The Mask

The Handler Part 1: A man no one sees by day becomes the Handler by night, building a theatre of control in the glass room while longing for a single unmasked touch.

The Handler

Daniel Manning disappears in daylight.
He works, eats, sleeps, folds laundry in silence. To neighbours he is polite, forgettable, barely there.

But when night falls, he steps into the glass room.
Gloved, unflinching, he becomes The Handler ~ ringmaster of the city’s most secretive sex club.

He commands gangbangs like orchestras, baptises men in sweat and piss, fists them open until their bodies become prayer. The crowd presses against the glass, hungry, whispering his name.

He is worshipped at night. Invisible by day.
And beneath it all, Daniel aches for one thing he cannot command.

Love.

Eight parts. Eight rituals. One man split in two.

Day begins in detergent air and instant coffee, the small flat above the laundromat holding its silence. Night gathers in violet haze, the glass room glowing as a body kneels, touched and displayed for the waiting crowd.

Between the hum of machines and the roar of reverence lies the quiet ache of a man who cannot carry either world home.

Enjoy the first part of The Handler ~ Season One

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The dryers rumbled beneath him, a constant churn through the thin floorboards. Heat rose with the smell of detergent, sharp and artificial, filling the small flat like a second skin. Daniel lay on his mattress until the sound became unbearable, then pushed himself up, body stiff from sleep, throat dry.

The window was cracked open. Morning light bent through the gap and touched the edge of the kitchen counter, cold in its clarity. He moved slowly, bare feet across the lino, and filled the kettle. The silence inside the flat was complete except for the downstairs machines and the faint groan of pipes.

On the balcony, the cat was waiting. Grey, lean, ribs visible under fur that never thickened, eyes the colour of copper coins. It said nothing, only blinked as he set down a chipped bowl of kibble. He’d never called it anything but “cat.” A name meant attachment, meant a claim. This was a visitor, not a companion. Still, when it bent to eat, Daniel crouched nearby, forearms resting on his knees, and let his own breathing fall into rhythm with the faint crunch of jaws. The sound filled the emptiness for a moment.

Back inside, the kettle clicked. He spooned granules into a chipped mug, poured water, added a splash of milk that was nearly sour. Coffee was bitter, instant, good enough. Toast burned slightly; he ate it dry, crumbs sticking to his lips. He stood by the window as he chewed, watching people on the street below: a woman pulling a child toward school, a delivery man unloading crates, a pair of boys with backpacks nudging each other until one laughed too loud.

Daniel chewed slowly. The sound of their laughter carried up to him. He wondered, just briefly, what it would feel like to share the morning silence with someone else. To have another body stirring the coffee, reaching for the butter. To hear a voice cut into the quiet.

But the thought slid away quickly. He rinsed the plate, left it upside down in the rack, and wiped the counter twice, once to clean it and once to be sure. Order made sense.

He dressed for work in plain clothes: faded jeans, black polo shirt, trainers. The fabric hung from his shoulders as though it had chosen him reluctantly. He checked his reflection in the bathroom mirror, not with vanity but habit, the way someone might check a wound. Same eyes, same hair, nothing remarkable. A man you could pass on the street and forget.

Keys in pocket, he locked the flat behind him. The dryers still churned below, filling the stairwell with steam and the hum of endless labour. He descended quickly, head down, and stepped out into the brightness of day, another anonymous figure swallowed by the movement of the street.

The gym smelled of metal and sweat. Not sharp, not offensive… just persistent, baked into the rubber mats and chrome bars no matter how much disinfectant was sprayed. Daniel moved through the rows of machines with a spray bottle in one hand, a rag in the other. Wipe. Polish. Straighten. The rhythm became a kind of prayer.

Most mornings were the same. Early risers, office workers, a handful of students who pretended they were training for something more than vanity. They rarely noticed him except to ask for more towels or to complain about the air-conditioning.

“Hey, mate, this treadmill’s glitching again.”

Daniel nodded, pressed a few buttons, reset the screen, and stepped back. No words wasted. The man jogged again without thanks. Daniel sprayed the handles, wiped once, then moved on.

He preferred not being noticed. Except sometimes. Sometimes invisibility felt less like safety and more like suffocation.

At the free weights, two young men spotted each other, grinning between sets, a private joke running under their breath. Their laughter came sharp, then soft, as if they wanted the sound to belong only to them. Daniel lingered too long, rag damp in his hand, until one of them glanced up. A flicker of recognition passed over the man’s face, not because he knew Daniel but because Daniel was standing there, watching.

He moved away quickly.

By late morning, sweat had darkened his shirt at the chest. He carried a bundle of used towels down the corridor, folding them into precise stacks on the counter before throwing them into the bin. The habit was unconscious: corners aligned, edges pressed flat. Each fold perfect. Each motion familiar.

“Could you give me a hand here?”

A voice behind him. A man struggling with the incline bench, adjusting the bar height. Daniel stepped close, took the lever, and in one smooth motion shifted it into place. “There,” he said.

The word was quiet, but the tone cut sharp, controlled. Not request, not suggestion. Command. The man froze for half a second, startled, then nodded. “Thanks.” His voice was softer than before.

Daniel turned away too quickly. His chest felt tight, heat rushing into his throat.

It wasn’t the first time.

By afternoon, he had wiped down every machine twice, reorganised the dumbbells, and stacked new towels with identical precision. His hands smelled of disinfectant and latex. His throat was dry.

When his shift ended, he didn’t go home. Not yet.

The gym’s adjoining bar opened at five. He stepped behind the counter, traded the spray bottle for a tap, poured beers for men who still wore their tank tops and sweated through their singlets. The smell of fried food mixed with hops, heavy and comforting.

He served without pause, face neutral, eyes down. Customers laughed too loud, nudged shoulders, flirted over chicken salt chips. Daniel caught the brush of one man’s knee against another’s under the table. Intimate, thoughtless. He looked away before he could feel the ache swell too sharp.

“Oi, mate, two pints.”

The man leaned across the bar, voice too loud, breath thick with whatever he’d been drinking before he got here. Daniel set the glasses under the tap, watched amber foam rise. He placed them down, steady, no rush.

“Could’ve been quicker,” the man muttered, half to his friend, half to Daniel.

Something in Daniel shifted. He leaned forward just slightly, enough that the overhead light caught his eyes. His voice came low, weight pressing each word. “You’ll drink them at my pace.”

The man blinked, taken aback. His friend chuckled nervously, nudged him to drop it. The man sat back, lifted the pint, drank without another word.

Daniel moved on as though nothing had happened, but his chest thrummed, alive. The command had slipped out before he could smother it, the way a crack lets light through.

He avoided looking at the table again.

By the time his shift ended, the bar was a low roar of voices, fried food, spilt beer sticky underfoot. Daniel collected his jacket, ducked out the back door, and stepped into the cooler night.

The city was loud but impersonal: taxis honking, teenagers shouting across the street, music spilling from doorways. He walked quickly, head lowered. His body ached with the weight of the day, but his mind kept circling the moment at the bar. The man’s startled eyes. The silence that followed.

He didn’t smile. But he wanted to.

The laundromat below his flat was still open, machines grinding through their cycles. Steam leaked from vents, carrying the sour-sweet scent of detergent and damp clothes. Daniel climbed the narrow stairs, unlocked his door, and stepped back into the silence he knew too well.

He folded his jacket over the back of the chair. Opened the laundry basket. Took out towels and folded them, corners aligned, stacks crisp, as though the cloth demanded it. His hands moved with the same precision they would later use on leather and rope. The sight unsettled him, but he kept folding until the basket was empty.

The phone rang once. He lifted it quickly, heart misfiring.

“Congratulations, you’ve won a—”

He hung up before the sentence finished.

No friends. No one checking in. Just the voice of a stranger selling promises.

The shower hissed as he turned the handle. He stepped under the stream, water scalding. His palms scrubbed over themselves, harder and harder, as though layers could be erased. The skin reddened. He didn’t stop. He pressed his forehead against the tiles, eyes shut, letting the heat sting.

By the time he stepped out, the mirror was fogged, his hands raw. He dried himself carefully, folded the towel into thirds, and placed it on the rack.

He left the lights off. The flat didn’t need them; it was too small to hold shadows. The faint glow from the laundromat sign below pushed through the blinds, colouring the room with tired neon.

Daniel sat at the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees, fingers flexing and closing. His hands still burned from the shower. He stared at them as though they weren’t his, as though they belonged to some other man who had left fingerprints on a stranger’s glass.

He lay back and closed his eyes. For a moment, he tried to imagine the sound of another body shifting in the sheets beside him. The curve of someone’s spine pressed against his chest. The warmth of another pulse near his wrist. He held the image as long as he could, but it flickered out like a match in wind.

The silence returned, louder than before.

On the balcony, the cat leapt onto the rail. Its paws padded lightly. Daniel heard the faint scrape of claws as it settled. He didn’t rise to greet it. He only listened, letting the small noises fill the hollow in the room.

The clock ticked. Minutes dragged. He turned onto his side, restless, then sat up again.

There was no point waiting. The night had already begun to call him.

Down the stairwell, the laundromat’s light glowed blue-white through the glass door. Steam clouded the night air.

The nightclub was close, hidden in plain sight. No sign, just a heavy door set between a pawnshop and a shuttered café. He knocked once, a rhythm known only to those who belonged.

The door opened. Bass throbbed instantly, pulsing up through his ribs. Inside: violet haze, red light like a wound stretched across the room. The air smelled of sweat, smoke, leather polish.

He opened his locker in the staff changeroom. Inside: Leather. Boots. Gloves folded in pairs. Harness polished until the light caught on buckles. A second life hung neatly beside the first, one Daniel never allowed to touch daylight.

He reached for it slowly, fingers brushing the leather straps. His chest tightened, but not with fear. The transformation always began here, with the first touch, the first choice to step out of Daniel and into someone else.

He laid the pieces on the bench, lined them carefully, ritual order. Boots first. Harness second. Gloves and mask last.

Standing in the dim light, bare above the waist, he looked at the black straps waiting for him.

Daniel drew a breath, deep and steady.

The man who had spent the day folding towels, scrubbing sweat, and serving beer was already dissolving.

The boots went on first. Heavy leather, scuffed at the toes, laces drawn tight. Daniel stamped once against the floorboards and felt the vibration climb his legs.

The harness came next. Black straps slid over his shoulders, chest pressed tight by the pull of buckles. He adjusted them with practised precision, each tug erasing softness, flattening the man who had served beer and folded towels. His breath changed as the leather pressed in. Deeper. Slower.

The gloves were next. Oiled already, supple, sliding against his skin like a second body. He flexed his fingers inside them, listening to the faint creak. Once they were on, he was no longer unarmed. His hands, the same hands that scrubbed laundry and poured pints, became instruments. Ritual tools.

Last of all, the mask. A strip of black leather curved across his brow and nose, cutting his features in two. He fastened it tight, the buckle pressing against the back of his head. Vision narrowed, sharpened. The world became framed by its edges.

It did not hide him completely his mouth, his jaw, the line of his throat were still visible, but it was enough. Enough to sever Daniel from the reflection. Enough to leave only the eyes, dark and unblinking, staring back.

The man was gone. What remained was the mask, the stillness, the weight of presence. The Handler.

The crowd gathered already. Men in harnesses, collars, boots. Some bare-chested, others clothed in nothing but desire. They clustered around the centrepiece: a glass-walled room draped in black curtains. Behind it, nothing yet. Just the faint glow of lights waiting to rise.

Daniel did not exist here.

The Handler walked through the crowd without pause, without glance. People moved aside instinctively, conversations faltering as he passed. Not respect exactly. Not fear. Reverence.

He entered the glass room. The curtain drew shut behind him with a soft hiss. The bass outside slowed to a heartbeat.

He stood still in the centre. Gloves resting at his sides. Chest steady. Breath controlled.

The Handler did not need to speak. His presence filled the space.

From outside, voices whispered in the dark. “He’s here.”

---

The curtains stirred. A murmur ran through the crowd, carried like static through the haze. The red light deepened. A figure stepped forward, guided by two attendants who vanished as quickly as they appeared.

The submissive was young, early twenties perhaps, though the stage made him timeless. He paused at the threshold, barefoot, head bowed. His chest glistened under oil, light striking each curve of muscle. In the stillness, he looked less like a man and more like an altar carved of living flesh.

The Handler didn’t move.

The submissive lifted his head. Their eyes didn’t meet. That was not permitted yet. Instead, he looked at the floor, then began to undress.

Clothing came away slowly, each piece folded, placed on a chair by the glass. Shirt first, then belt, then trousers sliding down pale thighs. He didn’t strip to titillate; he stripped as though offering something precious, each movement deliberate, reverent. By the time he stood bare, cock heavy, chest rising with shallow breath, the crowd outside had pressed tighter against the glass. No one jeered. No one shouted. Only silence, the kind found in sanctuaries.

The Handler moved at last. One step. Another. Boots ringing on the hard floor, each sound magnified. He circled the submissive, gloves grazing the air near skin but never touching. His gaze swept the body, shoulders, chest, thighs, measuring, not admiring. The crowd’s breath caught with each pass.

The submissive trembled slightly, though whether from nerves or anticipation was impossible to tell. His cock twitched once, quickly stilled by the way his hands fisted at his sides.

Still The Handler did not touch. He only moved around him, the way a priest might circle a vessel before sacrifice, testing weight and worth.

Finally, he spoke. The first word of the night.

“On your knees.”

The voice was low, not raised for effect, but it carried with undeniable gravity.

The submissive obeyed instantly, knees striking the floor, head lowered. The audience exhaled in one sound, like a bellows.

The Handler paused, letting the silence thicken. He did not rush to claim. Control came not from haste, but from patience.

Gloved fingers lifted, hovering just above the submissive’s oiled shoulder. Not yet a touch, but close enough that the heat could be felt. The submissive shuddered as though struck.

The crowd leaned in, eyes wide, lips parted.

The Handler let his hand fall away again, denying contact, deepening the ache.

This was the beginning.

The Handler did not move quickly. Control was never in speed. Control lived in the measured distance between touch and denial, in the silence that stretched so taut it became a form of speech.

The submissive knelt, head lowered, trembling in anticipation. His thighs pressed together, not from modesty but from the strain of waiting.

The Handler extended one hand, leather gleaming under the red light, and let it hover just above the crown of the bowed head. The crowd saw the gap, small as a breath. They held themselves still, lungs locked.

Then, contact.

Gloved fingers pressed down lightly, palm firming against skull. The submissive inhaled sharply, the sound rushing into the hush like incense smoke. His shoulders sank, spine bowing deeper under the weight of that single touch.

The Handler’s other hand came forward, thumb sliding under the man’s chin, lifting until his face tilted up. Not to meet eyes, those stayed lowered, but to display him. The line of throat, the parted lips, the chest rising quick.

The crowd exhaled together.

“Breathe,” The Handler said. Not suggestion. Not encouragement. Command.

The submissive obeyed, chest swelling with a ragged pull of air. The sound fogged the glass beside him.

The Handler circled again, slow, hand never leaving that bowed head. He guided the movement like a tether, each step dragging the submissive’s posture further into surrender. When he stopped, he released. The sudden absence of touch left the man trembling.

The Handler reached to a low table near the glass. A small bowl waited, filled with oil. He dipped his gloved fingers, slickness coating the black leather. The sound of it carried, a wet whisper amplified by the silence.

He held his hand aloft for the crowd to see. Red light caught the sheen, a glimmer like blood. Then he turned his gaze down, back to the submissive.

“Open.”

The word cracked like a key in a lock. The submissive parted his lips, shivering, though no gag or cock entered. It was obedience in its purest form, mouth shaped into readiness.

But the Handler did not use it. Not yet. He knelt instead, lowering himself until his gloved fingers rested against the man’s chest, oil smearing over skin, marking it. A slow drag from sternum to stomach. Claim without hurry.

The submissive gasped, body arching, every muscle drawn taut by restraint.

The Handler rose again, glove slick, command unspoken but already clear: this was not foreplay. This was initiation.

The first true ceremony had begun.

The bowl gleamed, surface trembling with the bass that pulsed faintly through the floor. The Handler dipped both hands now, leather vanishing beneath the slick. He coated each finger with deliberate patience, working oil into every crease, into the seams, until his gloves shone as though freshly birthed.

The sound was obscene in its simplicity. Wet drag, leather creaking faintly, drops spattering the floor. The crowd pressed closer to the glass, breath fogging, eyes wide, some with hands already at their belts. Yet no one spoke. Reverence had bound them.

The submissive knelt, thighs trembling, arms behind his back in perfect presentation. His cock swayed, heavy and flushed, untouched but weeping. His eyes were downcast, fixed on the floor, though his body leaned toward the sound of oil and leather like a flower toward light.

The Handler knelt beside him, gloved fingers brushing against the inside of his thigh. Not entering yet, only tracing circles, painting lines across tender skin, leaving streaks of shine. Each circle drew a gasp, each streak a shiver.

“Breathe,” The Handler murmured again.

The man’s chest expanded sharply. His breath came ragged but steadying under the weight of that word.

The first finger pressed, testing the rim, smearing oil along the muscle. The submissive groaned low, forehead nearly striking the floor. The Handler did not push in. He circled instead, patient, smearing, preparing.

A second finger joined, gliding across the same ring, not breaching. The sound of wet leather dragging over skin was amplified, obscene. The crowd moaned as one body, a ripple of longing.

Only then did the Handler press forward. The rim yielded slowly, muscle clenching before softening, inch by inch swallowing him. The submissive cried out, half moan, half sob, and the noise fogged the glass nearest his face.

The Handler stilled, allowing body to adjust. He raised his eyes toward the crowd, expression unreadable, as if to say: witness this. The crowd did not cheer. They bowed their heads slightly, or leaned reverently against the glass, hands pressed flat as though in prayer.

Inside, the Handler twisted his wrist fraction by fraction, stretching, opening. His gloved hand glistened, disappearing further. The submissive shuddered violently, muscles quaking, thighs trembling but holding.

“Hold it,” the Handler commanded.

The submissive whimpered, nodding, forcing his body to stay open around the intruder. Sweat dripped down his spine, tracing the curve of his back in glistening rivulets.

Another finger joined, slick and relentless. The stretch deepened. The submissive cried louder, but the sound was not refusal. It was surrender sung through ragged breath.

The Handler paused again, leather gleaming under the lights, arm steady, hand buried. His voice came low, almost tender.

“Show them.”

The man arched his spine, pressing himself outward, displaying the ruin of his opening against the glass for all to see.

The room exhaled like a cathedral.

The Handler did not force. He pressed steadily, leather slick with oil, patient as stone eroding under water. The submissive’s body resisted, then yielded, shuddering as his rim stretched wider, wider still. A guttural sound tore from his throat, half-plea, half-ecstasy, his cheek pressed against the glass, leaving smears of sweat and fog.

Inch by inch, the hand disappeared. Fingers folded tight, wrist swallowed, palm pressing deeper into heat. The crowd groaned as though one voice. A man outside struck the glass with his open palm, not in anger but in devotion, whispering something that vanished under the bass.

Inside, the Handler remained calm, every breath measured, every movement deliberate. He twisted slightly, testing. The submissive jolted, gasping, cock twitching violently, smearing precum down his belly.

“Take more,” the Handler said, voice unshaken.

The submissive cried out but obeyed. His body opened further, hips pressing back, desperate to receive even as his thighs quaked. Tears streaked his cheeks, shining in the red glow. His chest rose and fell in shallow bursts, each one louder than the music that throbbed beyond the glass.

The Handler raised his chin toward the crowd. His gloved hand was gone, buried to the wrist, his forearm glistening with oil and sweat. The submissive trembled around him, broken open, made spectacle. Gasps rippled outside, men clutching themselves, eyes wide, reverent.

The Handler did not chase climax. He did not stroke his cock, did not grind. His role was not to take, but to show. He flexed his hand inside the trembling man, slow, steady, deliberate, until the body arched like a bowstring.

The submissive screamed, not in pain, not fully in pleasure, but in the unbearable collision of both. His cock jerked once, twice, then released, spilling across his stomach, untouched. His body convulsed, spasms rippling through him as though every nerve had been pulled taut and then loosed.

The crowd erupted in gasps, moans, some collapsing against the glass, others clutching themselves. Still, no cheers. Only a raw, breathless reverence, the sound of men undone by witnessing.

The Handler held steady until the last shudder passed. Then, slowly, he withdrew. The slick sound of exit filled the chamber, obscene and holy all at once.

The submissive collapsed forward, chest against the floor, arms limp. His body trembled, sweat pooling beneath him, tears drying on his cheeks. He was wrecked, radiant, consumed.

The Handler stood over him, gloved hand shining, catching the red light as though dipped in blood. He did not smile, did not soften. He simply let the crowd see.

And then he lowered his hand, turned away.

The ritual was complete.

---

The curtains slid closed with a slow whisper, severing the glass room from its congregation. The murmur of voices outside returned, hesitant at first, then swelling as men exhaled their awe into words. A few pressed their palms one last time against the glass before peeling away, reluctant pilgrims leaving the temple.

Inside, the submissive was lifted carefully by attendants, his body slack but still trembling, cock soft and glistening, thighs wet with oil and sweat. They wrapped him in a dark robe, led him toward the side door where a narrow corridor promised water, blankets, care. He went easily, spent, his head falling against a shoulder, a satisfied wreck carried away like a relic.

The Handler did not follow.

He remained where he was, the red light now dimming, leaving shadows stretched long across the floor. His gloved hand still shone, wet, gleaming under the final glow. Slowly, he lowered it, then straightened, the theatre of his presence no longer required.

Silence thickened around him. Without the crowd’s reverent gasps, without the submissive’s cries, the room felt larger, emptier.

He peeled the first glove from his hand. The sound of leather separating from skin was loud in the emptiness, a small, wet snap as fingers pulled free. He stripped the second glove, slower, until both hands were bare, red-tinged from friction and oil.

There was no reverence in what came next.

At the basin in the corner, he turned on the tap. Water gushed cold. He plunged his hands beneath, scrubbing hard. Oil smeared, clung, refused to vanish. He rubbed harder, scouring skin until it burned, nails raking at his own palms as though to strip away what had been inside another man.

The water ran cloudy, then clear, then pink with irritation. He kept going, jaw tight, until every crease felt raw, until it was impossible to tell if the heat on his hands came from the water or the punishment he inflicted on himself.

When he stopped, he gripped the basin’s edge, head bowed, droplets sliding down his wrists. The Handler had left the room.

Daniel stood in his place.

---

In the locker room, the mask began to fall piece by piece. Harness unbuckled, straps coiled tight, placed carefully in his bag. Boots unlaced, soles echoing against the tile as he pulled them free. He stood barefoot for a moment, the concrete cold, grounding, erasing the heat of the stage.

He pulled on jeans, a plain grey shirt, trainers with scuffed rubber. When he lifted his head to the mirror, the reflection was ordinary again. Shoulders slouched, hair damp from the basin, eyes hollow from the drain of performance. The Handler was gone, dismissed until the next summoning. What remained was a man you could pass in a supermarket queue without noticing.

The corridor spat him out onto the street. The nightclub’s bass throbbed faintly behind the heavy door, muffled, already swallowed by the noise of traffic. Cars honked. Someone laughed across the road, drunk and bright. Two men stumbled past, arms around each other’s shoulders, the smell of beer and sweat trailing them like perfume. Their laughter was effortless, alive.

Daniel walked quickly, head down. No one turned to look. He was just another body moving through the city night. Anonymous. Invisible.

At a set of lights, he waited, hands buried in pockets. A couple stood beside him, fingers intertwined, whispering too close to hear. The woman leaned her head against the man’s shoulder, and he kissed her hair without hesitation. Daniel stared at the pavement, jaw tightening.

The lights changed. They crossed. He followed, steps brisk, heart heavy.

By the time he reached his street, the laundromat had closed, shutters down, windows dark. The sign buzzed faintly, throwing tired neon across the pavement. He climbed the narrow stairs, key sliding into the lock with practised silence.

The flat greeted him with stillness. No bass, no crowd, no submissive wrecked in reverence. Only the faint hum of the fridge, the muted tick of the wall clock.

The balcony rail was empty. No cat waiting tonight.

He sat at the edge of his bed, hands resting in his lap. They still stung, raw from scrubbing, palms marked faintly pink. He flexed his fingers once, winced, then stilled. The silence pressed in, thicker than any crowd had ever been.

Daniel lay back slowly, staring at the ceiling cracks, and let the ache settle into him like a weight he could not set down.

He closed his eyes and saw the glass room, red light bleeding across the floor, the crowd pressed close, their mouths open in silent devotion. But the image that held him was not the spectacle, not the climax that had wrung moans from strangers.

It was a fragment.

The moment the submissive leaned into his hand. Not when his body arched for the crowd, not when his orgasm painted him in surrender, but that soft tilt of the head, the weight given freely into the Handler’s palm. For an instant, the glass and the audience had disappeared. It was only touch, quiet, human, unmasked.

Daniel’s chest tightened. He pressed his stinging hands together, palms raw against each other. He wanted that moment without the performance, without the oil, without the endless gaze of strangers. He wanted it in silence, in daylight, in the small flat above the laundromat where no one ever stayed.

But wanting was dangerous. Wanting meant hope, and hope had no place in a life built from walls and masks.

He rolled onto his side again, dragging the blanket halfway across his body. The cat hadn’t come tonight. Even its small weight on the balcony rail was absent, leaving the silence heavier.

He breathed once, deep, then again, and listened to the emptiness answer him.

Outside, a car passed, bass rattling windows. The city pulsed with lives that would never brush against his. He imagined them, hands linked, heads bent, laughter spilling unchecked. He pressed his palms harder together, felt the sting shoot up his arms, and swallowed against the ache.

His body had been a spectacle tonight, his hands instruments of worship and ruin. But here, in the dark, he was no one.

They called him Handler.

But the man who lay awake, hands stinging in the dark, had no name anyone used.

---

Next in Chapter 2 ~ The Crowd

In daylight, Daniel can’t meet a barista’s eyes.
At night, The Handler lifts a hand and men line up to be used.
The crowd chants his name, but when the curtain falls, he eats alone.