Just Obey

I learned very early that people are softer than they pretend.

Not emotionally—physically. Socially. A human being is a structure held together by habits and assumptions, and habits collapse under pressure. Mine just happened to be… efficient.

Skin-to-skin contact. That’s all it ever took.

A handshake held a second too long. Fingers brushing a wrist when passing a document. A reassuring palm on a shoulder. The moment contact happened, something in them yielded. Not dramatically. No glowing eyes. No sudden obedience like in movies. Just a subtle recalibration. Their thoughts bent around mine as if they had always wanted to do what I suggested.

I never called it mind control. That sounds theatrical. I preferred “compliance.” It was cleaner. Truer.

At the firm, it made me invaluable.

Deadlines stopped being problems. Meetings ended the way I wanted. People agreed with ideas they had argued against minutes earlier, then thanked me for “explaining it so clearly.” Promotions came quickly. So did trust. I cultivated an image of calm competence, the kind that makes people want to lean in when you speak.

And I never abused it.

That’s what I told myself, at least.

Then the intern arrived.

His name was Lucas. Twenty-two, maybe twenty-three. Too polite. Too careful. He dressed like he was afraid of being noticed—neutral colors, sleeves always a bit too long. The kind of person who apologizes even when someone bumps into him.

On his first day, I introduced myself and offered my hand.

He shook it.

Nothing happened.

I didn’t realize it immediately. The failure was… quiet. No resistance, no backlash. Just absence. Like expecting a door to swing open and instead finding empty air where the frame should be.

Lucas smiled, thanked me, and moved on.

I stood there longer than necessary, my hand still half-extended, heart ticking faster than it should have.

That night, I told myself it was fatigue. Stress. A misfire. Everyone has off days.

The next morning, I tested again.

I asked him to bring me coffee. I made sure our fingers touched when he handed me the cup. Porcelain warm, skin warmer.

“Thanks,” I said, gently nudging the suggestion forward in my mind. Stay. Ask me if I need anything else.

He nodded.

Then he turned around and walked away.

I watched him return to his desk and sit down, already absorbed in his screen.

No hesitation. No confusion. No flicker of adjustment.

I didn’t feel fear then.

I felt curiosity.

Over the following weeks, I engineered excuses for contact. I corrected his posture while reviewing his work. I leaned in close, letting my arm brush his. Once, I pretended to trip and caught myself on his shoulder.

Nothing.

Every other person in the office still bent as easily as ever. Managers deferred. Coworkers mirrored my opinions unconsciously. Reality behaved itself—except around him.

Lucas treated me with the same neutral respect as everyone else. Maybe more. He thanked me for feedback. He smiled at jokes. He never seemed suspicious, never wary. Just… normal.

That was worse.

I started watching him.

Not overtly. I’m not stupid. Just small things. How long he stayed late. What he ate for lunch. Whether he talked to anyone else much (he didn’t). I learned his routine the way you learn the rhythm of a machine—predictable, unremarkable, precise.

I tested boundaries verbally next.

“Could you redo this section?” I asked once, lightly pressing his arm.

“Sure,” he said.

He didn’t redo it the way I wanted.

I rewrote it myself later, hands shaking so badly I had to sit down.

At home, I couldn’t sleep. My ability—my constant—had a hole in it now, shaped exactly like one person. I kept replaying every interaction, every missed detail. Was it psychological? Some kind of resistance? Trauma? Medication?

I considered the impossible explanations and discarded them. No, the problem wasn’t him.

It was me.

I wasn’t trying hard enough.

Obsession doesn’t arrive all at once. It grows quietly, disguised as problem-solving. I read papers on compliance, persuasion, neurological variance. I learned more about human autonomy than I ever cared to know.

I brushed his hand every day.

Nothing.

One evening, long after most of the office had emptied, I asked him to stay late and help me organize files. I closed the door behind us. The room felt smaller immediately.

“Lucas,” I said, resting a hand on his shoulder, applying pressure this time. Firm. Intentional. “I need you to listen to me.”

He did listen. His eyes stayed on mine. Calm. Attentive.

“Yes?” he said.

I pushed. Harder than I ever had with anyone. I imagined his will folding, imagined his thoughts aligning, imagined the relief of normalcy returning.

Nothing happened.

“Are you okay?” he asked, frowning slightly. “You look… tired.”

I let go of him as if burned.

I laughed it off. Apologized. Let him leave.

That night, I followed him.

It was raining. The city smelled like wet concrete and exhaust. He took the bus, sat by the window, headphones in. I sat two rows behind him, watching the reflection of his face ghosted against the glass.

I memorized his stop. His street. The building where he lived—old, narrow, poorly lit. I watched him disappear inside.

I told myself I wouldn’t go further.

I went further.

Breaking into his apartment was easier than it should have been. The lock was cheap. The hallway smelled like dust and boiled vegetables. I stood inside his living room, heart pounding, surrounded by the evidence of a person who existed independently of me.

Books. Dishes in the sink. A half-finished model plane on the table.

He wasn’t special.That was the most terrifying part.

When he came home and saw me, he froze. Not in fear. In shock.

“What are you doing here?” he asked.

“I need you to do something,” I said, stepping forward and grabbing his wrist.

Skin. Bone. Pulse.

I poured everything into that touch. Desperation. Authority. Command.

Obey.

Lucas didn’t pull away. He looked down at my hand, then back at my face.

“Let go,” he said quietly.

I didn’t.

“Please,” he added. Not panicked. Just… firm.

My vision blurred. I tightened my grip until he winced.

Nothing.

I let go.

We stood there in silence, the distance between us suddenly enormous.

“I don’t know what you think you’re doing,” he said, backing toward the door, “but you need help.”

He left. He didn’t scream. Didn’t call the police. Didn’t even look back.

I sank to the floor of his apartment and stayed there until morning.

Since then, everything has unraveled.

People still listen to me. Still comply. But it feels hollow now, like performing a trick after someone has explained how it works. Lucas stopped coming to work. No one seems to know where he went.

Sometimes I think he quit.

Sometimes I think he’s watching me.

I still feel his resistance in my hands when I close my eyes. That blank space where my influence should be. I’ve started noticing others now—tiny moments of delay, slight hesitations. Cracks.

Or maybe they were always there.

Maybe Lucas wasn’t immune.

Maybe he was just the first person I couldn’t pretend was.

I don’t know if I’m losing my ability… or finally seeing its limits.

And I don’t know which possibility scares me more.

Credit: Logan Raul Baracho

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