I look at the empty driveway through the window. The trees beyond that don't give a fuck about any of this.
"She's out," Jino continues. "Free. Whatever the fuck you want to call it. And she'slost."
He lets that word sit there.
I don't bite.
"Her nervous system's been rewired," he says. "You spent weeks—months, in a few cases—conditioning her to respond to authority. To crave structure. To need correction. You made herdependenton the feedback loop you controlled."
I shift in the chair. Just slightly.
"So what does she do?" he asks. Rhetorical. He's not waiting for my input. "She finds a new authority. Fast. Doesn't matter who. Could be a bartender. Could be her fucking Uber driver. Anyone with a commanding presence, anyone who reminds her body of what it was trained to respond to."
I close my eyes.
Big mistake.
Because now I'mseeingit.
Some random asshole. Some guy who doesn't know what the fuck he's doing. Giving orders just because he can. And she obeys. Immediately. Perfectly. Because I taught her to.
"She attaches," Jino says. "Instantly. No history. No reason. Just pure psychological dependency looking for an outlet. And this hypothetical guy?" Jino's voice drops another notch. Colder now. "He thinks he just won the fucking lottery. A beautiful woman who does exactly what he says, no questions asked, no pushback. He doesn't understandwhyshe's like this. Doesn't care. He just knows she's different. Eager. Compliant."
I open my eyes.
Jino has come to stand in front of the window and is staring at me now.
"So he takes," Jino says. "Whatever he wants. However he wants it. Because she's offering herself up like a goddamn sacrifice.But here's where it gets worse," he continues, and I fucking hate that there's aworse."He doesn't know the rules. Doesn't give her structure. Doesn't provide the rituals she was conditioned to need. So she starts to spiral."
He pauses.
Waits for me to look at him.
I don't.
"Shame," he says. Counting on his fingers now like he's giving a fucking lecture. "Confusion. Withdrawal symptoms. Because her brain's screaming for discipline, for consequences, foryou—and all she's getting is some asshole who wants to fuck her and doesn't understand why she keeps asking him to hurt her."
I lean forward, my fingertips pressing into my temple.
"So she starts the self-talk," Jino says. "Bad girl. Slut. Broken. All the things you whispered to her during punishment, except now there's no one to rebuild her after. No aftercare.No reassurance. Just her, alone, convinced she's fundamentally damaged."
He moves closer.
I still don't look.
"Depression sets in," he says. "Hard and fast. She craves the release you gave her—the catharsis of punishment, the structure of obedience—but there's no outlet. No one who knows how to give it to her safely. So she gets more vulnerable. More desperate. More willing to do dangerous shit just to feelsomethingthat resembles what you made her need."
I see it before Jino finishes his sentence.
Lorcan. Seventeen. Night of the Spring Mixer, just before break. St. Augustine's third-floor bathroom.
I walked in on him.
Didn't mean to. Wasn't supposed to be there. But the door swung open and there he was—pressed up against the tile wall with some girl from the sister school, there for the dance. He was fucking her from behind, his hand wrapped around her throat. Not playful or tentative.
Tight.
Her head was turned to the side, cheek pressed in to the wall, face flushed, eyes half-rolled back, lips parted just enough to let shallow breaths escape in broken gasps.
