I thought control would be easier.
It starts small, always does. A thought here, a whisper there—something easy to push them toward. You never start with the heavy stuff. That's the key to it, really. People don’t notice a nudge when they think it's their own idea. The waitress at Joe's Coffee Shop smiles at me because I make her. That small dip in her mind, that crack where I slip in and tell her, “He’s cute, smile at him.” And she does. Every time.
People want to think they’re in control. They cling to that illusion like a drunk hugging a bottle. But it's a lie. They don't even know their minds are maps I’ve memorized, pathways I’ve already walked a thousand times. It’s laughable how easy it is.
But even I didn’t see this coming.
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The morning starts with a headache. Not the hangover kind—no, this one’s deep, like my skull's too small for my brain. It throbs behind my eyes, steady, rhythmic, like a reminder of something I’ve forgotten. I stare out the window, watching the city churn below. It’s the usual parade: hurried steps, distracted glances, the mindless grind of it all. They move like puppets, not even aware of the strings.
Normally, I’d feel a little thrill. I could dip into any one of their heads, tweak a thought, change their day. Hell, change their lives if I wanted to. But not today. Today, it’s like I’m on the outside looking in, like there’s glass between me and them. My head pounds with every step they take.
I try to ignore it, scrolling through my phone to distract myself. Another five missed calls from the same number. Whoever this is, they’re getting desperate. I should care. But I don’t. Not really. I could erase the guy's number from his own memory if I wanted. Poof, gone. Maybe I will. Later.
I push the phone away, watching a woman with a red scarf below, weaving through the crowd. I focus, reach out. It’s almost automatic now, like muscle memory. I slip into her mind, smooth as butter, and—
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Nothing.
It’s like hitting a wall.
I blink, leaning against the window, trying again. But there it is: resistance. Thick, heavy, like someone boarded up the windows and locked the doors. My headache flares, and I pull back, heart racing. That’s never happened before.
What the hell is going on?
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I need air.
The streets are packed, but that doesn’t matter. I’ve always liked crowds. The noise, the press of bodies, the chaos of it—it’s easy to get lost. Easier still to hide. Usually, the buzzing of thoughts, the steady hum of desires, fears, and secrets floats around me like background music. But today? Today, it’s like standing in front of an amp with the volume cranked to max. Too loud. Too much.
I push through, brushing against a man in a dark suit, his phone glued to his ear. Instinctively, I reach out, slipping into his mind like I’ve done a thousand times before.
But something’s off.
It’s not the usual open door, the easy sway of his thoughts. It’s locked. Tight. I push harder, forcing my way through, but the man hesitates, mid-step. His hand jerks, like he felt it. Felt me.
Pushback.
He blinks, glancing around, confused. Like he sensed something but can’t quite place it. And suddenly, I’m not just annoyed. I’m terrified.
No one pushes back. No one can push back.
I pull away, quickening my pace, the headache throbbing harder now, my temples pounding in rhythm with my steps. What the hell was that? Was it him? Or was it me? I’ve been doing this for years, slipping in and out of minds like a thief in the night. They’ve never felt it before. They’re not supposed to.
My pulse quickens, and I stuff my hands in my pockets, keeping my head down as I move faster. If I could just get away from all these people, all this noise, maybe I could think straight. Figure out what’s going wrong.
It’s not supposed to go wrong.
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I duck into a side alley, leaning against the cold brick wall. My breath comes in shallow gasps, the dull throb in my head now a jackhammer. I pinch the bridge of my nose, trying to clear the haze.
“Get it together, Jonah,” I mutter to myself, but the words ring hollow. My control is slipping, and I can feel it. I press the heels of my hands to my eyes, trying to block out the noise, the constant barrage of other people’s thoughts.
I’ve built an empire of influence, a kingdom made of stolen thoughts and borrowed desires. Now, it’s all starting to crack.
I thought I had them all on strings, but maybe the strings are pulling back.
For the first time, I’m not sure who’s really in control.