The uniform clung to Gavin like a second skin, too tight in all the wrong places. The white shirt stretched across his chest, revealing the faint outline of his nipples and every twitch of muscle beneath. The polished brass buttons bulged at the seams, threatening to pop if he exhaled too hard. His black polyester pants were no better. Snug to the point of humiliation, the fabric molded to his thighs and pressed into his groin. But the worst part by far was the bow tie. It was a cheap, garish strip of synthetic fabric, fastened tightly at his throat and barely large enough to tie correctly. It perched there like an afterthought, making him look small and silly, a visible marker of his demotion.  

Gavin adjusted it nervously, his gloved fingers fumbling as he tried to make it sit straight. But no effort could stop it from looking ridiculous, especially compared to the sleek silk neckties the other building residents wore. Their ties draped elegantly, knots thick and proud against crisp, starched collars. Neckties were the mark of men who led; men with Interpersonal Dominance Indexes over 65. Men with power. On the other hand, Bow ties were reserved for those who had failed to measure up, those with IDI scores of 65 and lower. Followers. Not men, just overgrown manboys.  

He shifted uncomfortably at his post by the glass entrance, doing his best to stand still and obedient, as was expected of someone in his position. Gavin’s IDI—47—was no longer private. It hovered an inch off his chest, projected crudely by the holographic badge pinned to his chest. The IDI display was unavoidable; every resident had one, glowing beside their neckwear as a digital halo of their status. Passersby would glance at his badge and instantly know what he was: just a bow-tie boy.  

He had been instructed to serve without question, and that included standing at attention for every resident who came through the door. The reorientation training had been overwhelming, and fragments looped in Gavin’s mind, drowning out his thoughts. Bow-tie boys don’t speak unless spoken to. They don’t argue and protest. Their role is simple: Obey, assist, and be invisible.  

The door swung open. Gavin stiffened. Logan stepped inside, his polished shoes clicking against the marble floor. Gavin’s husband wore his necktie with the ease of someone who had never known life below 65. The knot sat thickly and symmetrically at his throat, the silk hanging perfectly straight down the center of his chest. It was a luxury tie, the kind that only those with high IDI scores could obtain—deep navy with subtle gold threading that shimmered under the lights of the building’s entryway.  

Logan stepped in front of Gavin, his expression flickering with smug amusement. He took a long moment to inspect Gavin’s bow tie as if the tiny knot itself insulted him.  

“Look at you,” Logan said, tilting his head. “I didn’t think they’d squeeze you into something this tight. You almost look… presentable.” Logan’s voice dripped with condescension, each word carefully chosen to remind Gavin that they no longer belonged to the same world.  

Gavin swallowed, his throat pressing uncomfortably against the too-tight bow tie. He could feel Logan’s eyes lingering on the fabric. Each moment reconfirmed Gavin’s failure all over again.  

Logan reached out and flicked the edge of the miniature bow tie with a lazy finger. “And this? This is precious. A little bow tie for a little manboy.”  

Gavin forced himself not to reach, though the words stung worse than any slap. Behind Logan, a few other residents—Gavin’s former neighbors, each wearing expensive neckties—gathered in the foyer, curious about the interaction between the husbands. They exchanged knowing glances, their smiles laced with the satisfaction of seeing someone beneath them put in his place.  

“You remember the rule, don’t you?” Logan said, his voice dropping to a low, private murmur. “Bow-tie boys always open the door first.”  

Gavin nodded stiffly. It was humiliating, but it was the rule. He moved quickly, grabbing the brass handle and opening the heavy door with both hands. Logan stepped through with a satisfied smirk, not even glancing back. The others followed him in, their ties flapping gently as they escaped the harsh winter wind outside. At the same time, Gavin remained at his post, standing at attention, just as the reorientation facilitator had taught him.  

Gavin hoped the interaction would end there, but another resident, Jensen, a tall, broad man with a striking black necktie, soon appeared. His IDI—84—gleamed brightly on his badge, and Gavin could feel the weight of Jenson’s superiority as he approached.  

“You, boy,” Jensen said, gesturing toward Gavin with a flick of his wrist. “My shoes need shining. Get down here and make them spotless.”  

Gavin’s throat tightened. Every instinct told him to refuse and to push back, but bow-tie boys don’t argue. His lack of a necktie marked him as someone without authority, without a voice. Resisting would only make things worse.  

He dropped to his knees, the tight fabric of his pants biting into his thighs, and began polishing Jensen’s shoes with a cloth he produced from his pocket. The smooth leather shone under his gloved hands as Jensen shifted his weight, watching with obvious amusement.  

“Careful there,” Jensen said with a chuckle. “Don’t want you getting too comfortable on your knees.”  

Having congregated to watch the spectacle, a new group of necktie-wearing residents chuckled among themselves, their enjoyment hanging in the air like smoke. Gavin kept his head down, his hands moving mechanically over the leather as he did his best to ignore the heat rising up his neck.  

When he finished, Jensen nudged him lightly with the tip of his shoe. “Good boy,” he said as if Gavvin were a pet that had performed a simple trick.  

Gavin rose slowly, his legs aching, and returned to his post by the door. But the humiliation wasn’t over.  

Logan reappeared, leaning casually against the lobby’s marble wall. “One more thing, darling,” he said with a grin. “We wouldn’t want you to forget your place, would we?”  

Before Gavin could react, Logan stepped close—too close—and bent down slightly, his breath hot against Gavin’s ear. Then, with deliberate slowness, he pressed a soft kiss into the knot of Gavin’s bow tie.  

The laughter that followed was immediate and cruel. Gavin stood frozen, every nerve in his body screaming, as the other residents watched with gleeful delight. The kiss was a mockery to stamp Logan’s ownership over him and solidify Gavin’s new status as a bow-tie boy who belonged firmly beneath his husband.  

“There,” Logan whispered against his ear. “Just right.”  

Gavin looked down, his cheeks flushing with humiliation as his chin dug into the absurdly small bow tie. The waiting residents passed through the doors and dispersed into the elevators, chatting as if nothing had happened.   

Gavin remained at the door, adjusting his tiny bow tie with shaking hands. He felt every fold, every wrinkle as if the fabric were fusing with his skin and becoming part of him. This is your life now, the reorientation training reminded him. No more neckties, no more authority. Just a bow-tie boy, standing silently at attention, serving those who matter.  

And for the first time that day, Gavin accepted the truth. There would be no going back. 

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