Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 102375 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 512(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102375 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 512(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
Message received, Ski Mask. You want me to open it.
Fine. Whatever gets me out of this nightmare funhouse faster.
The cover creaks when I pull it back, like it's rarely opened. Or maybe it's brand new. Custom-made for my special torture session. How thoughtful.
The first page declares itself in heavy black ink: The Bavga Doctrine. A Manual of Conduct, Discipline, and Loyalty.
Seriously? He went full dictator manifesto? I half expect to see "Written by Giovanni Bavga, Supreme Leader of Riverview" underneath.
Then my eyes catch the motto below: From Obedience, Power. From Loyalty, Safety. From Silence, Survival.
"Wow, did he workshop that with a cult leader, or did it come to him in a megalomaniacal fever dream?"
The crop slices through the air before I can even register movement. CRACK! It lashes across the desk, so close that the edge catches my arm. The sting blooms instantly, a hot line of pain.
I jerk back, the child-sized chair wobbling beneath me. "Jesus fucking Christ! What the hell is wrong with—"
The masked figure makes a notation in a small black book I hadn't noticed before. One mark. Then another.
Wait.
He's keeping score. These are demerits. For speaking out of turn. For cursing. Two marks against me before I've even made it past the title page.
It hits me then, as suddenly and sharply as that crop: this is the contest. This is Giovanni's answer to "double or nothing." Not seduction, not his touch or voice or presence. He's handed me over to this faceless enforcer, to this system of rules and infractions, points and punishments.
This is how he plans to force me out: not by the intimacy of his own hand, but by delegation to law written in leather.
A fresh wave of fury crashes over me, hotter than the sting on my arm. So this is his game? Outsourcing his dirty work to Darth Vader here while he, what—watches on cameras? Waits for me to break under the weight of impossible rules?
If this is Giovanni's way to win, then my answer is simple—I won’t lose. I refuse to be broken by a fucking instruction manual.
I snap my gaze back up at the masked figure, straightening my spine. I clamp my jaw shut, swallowing every sarcastic comment burning on my tongue. If he wants silence, I'll give it—but not as surrender. I'll wear it like armor. Like a middle finger raised in perfect, malicious compliance.
Giovanni won’t get this victory.
The enforcer holds my stare for one long, stretched moment. Then his crop taps the book again. Continue reading.
Fine. I'll read your precious manifesto.
My eyes move methodically down the page. Article I: Address. I must call Giovanni "Sir" or “my King” in private. "Mr. Bavga" in public. No alternatives or abbreviations permitted.
Sure. And I'll curtsy while I'm at it. Maybe throw rose petals at his feet.
Article II: Speech. I don't speak unless invited. Every answer begins with "Yes, Sir" or "No, Sir." No excuses. No defending myself.
Right. Because nothing says "healthy workplace environment" like employees who can't speak without permission.
Article III: Eyes. Eyes downcast unless ordered otherwise. Looking at Giovanni is a "privilege." It’s forbidden to look other men in the eyes.
What am I, Medusa? Will they turn to stone if I make eye contact?
Each new rule is more absurd than the last. Article IV maps out exactly how I should stand, sit, and kneel. Feet aligned. Shoulders back. Head lowered. Hands behind my back. Knees together. Spine straight.
It's like a diagram for assembling a human doll.
Article V dictates that I must follow one pace behind Giovanni. Article VI forbids me from touching myself—no scratching, no adjusting clothing, no self-care.
Sure, I'll just let that mosquito bite fester. Wouldn't want to scratch without permission.
The sarcasm rages inside me like a caged animal, clawing for release. But I keep my lips clamped shut, letting the fury build silently. Internal rebellion is safe. Spoken rebellion earns demerits.
Then I hit Article VII: Rituals. I must pause at the doorway and wait to be acknowledged. I must kneel and say, "Good morning/evening, Sir. How may I serve you?" I must request dismissal with "May I leave, Sir?"
"Oh, for fuck's sake." The words slip out before I can stop them.
Immediately, another mark goes in the book. The masked figure doesn't even look up as he writes it.
I force myself back to the text, the rage building with each new article. Article VIII demands silence at meals, at gatherings, during punishment. Article IX demands immediate responses—within two counts. Article X controls my clothing and appearance.
When I reach Article XI about twice-daily "inspections" of my posture, cleanliness, and dress, I can't help the derisive scoff that escapes me.
Another demerit noted. Apparently sounds count the same as words.
By Article XII, which promises that "every infraction, no matter how small" will be corrected, I'm white-knuckling the edges of the desk. Article XIII demands I anticipate Giovanni's needs. Article XIV forbids me from speaking about the Doctrine to others.