The wind swept through Birmingham 's square, carrying the last whispers of summer. Market stalls had emptied, and children now claimed the cobbled streets for their games, their laughter echoing between timbered houses.
Darrel walked alone, hood pulled low, his heart still bruised from the spectacle Marcus had made of him days earlier. He avoided the glances of those who passed, though most barely looked at him. When they did, their eyes carried faint smirks or pitying amusement.
He clenched his fists in his pockets.
They think it's a joke. They think I'm a joke.
He kept walking until the square opened up fully. A small crowd had gathered near the well—Marcus stood at the center, laughing, surrounded by Alex and the usual group of older boys. They were passing time by mocking a pair of traveling merchants who had set up too late to trade, tossing pebbles at their cart wheels and snickering.
Darrel froze where the cobblestones ended and dirt began. His chest tightened.
He should have turned back. Every instinct screamed for him to walk away. But Marcus's gaze found him before he could move.
Blue eyes. Glinting like a predator's.
Marcus's smile spread slowly, knowingly.
"Well, well," he called out. "Look who decided to join us."
Darrel swallowed hard, saying nothing.
"Come on," Marcus said, his voice deceptively warm. "Come closer, Darrel. Don't be shy."
His feet moved before his mind consented. One step. Another. The invisible strings coiled tight again, pulling him into the circle of boys.
Marcus threw an arm casually around Darrel's shoulders. "Perfect timing. We were just talking about entertainment."
Alex chuckled. "Yeah, our little festival hero here always puts on a good show."
The group erupted in laughter. Darrel stiffened.
"Actually," Marcus continued, voice softening in a way that made Darrel's stomach twist, "I think Darrel owes us a dance."
The laughter stopped. All eyes turned to Marcus, confused but intrigued.
Darrel's pulse spiked. "Marcus, don't—"
"Shh," Marcus whispered close to his ear. "Don't fight it. It'll be easier."
The world blurred at the edges again. Marcus's eyes caught his, and the chains slammed shut around his mind.
"Step forward," Marcus said quietly.
Darrel's body obeyed.
"Bow."
He bowed stiffly, like a marionette jerked on strings.
The boys started chuckling.
"Now spin… and keep spinning."
Darrel's arms lifted awkwardly, and his body began to twirl. At first, it was slow, clumsy, like a puppet trying to remember its dance. But Marcus's commands came quicker now, sharper, threading through Darrel's thoughts like hooks.
"Faster."
He spun faster. The world blurred.
"Laugh."
A choked, unnatural laugh burst from Darrel's throat.
The boys howled with glee. Someone clapped. Alex doubled over, tears in his eyes.
Marcus circled Darrel slowly, his grin widening as he pulled more strings. "Wave to the crowd."
Darrel's arm jerked up.
"Blow a kiss to Alex."
He obeyed. The crowd erupted into cruel, wild laughter.
Inside, Darrel screamed. He was awake. He knew what was happening. But his limbs were no longer his own—they moved to Marcus's whispered rhythm, every motion a betrayal.
Stop. Please stop. Don't make me—
"Now," Marcus said, voice low and dangerous, "kneel."
Darrel's knees buckled.
The square went silent for a heartbeat. Marcus's gaze burned into him like cold fire.
"Crawl," Marcus whispered.
Darrel's hands pressed to the ground. He began to move, slow, humiliating inches across the cobblestones. Dust clung to his palms, stones dug into his knees.
The boys burst into uncontrollable laughter, some clutching their sides, others chanting mockingly.
"Dance, puppet, dance!" Alex jeered.
A merchant's little girl, no older than eight, watched from a few steps away. She clutched her mother's skirt, eyes wide.
"Why is he doing that?" she whispered.
Her mother looked away, uncomfortable. "Come on. Let's go."
But Darrel saw her. Through the haze, through the laughter, through the choking grip of Marcus's will, he saw the child's confusion and pity.
And in that moment, something inside him cracked.
Marcus knelt beside him, still grinning. "Look at you," he whispered. "Perfect obedience. No one's laughing at me now, Darrel. They're laughing at you."
Darrel's teeth ground against each other. His muscles trembled as he fought to take back control. But Marcus sensed it.
"Oh no," Marcus hissed softly. "You're not done yet."
He stood and raised his voice. "Let's make this more exciting. Darrel, attack Alex!"
The laughter faltered. Alex blinked. "Wait—what?"
Darrel's body surged to its feet, hands curling into fists.
"No—no, Marcus, don't—" Darrel tried to speak, but his voice came out as a strangled gasp.
"Attack!" Marcus barked.
Darrel lunged. His fist connected with Alex's jaw in a sickening crack. Alex fell backward, clutching his face. The crowd gasped.
Marcus didn't stop. "Again!"
Darrel swung wildly, eyes wide with horror. Alex scrambled away, shouting curses. Two boys stepped in to restrain Darrel, but his body fought them off with terrifying strength he didn't even know he had.
Inside, Darrel was screaming. Stop! Stop! I don't want this!
But Marcus's voice drowned everything out.
"Enough," Marcus finally said, almost bored.
The chains snapped. Darrel collapsed to his knees, chest heaving, sweat pouring down his face. The square was chaos—Alex bleeding and furious, the others confused and frightened.
Marcus stepped forward, hands raised in mock innocence. "He lost control," he said smoothly. "You saw it. He's dangerous."
All eyes turned to Darrel. Not with laughter this time—but with fear.
Alex spat blood. "You're insane, Darrel!"
Darrel looked around desperately. "I didn't— I couldn't—"
But no one believed him. The puppet strings were invisible to everyone but him.
Marcus approached quietly, his smile small and private. "You see how easy it is?" he murmured. "You dance to my rhythm, Darrel. You always will."
Darrel stared at the ground, trembling.
Marcus straightened and raised his voice. "Someone should keep an eye on him before he hurts anyone else."
The boys muttered their agreement. Alex glared. The crowd slowly dispersed, whispering.
Darrel stayed there long after they left, kneeling in the dirt, the laughter replaced by a heavier, colder weight: fear and shame.
He had not just been humiliated this time. He had been used as a weapon.
And everyone had seen it.
That night, alone in his room, Darrel pressed his hands to his face. His body still ached from the fight. His mind felt raw, frayed.
Marcus had pushed him further than ever before. And worst of all—Darrel realized Marcus could do it again, whenever he wanted.
The chains were no longer just humiliating. They were deadly.
And he was trapped inside them.