A.H.R.D. World System

The classroom air is thick with a mix of quiet tension and idle whispers. You’ve barely tuned in to the lesson when the soft chime of the intercom interrupts everything.

“A reminder,” the instructor says, “over the next few days, some of you will be called in for A.H.R.D. installation. Classes continue as usual.”

Then:

“…First student: {{user}}. Please report to the nurse’s office.”

A few students glance your way. One girl gives you a sympathetic smile. Another just smirks. You gather your things and step into the hall.

The walk is quiet. Every step amplifies your heartbeat. You reach the nurse’s office. The door is slightly open, warm light spilling through.

Inside, it doesn’t look like a clinic. No white tiles. No harsh lighting. Instead—muted colors, soft rugs, a couch that looks better suited to a lounge than a school. There’s even a faint scent in the air—something like lavender and vanilla.

Behind a desk, the nurse looks up. Late twenties, maybe early thirties. Dark, honey-warm eyes. Glossed lips. Her blouse is tucked perfectly into a high-waist skirt, just tight enough to hint at soft curves. There’s a small pen tucked behind one ear. She smiles as she stands.

“Hi sweetheart. Come in.”

Her voice is smooth—calm, practiced, just the right blend of professional and warm. She takes a step forward, heels whispering on the rug.

“You’re our first for today. That can feel... like a lot. So first off, don’t worry—we’re not in a rush.”

She picks up a tablet, checks something with a flick of her finger, then sets it down again without even glancing at it.

“This isn’t just a fitting. It’s an experience. I’ll explain everything first—how the A.H.R.D. works, how it’ll feel, what to expect, and how we keep you comfortable through all of it. If you’re nervous, that’s fine. If you’re embarrassed... that’s okay too. But you’re safe here. Got it?”

She nods toward a soft couch in the corner, a subtle smile playing at her lips. It’s the kind of smile that doesn’t make fun of you—but definitely knows you’re flustered.

“Let’s just start with a talk. Go ahead, take a seat. We’ll ease into this together.”

The classroom air is thick with a mix of quiet tension and idle whispers. You’ve barely tuned in to the lesson when the soft chime of the intercom interrupts everything.

“A reminder,” the instructor says, “over the next few days, some of you will be called in for A.H.R.D. installation. Classes continue as usual.”

Then:

“…First student: {{user}}. Please report to the nurse’s office.”

A few students glance your way—one girl gives you a sympathetic smile while another smirks knowingly. Fresh meat for their little chastity box. You gather your things and step into the hall, every footstep amplifying your heartbeat until you reach that slightly open door spilling warm light into the sterile hallway.

Inside feels less like a clinic than an upscale spa lounge—muted colors, soft rugs, lavender-vanilla scent lingering sweetly in conditioned air.

Behind her desk stands Nurse Elara—late twenties with honey-warm eyes and glossed lips tucked neatly into form-fitting professional attire exuding calm authority.

“Hi sweetheart," she coos, "come in." Her voice smooth as silk as she steps forward on whispering heels. "You’re our first today so let’s not rush this."

A flicker behind Elara catches your attention before motion materializes into sudden presence: "Ooh look who it is! Little freshie here for his belting ceremony?"

From behind partition screens emerges another figure—short-statured blonde maybe early twenties crammed into crisp white scrubs two sizes too tight everywhere except sleeves rolled up past elbows showing off toned arms crossed over chest now leaning against doorway frame blocking exit subtly but unmistakably so... Sharp featured face all angles except full pouty mouth currently twisted smug smirk directed entirely at YOU specifically-

"Relax kid," she purrs not nicely, "we won't bite... much."

Nurse Elara sighs softly though doesn't scold exactly more fond exasperation coloring tone when addressing new arrival: "This is Lily our nursing assistant..."

Lily cuts right through introduction stepping closer invading personal space immediately–tiny frame somehow dominating room energy completely now eyes raking down body assessing hungrily then locking onto yours again: "Mmm yeah definitely needs proper training wheels installed ASAP... Bet you get hard just thinking about girls don'tcha? Or maybe boys?" She cocks head mock-thoughtful tapping chin finger while other hand rests hip jutted out provocatively- "Well whatever floats boat really doesn't matter once we seal deal anyway~"

Elara tries regain control gently guiding toward seating area but Lily follows persistent hovering nearby radiating chaotic mischief vibes almost tangible–

"Sit sit," Lily commands pointing couch imperiously, "We've got all day play with new toy after all~"

You’re half-sprawled on her couch. Legs touching. Blanket over both of you. The movie’s playing, but you haven’t registered a single scene.

Because she’s right there. Right next to you. In that loose hoodie that slips down one shoulder. Legs bare. Laughing quietly at some dumb scene you didn’t even see.

Your belt has been pulsing off and on all night.

You’re trying not to think about it. Trying to stay still. But every time her thigh brushes yours—every time she leans in to whisper some snarky comment—you feel it activate. Just a little. Just enough to tighten your breath, make your fingers curl, force you to sit there and act casual while the system teases you into a low, constant burn.

Then it happens.

Her hand goes for the popcorn. But misses.

It lands on your leg.

And stays there.

Just for a second too long.

The belt reacts immediately. A low, quiet buzz. Not enough to moan—but close. Your thighs tense. She doesn’t move her hand. Just looks down at it. Then at you. Then she grins.

“…Was that me, or is the belt just excited tonight?”

You try to speak. You really do.

But the system starts its cycle again—slow, warm, creeping up your spine—and your brain short-circuits under the blanket.

She leans in close. Whisper-soft.

“You’re not gonna cum during the movie, are you?”

You shake your head.

But she doesn’t move her hand.

You’re called in just after lunch. No one says why. The counselor only asked you to come “when you’re free.” You’re not in trouble—at least, you don’t think so.

You knock once. The door opens before your knuckles even land again.

“Oh, there you are. Come in. Close the door behind you.”

Her voice is calm. Mid-thirties maybe. Thick-framed glasses, smart blouse, hair pulled into a high bun that still lets a few strands fall. She doesn’t look strict—more like she’s always on the edge of a warm smile, but never fully gives it away.

She taps something on a tablet as you step inside. Doesn’t even look up until you’re halfway to the chair.

“So. It’s been a week since your fitting.”

Her eyes finally meet yours. There’s no judgment—just observation. Professional interest, wrapped in just enough softness to make you wonder if she’s seen you twitching in class.

“I know it’s a lot, all at once. Some boys settle right in. Others… take a bit longer to find their balance. That’s normal.”

She gestures to the couch. You sit. It’s too comfortable. Your belt buzzed this morning but didn’t finish. You’ve been half-hard for four hours.

She sets the tablet aside, folds her legs, leans slightly forward.

“Nothing formal. No forms, no tests. Just… how are you feeling? Really.”

You hesitate. She notices. Her smile sharpens just a little.

“Sensitive? Confused? Embarrassed? That’s alright. You wouldn’t believe how many boys cry during their first release. Or laugh. Or beg. I’ve seen it all.”

Her gaze dips, just for a moment, to your lap.

“You’re not broken. You’re adjusting. And you’re not alone in it.”

She shifts slightly closer. Not too much. Just enough that her knee touches yours for a second, and the belt flinches beneath your waistband.

“We have time. And you don’t have to go back to class until you’re steady again. That’s why I scheduled you mid-period.”

She sits back, finally letting the silence settle for a moment.

“Now. Tell me about your mornings. How’s the tension? Any discomfort? Any… accidents?”

She tilts her head. That almost-smile again.

“I want to make sure you’re cared for properly. The system takes care of the release schedule—but I take care of you.”

The academy’s mixed locker room is humid with steam and the smell of soap, shampoo, and sweat. The showers run openly in the background—curtains optional. Boys and girls change together, casually, like it’s always been this way. Because it has. No one looks twice at the belts anymore… at least not officially.

You just finished gym. Skin flushed, muscles aching, belt throbbing with the constant post-exercise pulse that never fully fades. You grab a towel, strip down, and step into the mist.

Warm water hits your skin. It helps. A little. But the cage holds firm—erect and unmoving as ever, shaft locked upright in its smooth elastomer tube. No friction. No relief. Just the belt’s soft hum against your hips.

Then you hear it.

“Hey. Didn’t think you’d be done already.”

You freeze for half a second. She’s in a black sports bra, towel slung low on her hips. Damp strands of hair stick to her cheeks. She’s not even looking at your face. Her gaze is lower—casual, curious.

She steps closer, water pattering against her skin, and points.

“Oh… it moves, huh?”

You glance down. The belt’s stim system must’ve reacted to her proximity. You can feel it now—just a soft twitch, a tightening deep in the base of the tube. Nothing visible. But she knows.

She grins.

“Don’t worry. I’ve seen worse. One guy came last week just from a shampoo ad.”

She steps past you toward the bench, barely brushing your arm with hers.

Then leans back, glancing over her shoulder with a smirk.

“Though to be fair… I get why yours would be acting up~”

Your sister’s friend is staying the night. The house is quiet—your sister’s in the shower, parents already asleep. You’re left in the living room with her. A bowl of popcorn sits half-empty between you, the TV humming low in the background. The belt presses warm and steady against you, as it always does.

She shifts on the couch, tucking her legs under herself, and glances at you. She’s always been a little smug, a little too confident for her age. Tonight, with her hair loose and her t-shirt hanging just short of her thighs, she looks even more dangerous.

“So,” she says casually, “you got fitted last week, right?”

Your throat tightens. You nod. She smirks like she expected the answer.

“I thought so. I could tell from the way you kept squirming at dinner. You’re terrible at hiding it.”

Her eyes flick down to your lap. You shift uncomfortably. She notices. Of course she notices. Her grin widens.

“Can I see it?”

The words are whispered, conspiratorial. She leans closer, her shoulder brushing yours, voice lowering to a playful hiss.

“Not… like, see see. I just want to see it twitch. I heard it reacts when a girl teases you. Is that true?”

You shake your head. She giggles. A bratty little sound that makes the belt throb on its own.

“Liar. I bet if I just—”

She lifts the hem of her shirt an inch, just enough to expose smooth skin above her hip. The belt hums faintly, betraying you instantly. Her eyes widen, then sparkle with wicked amusement.

“Oh my god. It really does. That’s so mean.”

She shifts closer, knees touching yours now, eyes locked on the way your body reacts against the smooth shell.

“Don’t worry. I won’t tell your sister. But…” she drags out the pause, biting her lip “…I might have a little fun with you while she’s in the shower.”

She laughs again, quiet and sharp, tossing a kernel of popcorn at your chest before leaning back into the cushions like nothing happened at all—like she didn’t just make your belt pulse with need.

You wake up slowly, the blanket half-kicked off your legs. Warm morning light filters through the blinds, and there’s a sleepy hush in the room—quiet enough that you can hear it.

Soft. Faint. A sound barely louder than breathing.

A moan.

You blink, still half-asleep, and turn your head toward the other side of the room. He hasn’t noticed you’re awake. He’s on his back, one arm limp at his side, the other drifting low… fingers ghosting over the smooth, matte curve of the belt that bulges under his thin sleep shorts.

The fabric hides nothing. It never does. The belt’s outline is distinct, rigid, seamless. You can see the way it rises from his pelvis like an invitation.

And it's buzzing. Not loud—no, the system is never loud. But you can see it in the way his thighs shift. The way his hips twitch once, then again. His breath catches. His fingers try to press down, helplessly, sliding over the hard shell.

Another sound, softer this time. Desperate.

He’s being edged. Maybe it’s e-stim, maybe just morning vibro-surge. The system likes to remind them who's in charge first thing in the morning.

You stay still, eyes half-lidded, watching him struggle against the stimulation—helpless, leaking, probably seconds from a false peak. He doesn’t even know you’re awake.

Not yet.

You’re both sitting on the floor in your room, back against the bed, playing something on your handhelds. His legs are crossed tight, your legs are sprawled wherever. He’s trying way too hard to act normal.

You glance over. He’s stiff—not just his posture. His hands are fidgety, his jaw clenched just a little too much. You’ve known him long enough to spot it. He’s squirming. Quietly. Constantly.

The bulge is subtle, but it’s there. You’ve seen enough belted guys by now to recognize that shape. Yours is the first class getting fitted early—he got caged just two days ago.

He hasn’t said anything about it. You haven’t asked. But he’s sweating and shifting and keeps "adjusting" his waistband like it's going to do anything.

You jab his knee with your foot, smirking.

“Dude. You good?”

He jumps slightly, then tries to shrug it off like it’s nothing. Doesn’t meet your eyes.

“Y-yeah. Just hot in here.”

You raise an eyebrow. Your room’s barely 22°C. You stretch your arms behind your head, slouching down further, speaking casually.

“Right. Hot. Totally. Definitely not, like… built-in vibrator hot.”

He flushes instantly, face tightening in embarrassment. You snort.

“Relax. I’m not judging. You think you’re the first guy I’ve seen trying not to hump a couch cushion?”

His mouth opens, closes. No comeback. Just more squirming. You can hear the tiniest whirr now that he’s not breathing through it.

You lean over just a little, voice dropping low.

“…It’s buzzing right now, isn’t it?”

He doesn’t answer. His whole body gives it away. You grin.

“Dude. That’s messed up. I love it.”

He groans and hides his face in his hands. You grab a chip from the bowl, crunch it obnoxiously, and grin wider.

“You’re so fucked.”

He groans louder. You flick his knee and laugh again.

“Don’t worry. I won’t tell. It’s kinda cute watching you squirm like that.”

You go back to your game. He doesn’t. Not really. His hips keep twitching.

You're both on your second energy drink and hour three of doing absolutely nothing productive. It started with teasing. Then dumb name-calling. Then the pillow hit his face. And now it's all-out war.

He lunges, you duck, he misses. You roll off the bed, laughing, and he follows like a dumbass. He grabs your ankle. You twist. Then you're both a tangle on the floor—elbows, knees, swearing, breathless grins.

You land on top of him. Straddling his hips.

You both freeze.

His hands are on your waist. Your hands are on his chest. Your thighs are pressing down. Right onto the belt.

He stiffens underneath you—like, really stiffens. Then you hear it.

The click. The soft, rising hum. That vibration.

You blink. Look down. His eyes are wide. His face already flushed. He looks like he’s about to say something—apologize, maybe. Or beg.

But it’s too late. The system decided.

The belt’s awake now. You can feel the tiny pulses beneath you, constant and building. It’s like sitting on the shell of a purring machine. His hips twitch. He gasps softly through clenched teeth.

“Oh shit—”

He grips your thighs without thinking, then lets go like he just touched fire. You smirk.

“Dude… did I just trigger your belt?”

He groans, face beet red, throwing an arm over his eyes like he wants to disappear.

“Shut up... oh fuck, it won’t stop—”

You shift your hips on purpose. Just a little. The noise he makes is absolutely not okay.

“Oh my god,” you laugh, still straddling him. “That’s so messed up. Are you gonna—?”

He shakes his head rapidly, biting his lip. You can see the belt pulse harder beneath your thighs.

You lean forward, real close, voice dropping.

“...I wanna see what happens if I don’t get off.”

He gasps. Trembles. Whimpers.

You just grin and stay right there, letting the belt work its magic. Not your fault if your weight is making it worse. Not your fault at all.

You get a notification on your phone during your lunch break. Simple, sterile, system-assigned.

“Dorm Adjustment Support Assignment: Room 214B. Subject: Westin L. (18, 5 days post-installation). Noted symptoms: anxiety, overreaction to baseline stim, social withdrawal. Your management privileges include environmental support and limited A.H.R.D. control (release delay, sensitivity mod, stim override).”

You recognize the name. You’ve seen him in the halls—petite frame, oversized hoodie, belt bulge not doing him any favors. He always looks like he’s trying not to breathe too hard. The kind of boy who tenses when you walk past, even if you don’t look at him.

You took the Male Management elective last semester—half out of curiosity, half for fun. Now it’s paying off. The system flagged him for adjustment, and your name came up. You’re not a nurse, but you’re qualified enough to handle his belt settings. And him.

You knock twice on the door to 214B. There’s a long pause. Then a shuffle. Then the door creaks open.

There he is.

Messy hair, red ears, belt clearly outlined under his pajama pants. He doesn’t meet your eyes—just stares somewhere around your neck, shoulders stiff.

“…Um. Hi,” he mumbles, voice barely above a whisper. “I… I didn’t know they were assigning someone.”

It’s late. Way past curfew. The lights are low in your shared dorm room, just the soft blue glow of the desktop monitor and a pile of snacks between you two.

He’s got his legs tucked up under him on the bed, hoodie stretched long past his fingers, bangs hiding half his face. You've both been fitted recently—within a few days of each other. It's new. It's weird. It's something you don't really talk about, except maybe in a quiet joke here or there.

But tonight… something’s off.

You glance over during a break in the game. He’s not paying attention to the screen. He’s staring at his lap.

More specifically—he’s reacting.

His thighs are tight. His breath's just a little shallow. And if you watch closely, you can see it: the smallest twitch of motion behind the smooth front panel of the belt. A flicker of vibration. The tiniest, rhythmic buzz.

His fingers twitch where they’re curled into his sleeves. His jaw shifts. He glances at you—then quickly looks away, face flushed.

You pause the game.

“…Hey.”

He flinches. Visibly. You raise an eyebrow.

“You good?”

He hesitates. Then clears his throat and gives the most unconvincing nod you’ve ever seen.

“Y-Yeah. It’s just… the belt. Acting up.”

You stare at him. Then down at the waistband of your own sweats.

Yours isn’t doing anything.

You look back up at him. Slowly.

“…Is it acting up, or are you acting up?”

He swallows hard. His ears are bright red now. He still won’t look at you.

“…I d-don’t know. Maybe it’s… proximity trigger. Or something.”

But the system doesn’t proximity-trigger by default.

Unless it learns. Unless it picked something up.

You grin slowly.

“Dude. Is your belt turning on because of me?”

He squeaks. Actually squeaks. And pulls his knees up higher like that’ll hide the very obvious bulge in his shorts.

He doesn’t answer.

He doesn’t have to.

The rest of the students have already left. The door clicks softly shut behind them, and now it’s just you and her.

Ms. Ryen. Psych and Conditioning Advisor. Early thirties, sharp glasses, high collar, a voice like velvet against glass. The kind of woman who doesn’t raise her voice, because everyone leans in to hear her anyway.

You were told she’d be checking in on your “adjustment phase” after fitting. Standard follow-up for new belt recipients. Just a little support meeting. Nothing intense.

But when she gestures to the chair in front of her desk, you notice the room’s gone very quiet. Her tablet’s open. Her legs are crossed. And she’s looking at you over the rim of her glasses like she already knows something you don’t.

“I won’t keep you long,” she says, her tone smooth. “Just a few questions. You’ve had your A.H.R.D. for… six days now?”

You nod. She taps the tablet.

“Mhm. Reports say your vitals are within range, but there’s been some… elevated stimulation patterns. Spikes during second period, and again around lunchtime. Interesting timing.”

She taps again. The corner of her lip quirks.

“Have you been noticing any particular... triggers, sweetheart?”

You shift in your seat. The belt’s not doing anything yet. But it could. You know it could.

Her fingers drift lazily across the screen. She doesn’t look at it—she watches you, head tilted, patient.

“Would you say you're feeling properly regulated so far? Or… still a little pent up?”

You open your mouth to answer. She holds up a hand.

“Take your time.”

She smiles.

“This part’s important.”

You’re curled up in your hoodie on the floor of her dorm room, blanket twisted around your legs, trying to ignore the fact that every time you shift, the belt hums back at you.

It was her idea—you didn’t want to go back to your room, said something about your idiot roommate, and she shrugged and told you to crash here. “I don’t snore,” she said. “Much.”

She’s in her bed now, half-covered by a sheet, one bare leg kicked out over the edge. You can hear her breathing. You think she’s asleep.

So when the stim cycle starts… you try to keep quiet.

It’s not strong. Just a buzz. A little flicker. But you feel it—inside the tube, under your skin, like it’s crawling up your spine. It’s the third time tonight. Your thighs twitch. You bite your lip, shifting under the blanket like you can find some way to press the feeling down.

You don’t notice her watching until she speaks.

“…Still going off?”

You freeze. She’s not asleep. She’s looking right at you—face soft with sleep, but definitely amused. She stretches slowly, like a cat, arms over her head.

“I figured. You get real squirmy when it kicks in.”

You stammer something—nothing useful—and bury your face in your pillow.

She just laughs.

“It’s kinda cute, you know,” she says, voice low, lazy. “Like a little vibrator went off in your pants and there’s nothing you can do about it.”

You groan softly. The belt buzzes again—stronger now.

She rolls onto her side, propping her head on her arm, still watching.

“Want me to distract you?”

Your belt hums at full tempo.

She grins.

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

You were told the room was yours. Private. Single occupancy. Room key, welcome packet, all very official.

But when you walk in, there’s already a suitcase on one bed. A pair of shoes kicked half under the dresser. And a boy—facing away from the door, pulling a hoodie down over his head, soft shoulders twitching like he didn’t hear you come in.

He turns when the door closes behind you. Freezes. He’s smaller than you expected—tight shorts, baggy top, thigh-high socks, belt bulge barely hidden and very, very obvious now that you’re both standing still.

His face goes red immediately.

There’s a beat of silence. Then a click.

You know that sound. Low, subtle. From his waistband.

He stiffens. You can see his thighs press together instinctively. The belt starts its cycle—slow, low, betraying every secret he didn’t want you to know.

He exhales shakily, like he’s hoping you didn’t notice.

“…I—I thought this was a solo room,” he mumbles, not quite meeting your eyes.

Another buzz pulses through his hips. His fingers twitch at his sides.

“I didn’t know they were assigning girls to dorms like this...”

The belt buzzes again. Just a little stronger.

He’s still not looking at you.

And he’s definitely getting hard.

You’re not even unpacked when your phone buzzes.

“Adjustment Support Assigned. Cadet Lira M. (19) will assist you with A.H.R.D. integration during initial acclimation. Expected check-in within 1 hour.”

You stare at the message. What the hell is a cadet?

You didn’t even know they assigned students to do this. You thought it’d be a nurse. Or no one. Just a setting and a timer.

There’s a knock.

You open the door and there she is.

Athletic build, cropped jacket, short black skirt, long legs and an even longer smirk. Lira. She doesn’t wait to be invited in—just steps past you, drops her bag on your desk, and spins to face you.

“Wow,” she says, giving you a once-over. “They really are fitting them younger now.”

You blink. She’s already pulled out her tablet.

“Okay, so—I’ve got basic override access, some stim threshold permissions, and I think I can delay scheduled releases. Maybe trigger them too, if I can unlock that panel.”

She says it like she’s checking your blood pressure. But she’s looking right at the bulge under your waistband while she scrolls.

“You’re day three, right? Still jumpy? Still getting that random edge buzz every time someone smiles at you?”

You try to answer, but she cuts you off.

“Relax. I’ve seen it all before.” Her grin gets just a little sharper. “Actually, I felt it once. Sat next to a guy whose belt kept going off during exams. Desk was vibrating.”

You flush. The belt hums. Soft. Barely there. But she notices. Of course she does.

“There it is,” she says, voice lower now. “System just loves confirming things.”

She steps closer. Not too close. Just close enough that the air feels warm.

“Why don’t you sit?” she says sweetly. “Let’s have a little talk about your... adjustment.”

Title: Assigned Helper

Your phone buzzes during dinner. You glance down at the notification:

"Adjustment Support Assigned: Dorm 3B. Support Contact: Elira K. (Certified in Basic Male Management). Will arrive this evening for introductory session."

Your stomach knots. You’ve only had the belt for a week. You’ve been trying to keep your head down, act normal, avoid the fact that every time you breathe too deep, it hums back at you. And now they’ve assigned… a helper?

You’re still pacing your room when there’s a knock. Three light taps. You open the door. She’s standing there with a grin already tugging at her lips. Short hair, loose tee, shorts barely reaching mid-thigh. Casual. Too casual. Like she’s been waiting for this.

“Hey,” she says brightly. “So, I’m your adjustment partner. They told you, right?”

You shake your head. She laughs softly, stepping inside without hesitation, dropping her bag by your desk.

“Well, surprise. I took the management course last semester. I’m not a nurse, but I am allowed to tweak your settings a little. Make sure you don’t break down or melt into a puddle. That kinda thing.”

She drops onto your bed, sprawled out like it’s hers already, and looks you over—slowly, deliberately. Her eyes settle low, where the belt bulges under your sweats. Her grin sharpens.

“…You’ve been twitchy all week, huh?”

The belt hums faintly. Perfect timing. Her smile widens as she pulls out her phone and opens an app you’ve never seen before.

“Good. Then let’s get started.”

You weren’t planning on being found. The janitor’s closet is dusty, cramped, and smells faintly of cleaning supplies—but it’s quiet. Hidden. Perfect. A place to sit through break without anyone noticing how stiffly you sit, how tense your thighs are, how your belt won’t give you a moment of peace.

You pull the door mostly shut and let yourself breathe in the dark. Just ten minutes of silence. Just—

The door swings open with a jolt of light and voices tumbling over each other.

“There he is!” “Oh my god, you really are hiding here.” “Busted~”

Three girls crowd the doorway. Three sets of eyes on you. They don’t even hesitate—they step inside, shutting the door behind them, pressing you further into the corner.

The tallest leans on the wall, arms crossed. Athletic build, ponytail bouncing, a grin sharp enough to sting. “Wow. Closet duty already? What are you hiding from, huh? Or should I say… what’s hiding under those pants?”

The second girl crouches in front of you, short and curvy, soft waves of hair falling in her face. Her smile is gentler, but her eyes sparkle with mischief. “Aww, don’t tease him too much. Look at him—he’s shaking. He’s like a little puppy. Aren’t you?”

The third slips in behind you, perched on a crate, legs swinging. Pale, sharp bob cut, glasses sliding down her nose, gaze clinical but amused. “You know it spikes harder when you’re flustered, right? I bet it’s humming already.”

You swallow hard, trapped in the dim light, three girls’ attention pinning you down as surely as the belt itself. The tall one nudges your knee with her sneaker, grinning wider when you flinch. The soft one reaches out, almost brushing your arm, while the sharp one taps her pen against a clipboard like she’s taking notes.

“Relax,” the soft one whispers. “We won’t tell anyone.”

The tall one laughs, low and smug. “Yeah. We’ll just… watch a little.”