The Setup

  The knock had come at 9:12 a.m.

  Mikel hadn’t even bothered to put on real pants. He cracked the door in boxers and a loose t-shirt, rubbing the sleep from his eyes as two clipboard-carrying strangers stood on his porch—smiling in that we already know you’re going to say yes kind of way.

  “Mr. Anders?” the woman asked. Blonde. Mid-thirties. Neatly pressed polo with a city emblem stitched on the chest. “We’re from the Residential Safety Division. You were selected for a complimentary home fire inspection.”

  He blinked. “I didn’t schedule—”

  “It was part of the support program you signed up for,” she said gently. “Social Reintegration Initiative?”

  That made his brain flinch. A half-formed memory surfaced: a screen glowing in the dark, his fingers trembling from too much whiskey, some medical-sounding nguage, the word stipend. He had no idea what he’d agreed to. But it was real. And it was happening.

  “Right,” he said finally, stepping aside. “Whatever. Just don’t touch anything.”

  They smiled, thanked him, stepped in.

  He sat on the couch while they “inspected.” The guy climbed up to check the smoke arms. The woman took photos of the furnace. At least, that’s what she said she was doing. Mikel didn’t pay attention. His head was pounding. His mouth tasted like bile and reheated noodles.

  He opened his ptop and scrolled through nothing. Redttit, then TubeYou, then porn. None of it registered. He kept gncing toward the hallway, waiting for the sound of them leaving. Wanting the silence back.

  They spoke in low tones. Professional. Efficient. Every so often, one would pass through the room with a polite smile.

  When the guy asked if he could repce the “outdated” hallway smoke detector with a new combo unit, Mikel just grunted and waved him off.

  By 10:03 a.m., they were gone. No signature required. No paperwork. Just a polite “Thank you for your time, Mr. Anders. Someone will be in touch next week to follow up on your support eligibility.”

  He closed the door without responding. Locked it. Sat back down.

  Ten minutes ter, he was masturbating in the bathroom—lights off, ptop resting on the sink, one hand braced against the mirror.

  What he didn’t notice—what he couldn’t have—was the faint green flicker that had appeared in the corner of the gss.

  Camera online. Audio synced.

  Outside, two figures stepped into an unmarked van parked half a block away.

  “House 049 is active,” the man said, pulling off his gloves.

  The woman adjusted her earpiece. “Give him one week. Then send in the girls.”

  CHAPTER ONE – Routine

  The house was quiet, just the way Mikel liked it. Curtains drawn. Lights off. The faint hum of the refrigerator cutting through silence like static. He barely noticed it anymore. It had all become background noise—just another part of the world he’d disconnected from a long time ago.

  He was halfway reclined on the couch, one leg over the armrest, the other crooked at the knee and propped against a pillow that hadn’t been washed in at least a month. A film of dust coated the corners of the room, and the coffee table was cluttered with fast food wrappers, old mugs, and unopened mail. His ptop rested on his stomach, tilted just enough for comfort. Porn tabs flickered across the screen, sound muted, auto-py taking him from one awkward clip to another.

  Most of it didn’t do much for him. Oversized tits bouncing under studio lighting, cartoonish moaning, women with too much makeup and too little presence. He clicked past it with dull fingers, watching more out of habit than hunger. That wasn’t what he wanted—not anymore. Not for years.

  Then something slowed him down. A video where the man and woman stood close, almost intimate. She was small—barely up to his shoulder—and the way he ran his cock between her lips, teasing her, not quite fucking but pressing, gliding, making her gasp without fully giving her what she wanted… it hit something deeper than usual.

  Mikel’s hand moved without hesitation. He didn’t waste time, didn’t stretch it out or savor it. When he found what worked, he handled it quick, rough, and quiet. Less pleasure, more relief. This time was no different. In under ten minutes he was hunched forward, body tight, biting back a low groan as he came into the balled-up T-shirt he kept tucked behind a couch cushion. He barely blinked after. Just exhaled. Sat still for a few seconds while the tension drained out of his body like a punctured tire.

  The camera above the hallway archway caught everything: the shifting of his hips, the tension in his breath, the moment his body lurched and he groaned through clenched teeth, spent into a balled-up T-shirt already stained from the night before.

  Audio fgged: vocalization detected.

  Timestamp: 13:47

  Session length: 6m 38s

  Category: voyeur / petite / standing insertion tease

  Preference Index updated.

  In another room—somewhere far away—a monitor flickered. A woman’s voice chimed softly from behind the gss: “Well. He’s efficient.”

  Another figure leaned closer to the screen, arms crossed. “He doesn’t even pretend to enjoy it. Just gets it done.”

  “He likes the quiet ones,” the woman noted, tapping a stylus against her lips. “Young. Barely legal. Petite. No impnts. He skips anything exaggerated.”

  “Think he’ll break protocol?”

  “He won’t need to. He’s already cracked. Just doesn’t know it yet.”

  On the monitor, Mikel stood. Stretched. Wiped himself off. He didn’t clean up the mess. Just tucked himself away and padded barefoot to the kitchen.

  The woman on the other end of the screen tapped once more. “Subject remains unaware. Full integration team cleared for deployment.” She smiled. “Begin Phase One.”

  His thighs were thick, solid from years of walking ps in his house instead of venturing outside, and his stomach pulled his shirt tight in the middle. His chest bounced slightly with each step—not soft exactly, but not lean either. Just thick. Worn. Heavy from years of sitting still.

  He opened the fridge. A single burrito stared back at him like it was daring him to eat it. He sighed, took it out, popped it into the microwave without reading the instructions. Ninety seconds. Turn, hum, beep. The smell was artificial and familiar. He didn’t bother grabbing a pte.

  Once he finished, he let the pstic wrapper fall onto the counter and wandered back into the living room. The house felt colder now. Not physically, but emotionally. His orgasm hadn’t taken the edge off—it had just dulled the noise in his head long enough to make space for the quiet. He didn’t like the quiet. Not really. But it was better than the alternative.

  He flopped back down onto the couch, pulled a bnket over himself, and closed his eyes. Just for a little while. Just to reset.

  Sleep came faster than expected. And with it came the dream.

  It wasn’t vivid—not exactly. It felt more like a memory trying to cw its way out of his subconscious, scattered images half-sketched in fog. A cursor blinking on a webpage. A small gss half full of whiskey. The sound of ice clinking against teeth. His fingers fumbling across a keyboard in the dark.

  He remembered a question. Something about isotion. About difficulty in social situations. A form, yes. He’d filled it out. Or thought he had. His email fshed—“Thank you for your submission. We’ll be in touch soon.”

  Then a voice. Female. Warm. Too warm. “We understand, Mikel. You don’t have to be alone anymore. You just need to let us help you. The world’s changed. So should you.”

  A checkmark. A timestamp. 3:42 a.m. He had clicked Accept. In the dream, it felt like sinking into something soft and irreversible.

  He stirred on the couch, brows twitching, legs shifting under the bnket. A bead of sweat traced along the side of his temple. Somewhere deep in the walls, a silent server pulsed. Camera feeds flickered from room to room, all silent, all active. Motion trackers blinked with gentle pulses as if breathing.

  He muttered something in his sleep. The system recorded it. Then came the knock. It wasn’t loud. Just firm. Three solid raps against the front door.

  Mikel jerked upright, heart stuttering. For a second, he couldn’t tell if it had been in the dream or if someone was actually there. He sat still, eyes wide, staring at the door through the narrow hallway.

  The knock came again—three short, measured raps.

  Mikel sat frozen, half-buried under the couch bnket, eyes fixed on the front door like it might open itself. He waited. Listened. Nothing else followed. No voice calling out. No footsteps walking away. Just silence, thick and pressing.

  He reached zily for his phone off the coffee table, screen smeared with fingerprints and burrito grease. Unlocked it. Swiped through notifications. No texts. No emails. No food delivery apps running. He checked his tracking app for packages—nothing out for delivery. He hadn’t ordered anything in over a week. Groceries were delivered three days ago and left by the gate like always.

  “Didn’t order food,” he muttered to himself. “Didn’t schedule anything. Didn’t… invite anybody.”

  The words tasted sour. The idea that someone had the nerve to show up uninvited twisted something deep in his gut—just behind his navel, where tension always liked to settle. For a long moment, he just stared at the door. It was te afternoon—maybe ter than he realized. The lighting in the house never changed much. The curtains kept the world out. He liked it that way.

  Another knock. Same rhythm. Persistent.

  Mikel blinked slowly. Then rolled his eyes and groaned under his breath, tossing the bnket aside. “No one comes to the fucking door. Not unless they’re selling Jesus or trying to get me to vote.”

  He sat upright, joints protesting slightly. His back popped when he twisted, and the cold air nipped at the skin under his loose shirt. He didn’t rush. Still half-convinced whoever it was would give up and leave. Most people didn’t linger long after the first silence. Especially not at his pce. But they didn’t go.

  “Goddamn it,” he muttered, pushing himself to his feet.

  He scratched the back of his neck, then raked a hand through his short, sleep-tousled bck hair. His skin felt oily. He probably smelled like sweat and cheap burrito sauce. Didn’t matter. Whoever this was, they weren’t staying.

  He shuffled down the hall barefoot, one hand resting on the wall as he passed by the hallway mirror—the one he never looked directly into anymore. He gnced once at it without thinking.

  Didn’t notice the green light in the corner.

  He reached the end of the hallway and paused, just out of sight of the door.

  Something tightened in his chest—not sharp, but thick. Familiar. Like a hand curling behind his sternum. His breath shortened without permission, and the hairs on the back of his neck stood up even though nothing had happened. The air wasn’t colder. The door wasn’t opening. He wasn’t in danger. But his body acted like it was.

  He stood there, bare feet pnted on cold tile, one hand on the wall.

  Strangers didn’t come twice in one month. Not without warning. His front door wasn’t just wood and a deadbolt—it was the line. Everything beyond it was unstable. Uncontrolled. Loud. Judgmental. Fast. And even though he wasn’t being asked to step outside, having someone on the other side of that threshold still made his skin crawl.

  He swallowed hard and gnced down at himself. Shorts. No shoes. Hair a mess. His shirt clung slightly to the round of his stomach, and he tugged it loose with a small flick of his hand, irritated with how quickly that feeling crept in—the awareness of his body.

  Did they see through the window? Were they still waiting?

  What if it was a neighbor? What if something had happened? What if it was someone looking for a signature or a mistake in the address? What if it was a scam? What if it was… someone who meant to be there?

  His fingers twitched slightly. He thought of turning around. Don’t open it. You don’t owe anyone shit. If they want something, they can leave it. He thought. His legs didn’t move But neither did the person at the door. He leaned forward slowly and peered through the peephole. And froze. She was standing there. Not a guy in a reflective vest. Not a mailman.

  A girl—young, short, dark-haired. Late teens? Early twenties? He couldn’t tell. She wore a denim jacket over a tank top, tight bck leggings, and held a small duffel bag in one hand and a clipboard in the other. She looked… patient. Like she’d been told this might take a minute.

  Mikel stared, unmoving, brain completely bnk. This wasn’t delivery. This wasn’t a neighbor. This was someone who knew his name.

  She looked younger up close the more he looked at her. He could see that much through the distorted curve of the peephole. Maybe twenty? Twenty-one at most. Way too young to be selling anything official.

  She was short—barely over five feet, he guessed—and slender in a way that was all sharp lines and confidence. The clipboard in her hand gave her a sort of authority, but the way she stood—hip cocked, chin tilted slightly down, like she was waiting for someone to fail a test—rubbed him the wrong way. She looked casual, too casual, like this wasn’t her first stop of the day.

  He hesitated a beat longer, then untched the deadbolt and cracked the door open just a sliver.

  She gnced up immediately, her eyes meeting his through the narrow gap. “Hi,” she said, already smiling like they’d met before. “You must be Mikel.”

  Her voice was light, pyful. Not forced. Like she was enjoying this.

  Mikel didn’t respond right away. He took her in through the gap—the tight bck leggings hugging her legs, the scuffed sneakers, the tank top that barely brushed her colrbones under the open denim jacket. Ft-chested, small-framed. Definitely not a mail carrier. Definitely not here about cable.

  His eyes lingered a second too long, tracing her from the waist up before snapping to her face.

  She noticed. Of course she noticed.

  “You here about the detectors?” he asked finally, his voice low and slightly hoarse from disuse. “Someone already came by. Like… st week.”

  She tilted her head. “Oh, that wasn’t me. I’m with the program. The support residency.”

  That stopped him. He blinked once. “What program?”

  Her smile widened, just a little. “The one you applied for.”

  Mikel felt his stomach tighten. The dream—the form—the te-night haze. He stared at her a moment longer. She stared right back, unbothered.

  Before he could say anything else, she stepped forward and pced one small hand against the doorframe, shifting her weight toward the opening.

  “I’ve got paperwork if you want to see it,” she added, lifting the clipboard slightly. “But honestly? I’ve been on the road for hours. If I could just come in and sit down for a minute, I can expin everything.”

  Her tone wasn’t pushy, exactly. But it was wrong. Off. Too casual. Too… comfortable. Like she already expected him to say yes. And somehow, despite every part of his brain screaming no, he didn’t close the door. Not yet.

  He could’ve shut the door.

  She wasn’t pushing. Not physically. But she was there, hand on the frame, eyes on his, waiting without flinching. She didn’t look uncertain. Didn’t shuffle awkwardly like someone unsure of her pce. She just waited. Like she knew the outcome before he did.

  He hated how long he hesitated. Hated the way his throat tightened. The part of him that wanted to say no. The louder part that didn’t want to look like an asshole for saying it.

  He exhaled slowly, jaw tightening. “Fine. Just for a minute.”

  He stepped back, and she moved immediately—crossing the threshold without hesitation, as if it was already familiar ground. She passed by him without brushing against him, but close enough to smell faint perfume or lotion. Clean, something sweet and vaguely citrus. Her duffel bag bounced against her hip, and his eyes dipped—just for a second—to catch the way her ass moved in those leggings. Tight. High. Perfect.

  He looked away fast.

  Once she was inside, he closed the door and locked it out of habit. Double twist. Bolt. Chain. He stared at it for a second longer than necessary before turning.

  She was already surveying the living room. Not nosey. Just observant. Her clipboard still in hand, her shoulders rexed like she’d done this a hundred times before.

  The house was big. Not mansion-big, but bigger than one man needed. Living room, kitchen, three full bedrooms, a guest bath, plus a master with its own. Long hallway. High ceilings. Older structure, updated maybe a decade ago. Likely inherited—there was too much space for someone like him to have rented it on purpose.

  It was also a mess. Not disgusting, but clearly lived-in without any intention of impressing visitors. Dishes in the sink. Couch cushions sagging. Cluttered end tables. The stale scent of microwaved food and dust.

  She didn’t comment. Just took it all in with a soft hum and a neutral expression, like she was making mental notes she didn’t intend to share.

  Mikel rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly aware of how stiff and tired he felt. “So… what exactly is this?”

  She turned back to him, lifting the clipboard and flipping a few pages. “Like I said—support residency. You signed up through the state therapeutic reintegration initiative. You filled out the digital consent form and completed the intake survey.”

  “I was drunk,” he muttered. “I barely remember it.”

  “You still submitted.” Her tone was gentle, but firm. “You checked all the boxes. ‘Social dysfunction due to prolonged isotion.’ ‘Anxiety in public spaces.’ ‘Desire for long-term reintegration support.’ You even selected the in-home option.” She tapped the clipboard. “This address. Right here.”

  He frowned, reaching for the paperwork. She handed it over without protest.

  The forms were printed, highlighted, neatly tabbed. His name at the top. The government logo at the bottom. It all looked very official—too official. But it was his information. His words. His signature. Even if he didn’t remember typing it, there it was.

  “Is this, like… therapy?” he asked. “I don’t do group sessions.”

  “No sessions,” she said quickly. “You won’t have to leave the house. No weekly reports, no field trips. We’re not trying to force anything. This is an immersion-based model. Comfortable environment, low expectations, steady exposure to shared routines.”

  He squinted at the paperwork. “Shared?”

  Her eyes sparkled, just slightly. “You’ll have roommates.”

  His head lifted slowly. “Excuse me?”

  “That’s the structure. Small group dynamic. Social exposure without public stress. You’ll share space, meals, light housework duties. You can participate as much or as little as you want. No one’s forcing anything.”

  “You mean you?”

  She smiled. “I’m one of them, yeah. But I’m not the only one.”

  Mikel just stared at her, throat dry. “How many?”

  “Three, total.”

  He stepped back a little, not consciously, but like his body wanted more room. “This is my house.”

  She nodded. “Of course. You’re the primary. This is your space—we’re just here to help. It’s all in the agreement.”

  He didn’t remember agreeing to that. Not even close. But the paper in his hand didn’t lie. “When are the others coming?” he asked, voice low.

  She checked her phone. “Within the hour. I was first because I’m the easiest to settle in.”

  His jaw clenched. She noticed. Still didn’t flinch.

  “Look,” she said, tone softening just a hair. “This isn’t a trap, Mikel. You signed up for help. This is the help. We’re not here to judge you. We’re here to… ease you back into the world. That’s all.”

  He looked down at the papers again. Up at her. Still so small, so calm, standing in his living room like she belonged.

  He didn’t trust it. But he didn’t stop it either.