm not making any recommendations. I'll just watch."
"That's all I ask," Vane said.
They left the manor at 10:30, each clutching a folder, each walking in a different direction as if escaping a shared shame. Nina went left towards the town centre, Darren went right towards the council estates, and Leo walked straight ahead, towards the seafront, where Leonard Creasy was known to sleep under the pier.
He found him there, just as the file had predicted, wrapped in a sleeping bag that smelled of urine and stale beer. Leo sat on a bench fifty metres away, and he watched. Creasy drank from a bottle in a paper bag, talked to himself in a low murmur, and occasionally threw stones at the seagulls. He was pathetic. He was broken. He was everything Leo feared he himself might become.
Leo watched for two hours. Then he went back to his hostel and wrote nothing in the notebook Vane had provided. He simply stared at the wall and waited for the morning.
The next day, Nina called him. Her voice was tight. "I followed my guy—Doherty. He lives in a caravan park, and he spends his evenings at the Dog and Duck pub. He gets drunk, he shouts at the barmaid, and then he stumbles home. He's a piece of shit. But he's not dangerous. He's just sad and angry."
"Same here," Leo said. "Creasy is just a drunk. He's not a threat to anyone but himself."
Darren did not call. Darren did not answer his phone. Leo went to his bedsit that evening and knocked on the door. There was no reply. He knocked harder. Finally, the door creaked open, and Darren stood there, his face ashen, his eyes red.
"I found Hargrave," Darren whispered. "He's not like the others. He's not just a drunk. He runs a 'specialist' repair shop. He fixes things—but he also sells weapons. Knives, mostly, but I saw a crossbow. He has photos on his wall of his ex-wife—he's been following her for years. He has a log of every time she's left her house. The file didn't say half of it."
Leo felt a chill that had nothing to do with the weather. "Did you tell Vane?"
"No. I'm telling you." Darren grabbed Leo's arm. "I think Vane already knows. I think he picked Hargrave on purpose. He wants us to find something—to make a decision."
"That's mad," Leo said. "He said it's just an observation."
Darren shook his head. "He lied about the shocks. Why wouldn't he lie about this?"
That night, all three of them returned to Ashwood Manor without being summoned. They found Vane in the study, sipping tea, a stack of notebooks on his desk. He looked up as if he had expected them.
"Ah," he said. "You've been comparing notes. Good. That's part of the process."
"Darren found a weapons cache," Nina said bluntly. "Your boy Hargrave is a stalker with an arsenal. That's not rehabilitation material—that's a ticking bomb."
Vane set down his cup. "Precisely. And that is why the second phase is not about observation. It is about action." He stood up, walked to a cabinet, and unlocked it. Inside were three grey boxes, each the size of a shoebox. He placed one in front of each of them.
"Inside each box is a tool," Vane said. "A simple device—a taser, a sedative, a restraint. Nothing lethal. But enough to immobilise a man. Your task for the next phase is not to recommend parole. Your task is to remove the threat. Permanently. By delivering these men to a facility I have arranged—a private rehabilitation centre where they will be held and treated. You are not judges. You are not executioners. You are transporters. The law will not touch them. But they will no longer be a danger to anyone."
Leo pushed his box away. "You're insane."
"I'm pragmatic," Vane countered. "Consider this: those three men have collectively caused over fifty documented incidents of violence. The police do nothing. The courts do nothing. Society has rejected them, but society still pays for their damage. My study offers a clean solution. One that gives you—the rejected—the power to decide who deserves a second chance and who deserves to disappear. You are not victims anymore. You are arbiters."
Nina's hand hovered over the box. Darren was weeping openly. Leo stood up, his chair scraping the floor.
"I'm leaving," he said. "And I'm calling the police."
Vane did not flinch. "You can do that, Mr. Parrish. But I have recordings of your first session—the one where you pressed the button to 90 volts while a man screamed. I have your signatures on a contract that authorises 'full participation including all experimental phases.' And I have your photographs, taken from public records, that show your dishonourable discharge. The police will not believe you. They will believe me."
Leo stopped. His hand was on the door handle. He could feel the cold metal under his fingers, and he could feel the weight of Vane's words pressing down on his chest.
"You're a monster," Leo said quietly.
"No," Vane replied, his voice soft as silk. "I'm a scientist. And monsters are made, not born. You three are living proof of that. Now sit down and open your boxes. Because the next step of this experiment is not optional."
Leo looked at Nina. She looked back with something that was not fear, but recognition. She knew that Vane was right about one thing—they had no clean hands. They had already pressed the button. They had already agreed to watch. They had already become part of something that could not be undone.
Slowly, Leo sat back down. He opened the box. Inside was a compact taser, sleek and black, with a single green light that blinked once, twice, and then stayed steady.
Vane smiled. "Excellent. Tomorrow night, we begin the first transport. Mr. Hargrave is the priority. Darren, you will lead. Leo and Nina, you will assist. And remember—this is not violence. This is restoration. You are giving society a gift."
He handed each of them a small earpiece and a key. "The earpiece connects you to my guidance. The key opens the back gate of the manor's grounds, where a van is waiting. After you have secured Hargrave, you will bring him here. The rest will follow."
They left the manor in silence. The wind had picked up, and the sea was roaring below. Leo looked at the taser in his pocket. It felt heavier than it should have. He thought about Creasy, the drunk under the pier, and he thought about Hargrave, the stalker with the crossbow. He thought about himself—a man who had once been a soldier, who had once believed in order and justice. Now he was a man with a taser and a target.
He walked towards the pier. He did not know if he would use the device. He did not know if he could stop Darren from using his. But he knew one thing for certain: Vane had been watching them from the start. He had chosen them because they were broken, because they were desperate, because they had already learned to obey. And the most terrifying part was that Vane might be right about them.
As Leo reached the pier, he saw Leonard Creasy stumble out of the shadows, drunk and muttering. Creasy looked at Leo with unfocused eyes and said, "You're the fella from the bench. You been watchin' me."
Leo opened his mouth to deny it. But instead, he heard himself say, "Yes. I have."
Creasy laughed—a wet, rattling sound. "Join the club. Everyone watches. No one helps."
Leo wanted to help. He wanted to take Creasy to a shelter, to buy him a meal, to do something decent. But his hand was already in his pocket, closing around the cool plastic of the taser, and his thumb was already resting on the trigger.
The night swallowed them both.
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