Resolutions 17: Sartorial Enhancements

Read from the beginning of this serialized novel at “Resolutions.”

Graham stood beside the bed, his posture stiffening under harsh lighting and temperature-regulated air. He inhaled, the scent of cedar and sterile linens—Max’s default settings for mornings labeled Leadership Optimization Days—filling his nostrils. There were no shadows, no softness, and nowhere to hide. 

He wore nothing but a compression undergarment. Tight, black, and smooth, it covered him from shoulders to upper thigh, including the Shield encasing his groin. He felt oddly exposed despite the coverage, like a doll waiting for its costume. His arms hung at his sides, bare and vulnerable. 

Max had requested his cooperation for a “wardrobe recalibration fitting,” and he had complied without question. That was twenty minutes ago. 

Tobias sat in a low, curved chair beside the dresser, wearing a black dressing robe that looked executive even in leisure. One ankle rested on the opposite knee. He sopped calmly from a mug of fortified chicory concentrate, observing like a man watching a product demonstration. 

“Mr. Graham’s previous garments signaled disorder and ambiguity,” Max said, gliding smoothly around Graham’s still form. “Today’s ensemble has been selected to emphasize his supportive role and promote visual harmony in the household.” 

Graham swallowed but said nothing. He didn’t trust his voice. He stared straight ahead. 

Max withdrew the first item from a narrow, sealed garment bag: a pale lavender button up. The material was finely stiff, like it had been overstarched, and the mandarin collar snapped to attention the moment it was lifted from the hanger. 

Max approached. Graham remained motionless. 

“Arms,” Max instructed. Graham lifted them automatically. The inner surface of the shirt was cool and slightly scratchy. Max guided it over Graham’s shoulders with mechanical gentleness, smoothing it into place and tugging the seams into symmetry. Each button was fastened precisely before Max tightened the collar at Graham’s neck with a press-seal clasp. 

Graham flinched as faint pressure closed around his throat. 

Tobias exhaled softly through his nose. “That color softens you,” he said, voice flat but pleased. He tilted his mug toward Graham. “I like that.” 

Graham didn’t reply. He felt the heat of embarrassment rise on his face. Without the controlling influence of the Shield’s buzz, he struggled to contain his emotions. 

Max turned to the next garment, trousers in a washed rose tone. They were high waisted, with no belt loops and a built-in compression band at the abdomen. 

“These are compression formal,” Max explained without emotion. “They train posture while subtly discouraging slouching or unsanctioned lounging.” 

Graham hesitated as Max knelt before him, guiding one leg, then the other, into the narrow trouser legs. The fabric rasped faintly against his calves. As Max drew the waistband up over his hips and locked it in place, Graham winced. It cinched above his navel, pressing into his stomach like a corset. He felt his diaphragm compress. 

Tobias gave a low chuckle. “That waistband really pulls everything in. Makes you look… obedient.” 

Still no buzz. But something in Graham’s spine stiffened. Not defiance. Not quite. 

Then Max produced the final component from a small ivory case: a pair of ArcturusVision Glasses. The frames were glossy and pale, rounded and a bit feminized. There was no mistaking their purpose. These were not corrective lenses. They were display, interface, and correction. 

Max stepped forward and slipped the glasses onto Graham’s face. 

The moment the frames settled over his ears, the room sharpened. The colors brightened. Edges crisped. There was no longer any peripheral blur. 

A transparent overlay appeared across the lenses: 

STAND STILL. 

CENTER FRAME. 

ALIGN POSTURE. 

Graham adjusted reflexively. As he moved, the prompts faded. More lines appeared: 

POSTURE CORRECT. 

SUPPORTIVE MODE: ACTIVE. 

He turned his head slightly and saw more data scroll into place along the edges of the lenses. His eyes and mind were inundated with meal prep timers, surface sanitation alerts, and neighborhood support calendar rotations. Tobias’s movement path appeared as a dotted line across the floor with a note: 

PRIORITY: OBSERVE PROVIDER. 

Graham blinked rapidly. He couldn’t look anywhere without the interface quietly framing, defining, and ranking his every thought and action. 

He caught sight of himself in the floor-length mirror across the room. 

Soft pastels. Hard collar. High waist. Pale lenses. 

He didn’t look like a man anymore. He looked like a symbol. 

Tobias stood and strolled toward the mirror beside him, the coffee cup now empty. He glanced at Graham’s reflection and gave a small nod. “Perfect,” he said. “Now you look the part.” 

The ArcturusVision HUD responded immediately: 

SUGGESTED RESPONSE: “Thank you. It is my pleasure to support you.” 

Graham opened his mouth, and the words came easily. 

“Thank you. It is my pleasure to support you.” 

Tobias set his mug down on the dresser with a soft ceramic clink. He turned slightly toward Max and said, “Now me.” 

Max bowed its head fractionally, then glided toward the far wall, where one of Tobias’s new suits—black, severe, still sealed in a rigid garment pod—hung on display like an artifact. 

Graham didn’t move. He only watched. 

Tobias reached for the sash at his waist. With practiced ease, he pulled it loose. The robe dropped open, then slipped from his shoulders, pooling silently at his feet. 

The change was instantaneous. His body had already been lean and disciplined. That had always been true. But now it looked engineered. Embedded into his flesh were panels—subtle at first, then impossible to miss. 

On his left forearm, a thin arc of matte metal curved on his skin like an exoskeleton, following the line of muscle. It pulsed faintly with blue light. 

On his right thigh, the panel was larger—beveled at the corners, black and gunmetal gray, broken by tiny hexagonal grates along the outer edge. 

The one on his left calf was perhaps the most disturbing: an elegant crescent that hugged his leg like the outer casing of a turbine, the kind of design you only saw on prototype drones or surveillance hardware. It gleamed with industrial clarity. 

They weren’t accessories. They weren’t cosmetic. They were structural. 

Tobias didn’t shy away from the mirror. He stepped in front of it like he was inspecting a machine. He turned his torso left and then right, admiring the way the dark interfaces caught the room’s overhead light, their hard geometry exaggerating the angles of his already imposing frame. 

He raised his forearm and flexed it slightly. The panel glowed, and a ripple of unseen function passed through it. 

Graham’s breath caught. His mouth parted. He didn’t even realize he was stepping backward, just a half step, just enough to remember his own softer, collared form. Bound into compression trousers, his spine guided by fabric, his vision filtered through pink-hued glass, he felt small in the presence of his husband. 

Tobias ran a hand slowly down the panel on his thigh, fingers dragging across the cold surface like he was touching a badge of honor—a certification—a victory. 

He turned slightly, not looking directly at Graham but catching his reflection in the mirror. “Looks good, right?” he said casually as if they were choosing a watch. 

Graham didn’t respond. His eyes moved from one panel to the next, like trying to understand a language he’d never studied. There was something terrifying in their permanence. Something clinical. And yet, Tobias didn’t look deformed. 

He looked right. 

The ArcturusVision glasses buzzed softly at the bridge of Graham’s nose. A translucent prompt materialized across the bottom of the lens in calm white text: 

SUPPORTIVE AFFIRMATION: “You wear it well.” 

Graham’s lips moved before he fully decided to speak. 

“You wear it well.” 

Tobias smiled just a little. Then he turned back to the mirror and reached for the suit. 

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