Drake always told himself he wasn’t like the others.
He knew all about his boyfriend Michael’s specialist kink—the serial numbers, the leather gloves, the obedience conditioning. He’d watched the transformations, the way Michael smoothed men over, reprogrammed them and paired them off like dolls. He’d seen the glassy eyes and the scripted lines. Hell, he’d even helped pick outfits and personalities for their new lives as retired assets after Michael lost interest in them.
Drake wasn’t like all the numbered idiots who’d passed through their penthouse, broken down and rebuilt under Michael’s masterful gloved hands. Michael loved Drake. That was the difference.
They had a history together—real memories of dates, fights, and falling in love, hundreds of quirky inside jokes only they understood, and hundreds of nights tangled together not just in flesh but in quiet conversation, shared music, and old movies. Michael even let Drake call him ‘babe’ in public. He said Drake was his favorite.
But everything shifted when Jeff entered the picture.
They had met Jeff at a gallery opening. Tall and slim, with short blond hair and ice-blue eyes, Jeff was an art school graduate and gallery intern with strong opinions on lighting and kinetic sculpture. When Jeff flirted with Michael, Drake laughed it off. Jeff wasn’t Michael’s type. Michael liked mass. Bulk. Men who filled doorways and didn’t entertain deep thoughts. Jeff was lean, charming, and clever—but hardly a threat.
Until he was.
Michael started talking about Jeff more and more. They kept running into each other in public, and each time, Drake felt further sidelined by their growing chemistry. Before long, Michael and Jeff had their own stock of inside jokes. “You wouldn’t get it,” Michael said once when Drake asked about an obscure Dali reference. It was a joke—but it wasn’t.
Drake’s jealousy came like rust. Slow. Corrosive.
Still, he told himself it would pass.
Drake came home late from the gym one night. Jazz murmured from the speakers. The scent of wine, garlic, and aftershave filled the air. He dropped his gym back by the door.
Michael and Jeff were at the dining table. There were three plates. Two were half eaten; one was empty.
“Hey,” Drake said slowly. “Didn’t know we were having company.”
Michael wiped his mouth with a linen napkin and stood. “Actually, sweetheart. We were waiting for you.”
Jeff didn’t smile. He just watched.
Michael reached into the drawer by the table, calm as always, and slid on his favorite pair of black leather gloves. Tight. Shiny. He flexed his fingers once, and the faint scent of leather reached Drake’s nostrils.
His pulse stuttered. “What are you—”
“Delta Foxtrot Seven Four,” Michael rattled off. “Stand by for reassignment.”
Drake’s body locked. His jaw went slack. His breath slowed.
After a long silence, his voice, dull and obedient, followed: “Listening. Ready.”
Michael nodded, almost fondly. “Good boy.” He looked toward the bedroom. “Tango Sierra Six Two. Enter.”
Drake saw Timothy emerge from the open doorway from the corner of his eye. One of Michael’s retired assets, or so Drake thought, Timothy was bigger than he remembered, with steroid-thick arms and a tattoo on his collarbone Drake didn’t remember. Timothy—Tango Sierra Six Two—moved with the calm purpose of an asset who’d been through all this before.
Michael stood between them like a conductor. “DF74 and TS62, you are now a bonded pair. Emotional imprinting set to primary. All previous romantic links terminated.”
Both men blinked. Then, like a sunrise, Drake’s face softened as he looked at Timothy. His voice became warm, human again.
“Hi,” Drake whispered, a smile blooming. “I’m Drake.”
Timothy stepped closer. “Tim.”
“I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
They kissed—lightly at first, then deeper—instantly becoming soulmates. Michael watched them with the quiet satisfaction of an artist admiring his latest creation.
Within the hour, they were gone, arm in arm, laughing softly, making plans for a committed future together that hadn’t existed before tonight. Their new beginning was built on synthetic love and erased truths.
Jeff lingered at the table, sipping the last of his wine. He looked over at Michael, who was rubbing his beard with a leather-clad hand.
“You’re really something,” Jeff said, not quite smiling. “Glad you got rid of him. Just promise you won’t do that to me if you ever get tired of me.”
Michael chuckled low in his throat. Jeff had been numbered since the first night they met. Juliett Whiskey Two Nine.
He leaned in, close enough for Jeff to smell the leather.
“I promise,” he said.
And smirked.
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Convenient and calm way to handle changes. Well written.
this is an excellent vision of what all men should be, either numbered or enumerator.
Agreed. You are one or the other. There is no other option.