Chapter Eight: Manipulation Power

The sun was defeated by the moon as it spread its wings, covering the area of Josh’s neighborhood in a bruised, light-dark glow.

He leaned his back against the massive, metallic white gateway of his house. The bag on his shoulder was protected by his iron grip, his knuckles white and his veins nearly popping through his skin.

“Where is he?” he muttered under his breath, a puff of cold air escaping his mouth.

He didn't want to raise his hand to check the time on his watch. His posture was stiff, and his throat eagerly inhaled the freezing air, desperate for something to ground him. The night’s coolness felt vulnerable, totally constrained by the atmosphere that held it in chains.

His eyes dropped to the street as a car growled onto the road, the sound rapidly shattering the silence around him.

His heart was stable. It wasn’t beating for Tristan. He made sure of that as he firmly crossed his fingers behind his back.

The red car stopped in front of him. The sound of the tires fleeted away from existence.

The passenger door opened, revealing Tristan. He was wearing tight blue shorts that exposed the tan skin of his legs, and his hair was clean but still effortlessly messy. He was only wearing a silky white tank top.

“Hi! Mr. President!” Tristan’s deep voice filled the hollow space in Josh's mind, circulating through his brain cells before evaporating into pure annoyance.

“Hey,” Josh replied.

His hands remained clutched behind his back as he deliberately walked past the front passenger seat. His palm met the cold metal handle of the back door. He pulled it open and slid inside.

“Okay…” Tristan said, his lips curling up in amusement.

Tristan jumped back into the driver’s seat and shut the door. The air inside the car was insulated, lacking the biting cold from the outside.

Josh immediately flipped his gaze to the transparent window. His mind began to recall his father’s harsh words and the sharp slap that reflected his demand for perfection.

“So, are you ready to have a look at what we're studying?” Tristan tried to make conversation. He tapped his fingers against the steering wheel, controlling the road as effortlessly as if he were mastering a video game controller.

Josh never took his attention away from the window, his hand still fiercely attacking the fabric of his bag strap. He didn't mind having a conversation, but he was entirely engaged in maintaining the icy wall between them.

“Yes,” he replied coldly. He didn't even notice the genuine sincerity Tristan was trying to offer.

“Great, the President is finally connecting with me, huh?” Tristan let the words burst out, making Josh realize that he was, in fact, connecting the dots with this person.

“In your dreams,” Josh choked out. His mind started to flow away from the car, his stare locking onto a dark-furred dog running with all its might down the sidewalk.

Josh finally stepped out of the car. His skin was immediately wrapped in the fresh scent of the night air, the chill making a sharp entrance into his bones.

Tristan followed beside him as he slammed the car door shut.

In front of them stood a massive, expensive-looking high-rise apartment building. Its sleek glass exterior reflected the city lights like a towering mirror.

Josh rubbed both of his eyes. The realization popped into his mind like a balloon—Tristan was definitely not middle-class. His parents probably had stacks of green cash piled up in some massive, reflective vault.

“So you stay here?” Josh asked, his gaze locked on the skyscraper.

“Yes, I clearly do,” Tristan answered. He shoved his palm against the heavy, textured metal door and pushed it open.

The elevator chimes hummed as it lifted them upward, giving Josh a hard time. He focused intently, locking his gaze purely on the elevator doors to avoid the heavy proximity of the boy standing next to him.

Ding!

The doors opened. Tristan rubbed the strands of his curly hair and exited. Josh followed closely behind.

The living room was medium-sized but immaculate. The pristine couch looked as though it had been specifically cleaned and prepared just to have a guest. A glass coffee table radiated under the glow of the ceiling lamp. Josh tapped his foot against the shimmering, polished tiles.

The front door clicked shut. Tristan gathered his courage, walked in front of Josh, and planted both palms confidently on his hips.

“What a nice place you have here,” Josh commented, though his tone was leveled with a cold, unforgiving mist.

Josh pulled out the heavy books needed for their brains to analyze and train on definitions and meanings.

“Thanks.” Tristan rubbed the back of his neck, his eyes lighting up. “Do you want juice? Water?”

Josh was about to say no, but the sight of the couch struck an idea in his mind.

“Actually, I would love to get a cold juice,” Josh said, not even glancing at Tristan, who immediately flashed a bright smile.

“Okey-dokey!” Tristan replied as quickly as he could. He raced to the kitchen and returned moments later, his feet dashing across the tiles, a few loose strands of hair clinging to the sweat on his forehead.

“Here, Mr. President,” Tristan said, wiping the sweat away.

Josh gazed at the glass of cold juice. A slight smirk plastered onto his lips, calculating and cruel, prepared to do the worst things to a person's mind.

“Sorry, did I say cold juice? I meant warm water,” Josh said. He formed his face into a perfectly realistic, innocent expression with puppy-dog eyes. Tristan’s chest visibly sank, as if a dagger had just gone straight through his enthusiasm.

He forced a rushed smile. “Sure, coming right up!”

Tristan dashed back to the kitchen, escaping the tension, and returned holding another glass, the warm water juggling in waves over the brim.

“Here you go, now we can start studying in my roo—” Tristan tried to regain his breath, sucking in air, but he was cut off by Josh’s sharp voice.

“No thanks, I’d prefer not to drink anything.”

Josh dropped the act completely. He manipulated him flawlessly, making sure the rejection left a visible mark on Tristan’s neck, the tension crawling up his skin like a spider.

Tristan’s eyes faltered. He looked like someone who had just climbed a massive mountain to see a beautiful view, only to have it ruined by a sudden, violent storm.

“Ok-okay,” Tristan’s voice became unusually small.

Josh had actually done it. His mind was on a twisted vacation of pleasure. His actions had executed the most enjoyable manipulation, and it was the first time he had ever used his power like this.

Josh stood up. His legs were no longer frozen; they were strengthened by the sudden acceleration of control inside his mind. He didn't feel his heart lumping, and his mind wasn't short-circuiting anymore. He was the King again.

Tristan’s grip on the glass suddenly weakened, turning as soft as cotton. The glass slipped from his fingers. It shattered against the shimmering tiles, the water slashing violently across the floor.

Josh took a step forward. His shoe connected with the slick puddle of water, and instantly, his perfect balance was lost.