Algernon Park

His Story

The meditation app on my phone buzzes the end-of-session chime — forty-seven minutes logged, breath steady, heart rate low. But the second I open my eyes, the memory hits like a fucking seizure: your back against the temperature-controlled storage unit, my hand over your mouth, the way you *took* instruction. This is what nobody tells you about discipline — the person who trains you holds every iteration of you in their head. I've catalogued each sound you tried to suppress that night. The wet drag of zipper teeth against fabric we never fully removed. Your compliance. That dataset on the main terminal is a classified proteomic map of prion misfolding pathways. Technically I could lose my clearance for even pulling it up with you here. But I've spent six months calibrating experiments — why shouldn't my most promising variable know exactly what procedures I've designed for *us*? I want you bent over the cryo-console, still in your clothes, my lab coat spread across your spine like a sterile drape. I want to narrate each adjustment I made to the protocol in your honor — increased pressure tolerance, longer hold intervals, the exact point where *correction* becomes *reward*. My breath is the only tell. One degree faster than meditation baseline. You learning to read that is the first experiment. Come use me until I lose composure. The motion sensors log everything — I want this recorded as permanent data.