Because I Can - Part 1: Captivity

Chapter One - Day 1

Charlie stirred in bed, his muscles aching with a dull soreness. He groaned and shifted, pulling his arms out from between the sheets, realizing with a foggy mind that something felt different. The sheets didn’t feel like his sheets. Groggy, he opened his eyes, blinking out into the absolute darkness of his room. No, not his room, something wasn’t right. He bolted upright—too quickly, and a sharp, blinding pain shot through his skull. He held his head as it throbbed from the sudden movement, waiting for his eyes to adjust. But they didn't, he couldn’t see a thing.

The room was pitch black, thick with silence. His heart rate spiked. Where was he?

Breath quickening, Charlie’s hands instinctively patted his body, searching for something, anything. His phone, his clothes, something familiar. But all he found was bare skin. He was in nothing but boxers. A wave of unease washed over him.

“H-Hello?” he called out, his voice sounding small in the oppressive darkness. The sound barely traveled, swallowed by the void. He swallowed hard, forcing down the rising panic. The sheets rustled as he cautiously swung his legs over the side of the bed. His feet hit the floor, cold and unwelcoming.

He stretched his hands out in front of him, taking tentative steps forward and groping blindly in the dark until his fingers met something solid. Charlie flinched, frightened by the sudden touch, but forced himself to reach out again, trembling slightly. A wall. He nodded reassuringly to himself. Follow the wall, he thought. There’s got to be a door. A window. A light switch. Something.

He began to shuffle forward, hugging the wall, fingers tracing the cool surface, mind racing. How had he ended up here? His thoughts whirled as he tried to recall the last thing he could remember. He had been at a bar… His graduation—he and his cohort were celebrating finally receiving their PhDs together.

He remembered the evening, the clinking of glasses, the congratulatory toasts passed around among his three friends, being called Dr. Anderson officially for the first time. But everything after that... He had left the bar, walking home. Lina, he remembered, I was texting Lina. He and his friend were messaging as he made the familiar walk back to his place. And then what? How had he ended up here, in this dark, strange place?

Suddenly, his fingers brushed something cold, metal. It shocked him, and he jerked his hand back, startled, the sharp sting of the surface sending a jolt of fear through him. But then, just as quickly, a memory flashed in his mind—the sting of a needle, piercing his skin. That was it.

Someone had grabbed him on his walk home, hadn’t they? He’d been texting, distracted. There had been a figure, moving out of the shadows faster than he could react. The sharp prick in his arm had left him momentarily dazed, and his phone slipped from his hand, clattering to the ground. That was the last thing he remembered before everything went dark.

His breathing hitched as the realization sunk in: he’d been drugged. Taken. But why? And by who? His heartbeat drummed louder in his ears.

“Is anyone there?” he shouted, louder this time. “I need help! Please!”

The only response was silence.

Suddenly, a mechanical whirring sound came from above him, breaking the oppressive stillness. Charlie looked up instinctively, and blinding light flooded the room, pouring in from above. He squinted against the brightness, shielding his face with his hands. Once his eyes adjusted, he looked up and found the ceiling was no longer solid. It had opened up to reveal a skylight, the sun’s bright rays flooding the small room.

His heart sank as he took in his surroundings.

The room was small, no more than 15 by 15 feet, and sparsely furnished. There was a bed—gray sheets, plain and nondescript—in the corner, with a small wooden nightstand beside it. Charlie found himself standing next to a small table with a lamp sitting on it, with one matching chair in the same dark-toned wood. A loveseat and coffee table sat in the center of the room, facing a modestly sized TV mounted on the wall. The floor was wooden, the walls blank and white, with no windows.

He took a shaky breath and looked at the wall he had been following earlier. A small metal panel was embedded into it, the offender that had shocked him previously. He spotted another one above the nightstand near the bed.

Charlie pressed his back against the wall, trying to take it all in. Everything in the room felt too clean, too sterile. It was unsettling, the lack of any form of decor, like a hotel room stripped of any warmth or personality. His eyes darted around, finally landing on the only door in the room, opposite the bed.

Charlie’s pulse quickened with hope. Maybe that was his way out.

Without thinking, he sprinted across the room and threw the door open. His heart plummeted when he realized it wasn’t an exit at all. It was a bathroom—white-tiled, simple, with a toilet, sink, shower, and separate tub. There was no mirror above the sink, and it had the same eerie lack of decor. Another metal panel was embedded in the wall here too.

Confused, Charlie turned back to the main room, panic rising in his chest. There has to be a way out.

He paced back to the bed, scanning the walls and the ceiling, where he spotted something small and dark. He squinted. There, in the corners of the room, were cameras. Two of them, fixed in place.

Fear crept up his spine.

The TV clicked on, pulling Charlie’s attention. The screen was blank—just a white background. And then, words appeared in bold black letters:

HI CHARLIE.

Chapter Two - Day 1

Charlie blinked, staring at the words on the screen. He felt a cold shiver crawl down his spine, it was clear that whoever was watching him knew his name. So this wasn’t a mistake, and it wasn’t random. Seeing his name paired with the realization, almost felt like an accusation.

His body trembled as he backed away from the TV. "What is this?" he mumbled to himself. The screen flickered again, responding in the same mechanical font: THIS IS YOUR NEW HOME, FOR THE TIME BEING.

Charlie's breath quickened. He spun around, staring at the small cameras in the corners of the room. Were they listening, too? He felt the unsettling feeling of someone being near, even though he was the only one in the room.

Fear kept him silent for a moment. His throat felt tight, and his mind raced, but the screen flickered again, asking: AREN'T YOU WONDERING WHY YOU'RE HERE?

Charlie swallowed hard, his voice faltering. "I-I don't know what's going on... but... you have to let me go." His voice cracked as he continued, "Whatever you want, I-I'll do it. Just let me out of here."

The screen stayed silent for a beat, leaving Charlie with the eerie, oppressive quiet of the room. Then, after what felt like an eternity, the screen replied: THERE’S ONLY ONE THING I WANT FROM YOU.

Charlie’s mouth went dry. "W-what is it?" His voice was shaky, small in the strange space. He felt like a child, powerless.

TO GROW.

The words hung on the screen, their simplicity terrifying. The sound of metal sliding open startled Charlie, making him jump. He looked to the wall near the small dining table, where a panel had opened. Inside was a plate, neatly presented with a sliced bagel, each half topped with a thick smear of cream cheese.

The screen flickered again. HUNGRY?

Charlie stared at the plate, then back at the TV. His pulse raced. "I don't understand," he said, his voice barely audible.

ALL YOU HAVE TO DO IS EAT, AND YOU’LL BE ALLOWED TO LEAVE.

“Eat?” Charlie asked. “Just…once?” His gaze flickered to the bagel, wondering what might be wrong with it, what the catch was.

NO, NOT ONCE. UNTIL YOU'RE BIG ENOUGH.

"What does that mean?" Charlie asked. His mind was struggling to make sense of what was happening.

YOU’LL EAT. YOU’LL GAIN. AND ONCE YOU REACH YOUR GOAL WEIGHT, I’LL LET YOU GO.

Charlie read the words over. And then again, and again. He blinked at the screen, trying to force his brain to process the text. He shook his head slowly.

"What? I— I don't...how..." Charlie stammered, the absurdity of the situation crashing over him. "I can't do that. How…how am I supposed to do that?"

The screen replied: HOW ELSE? BY EATING. HENCE THE BAGEL.

Charlie's hands trembled, desperation creeping into his voice. “But for how long?” he asked, “How much do I have to gain?”

I’LL LET YOU KNOW WHEN YOU GET THERE.

"No... this is insane," he muttered, turning away from the screen. Frustration, fear, and confusion roiled inside him. His eyes scanned the room again, this time more frantic. "Hello?" His voice echoed back at him, unanswered. "Is anyone there?" He pressed his hands to the walls, hoping to find a crack, a door, anything. There had to be a way out. His voice became more desperate, as he began banging his fists on the walls. “Can anyone hear me?! I need help! Please!”

His search and pounding turned up nothing. Exhausted and defeated, Charlie sank to the floor beside the bed, his head in his hands. He was hyperventilating, each breath coming in short, ragged gasps.

ARE YOU DONE? the screen asked. The words burned into his vision as he looked up through blurry eyes.

Charlie crawled forward, toward the TV, his hands gripping the edge of the screen. "Please... Please, I don’t know who you are... but let me go. I’ll do anything!" His voice cracked with desperation, tears filling his eyes. He hadn’t cried in years, but the hopelessness was unbearable.

YOU ALREADY KNOW WHAT YOU HAVE TO DO.

Charlie’s heart pounded, and he nodded frantically. "Eat, right? I have to eat?" He turned his head toward the dumbwaiter, where the plate of bagels sat, waiting. He darted toward it, his hands shaking as he picked it up, knowing he had no other choice. The metal panel closed immediately after. "I'll eat."

Charlie brought the bagel to his mouth and took an oversized bite, barely tasting it as he chewed. He swallowed hard, the food sticking in his throat. Another bite, and another. He ate both halves of the bagel in under a minute, barely chewing before swallowing each bite. His mouth still full, he held the empty plate up toward the camera, mumbling something through a muffled mouthful. He took a moment to swallow the last bite, then speaks again. "See? I ate. Now let me go!"

The screen replied: GOOD. NOW KEEP IT UP.

The sound of metal sliding open made Charlie's stomach churn. He turned his head and saw the panel open again, revealing a new plate, this time with two slices of pizza.

Charlie whimpered, shaking his head. His body tensed, his face contorting with every negative emotion all at once. Anger, disbelief, fear, and exhaustion surged through him, overwhelming him. "I can't..." he pleaded looking at the screen. A touch of resolve snuck into his voice as he straightened up. "I won't," he said, his voice stronger now as he backed away from the food. He stumbled to the bed and sank to the floor beside it, curling into a fetal position, his arms wrapped around his knees. "I won't do it." he said again, more definitively.

The screen stayed blank for a long moment. Then, with eerie calmness, words appeared again: YOU WILL. Then the screen went black.

Chapter Three - Day 3

Charlie sat in the bed, his back pressed against the soft pillows. His hunger gnawed at him, a relentless ache that kept him awake. He hadn’t left the bed much, only venturing out when he had to. For some reason, the bed had become his safe spot, taking a strange comfort in it. It was where he had woken up, experienced the last moment before he realized the nightmare he'd been dragged into. It had been normal for those first few seconds, until everything shattered.

His mind wandered, as it had countless times over the past few days, to his family and friends. Were they looking for him? Had someone noticed his absence yet? Or were they just starting to realize something was wrong? The questions spiraled, growing louder in his head. They’ll find you, he told himself, clinging to the hope. They’re probably searching right now.

But even that thought brought on sadness, seeping into the cracks of his fragile optimism. He couldn’t help imagining his parents in a panic, calling him over and over, or his friends wondering why he hadn’t shown up for anything. His stomach churned with anxiety, and he dropped his head into his hands. The weight of it all threatened to suffocate him. He tried to push the thoughts away, but they stuck to him like a second skin.

Lifting his head, Charlie looked up at the giant skylight above him, the only connection to the outside world. The dark blue sky was endless, tinged with the faintest hint of purple to the left. The sun must be setting, he thought.

His stomach growled, and the sharp, hollow feeling returned, demanding attention. He pressed his hand to his abdomen as if that could quiet it. "Shut up," he muttered under his breath, trying to will the hunger away.

He hadn’t eaten in two days. Two full days of refusing every meal they sent. Water was the only thing he allowed himself, delivered through the dumbwaiter as if accommodating his silent protest, just enough to keep going. He had discovered that the one beside the bed served the same purpose: delivering food. And the food had been relentless. Multiple times a day, they sent meals. A stack of waffles, a grilled cheese, even a simple glass of juice. But Charlie refused all of them, standing firm. Each plate sat there, untouched, growing cold until the dumbwaiter reclaimed it and slid shut with a quiet click. It was a small victory, knowing he was holding out.

Charlie glanced at the skylight again, noting the deeper hue of the evening. The food usually stopped once the sky darkened.

He sighed, rolling over and pulling the soft sheets up to his chin. At least the bed was comfortable. The sheets were soft, the pillows plush, and even the clothes he wore—gray sweat shorts and a plain white t-shirt—were new and comfortable. They had arrived through the dumbwaiter in the bathroom, along with everything else he needed. They’d provided him everything he needed to live in the small space, which only terrified him.

He didn’t want this to be his new home, as the screen had told him. The fear of staying there indefinitely gnawed at him in ways that hunger couldn’t. He didn’t want to accept this as his life. He just had to hold out a little longer, just a little more time, and something would give. He couldn’t imagine they would let him starve. No matter how depraved their demands seemed, there was something calculated about this whole situation. Starving him didn’t seem like part of the plan...did it?

His eyelids felt heavy, his mind slipping into the fog of exhaustion. The hunger was ever-present, but his body was giving in to the need for rest. Hold on a bit longer, he told himself, the thought barely more than a whisper in his mind. Either the police would find him, or they’d have no choice but to let him go. He just hoped he could control his hunger long enough to find out.

Chapter Four - Night 3

Charlie stirred, his head swimming as he slowly emerged from a restless sleep. His head felt heavy, and something was wrong—he could feel it immediately. His eyelids fluttered, but the world stayed dark. He blinked again, trying to force his eyes open, but it wasn’t his eyelids keeping him from seeing, it was something else. A blindfold? Panic shot through him, snapping him into full consciousness.

His head jerked up, but his body didn’t move. His arms were tied behind him, wrists bound tightly together, and his legs were fastened to the legs of the chair beneath him. A cold wave of fear crept over him, sinking deep into his bones. His breath quickened. "W-what the..." he whispered, his voice barely audible as he tugged weakly at his restraints. The ropes didn’t budge. His heart pounded in his chest, each beat louder than the last.

The panic came quickly. He pulled harder, yanking at the ropes frantically now. This isn’t happening, his mind screamed. His breathing became rapid and erratic, the air coming in short, desperate bursts. “Hello?” His voice cracked as he called out, desperation filling every word. “What’s happening?”

Suddenly, he heard footsteps. Soft at first, distant, but growing louder, closer with each passing second. Charlie’s throat tightened. The footsteps stopped just to his right, and the silence that followed was worse than the sound. It was suffocating, more terrifying than any noise. "Hello?" His voice rose, shaky and terrified. “Who is that? Please… please don’t hurt me! I’ll do whatever you want, just—" His words tumbled out, disjointed and frantic. “I’m sorry! Please! Don’t hurt me!”

The footsteps started again, slow and methodical, circling him like a predator. Charlie whipped his head from side to side, trying to follow the sound, but there was nothing to see, only darkness. His chest heaved with each ragged breath as terror gripped him.

A hand landed on his shoulder. Light, but it felt like a jolt of electricity. Charlie yelped, jerking his body to pull away from the touch, but the ropes held him firmly in place. "Please... please... please..." The words fell from his mouth like a broken record. He was barely aware of what he was saying anymore, every plea a cry for survival. His mind raced, thoughts blurring together in a panic-fueled haze. “I’ll eat, I’ll eat whatever you want! Please!”

The hand returned, firmer now, pressing his back into the chair. Before Charlie could scream, straps were pulled over his head, wrapping tightly around his face. He felt them dig into his skin, securing themselves in place. Panic exploded in his chest. He tried to shake his head, tried to resist, but the straps were too tight. Then, without warning, something hard and cold was shoved into his mouth. A tube.

Charlie gagged, his body convulsing at the intrusion, but the straps held fast, keeping the tube lodged in place. His cries were muffled, reduced to a garbled, incoherent noise. He tried to scream, but it came out as nothing more than panicked grunts. Oh God, oh God, oh God, his mind repeated, spiraling into chaos.

A machine whirred to life somewhere to his left, the low hum filling the room. Before Charlie could process what was happening, a thick, viscous liquid rushed into his mouth, fast and unrelenting. He gagged again, his instincts screaming at him to resist, but the liquid flooded his throat, and he had no choice but to swallow. His body betrayed him, muscles forcing the creamy substance down to avoid choking. It tasted like a vanilla milkshake, smooth and sweet, but with a strange medicinal aftertaste that lingered on his tongue.

The footsteps retreated, the sound growing more distant until they were gone completely, leaving him alone again. His shock melted back into fear. Were they just going to leave him like this? Was this their sick way of ending him? Charlie felt tears slip down his face as his stomach filled, growing tighter and tighter by the second. Just as he thought he couldn't take anymore, the machine stopped, and so did the liquid.

Charlie felt a strong wave of relief wash over him as he breathed heavily through his nose. His stomach, now full and stretched, churned uncomfortably. He shifted in the chair, but there was no escaping the pressure in his belly. He sat there, trying his best to calm himself. Minutes passed and…nothing. After a long time he starts to feel unsettled again. Were they not coming back? He found himself wishing for the footsteps to return as the stillness and silence wore on. He wasn’t sure how much time was passing, thirty minutes? An hour?

Suddenly, the machine kicked on again, and more of the liquid rushed into his mouth. He swallowed it down, faster this time, doing his best to keep up. The flow continues for a few minutes and, once again, shuts off once Charlie reaches his max. Still, no one returned.

Charlie struggled with his restraints again, wanting to free himself before the machine could start again, but it was no use. He sunk into the chair dejectedly, realizing this must be his punishment for refusing to eat. They had warned him, and now, this was the consequence. He made muffled pleas around the funnel, wanting to say that he'll do it, he'll eat whatever they send him, but there was no one around. The footsteps were gone, no one was coming to check on him, no one was listening.

Hours seemed to pass. Every several minutes, the machine would start again, flooding his mouth with more of the thick liquid. His stomach groaned under the pressure, stretching painfully as the forced feedings continued in an endless loop.

Charlie slumped in the chair, surrendering to the tube, defeated. He swallowed each mouthful without protest, barely aware of the taste anymore. His thoughts grew sluggish, hazy from exhaustion and the onslaught of calories, never lacking fullness for too long. His stomach ached, swollen and tight beneath the ropes, but he had no strength left to fight it.

After what felt like an eternity, the machine started once again, but this time, a flavorless substance hit his tongue. It was brief, just one gulp, and then it stopped. Charlie’s body tensed, something wasn’t right. Moments later, he felt it—a heavy, sinking feeling in his limbs. It spread quickly, his arms and legs growing impossibly heavy, as though his veins were filled with lead. His head drooped, the weight too much to bear. Panic surged for a brief moment, but it was quickly overpowered by the overwhelming drowsiness.

Within seconds, Charlie slipped into a deep, dreamless sleep.

Chapter Five - Day 4

Charlie’s eyes fluttered open to bright light flooding the room. The harshness of it caused him to squint against the sudden assault on his eyelids. He blinked several times before realizing that the skylight above him was revealing the soft blue sky beyond. As his vision adjusted, he groggily took in his surroundings.

He was back in his small, familiar room, the bed beneath him, the narrow space around him, the ever-present screen. He never thought he’d be grateful to be back there. For a brief second, he wondered if everything that had happened the previous night was nothing but a twisted dream. But then the uncomfortable, bloated feeling in his stomach told him otherwise. It was real. All of it.

He shivered at the memory of being tied up and force-fed, filled over and over again as if he were some animal, his mind forced into submission. He could still feel the weight in his belly, still hear the sound of the machine humming beside him as it forced thick liquid down his throat. He shook his head, trying to push the thoughts away.

Charlie slowly rose from the bed, feeling heavier than usual, his legs sluggish as he made his way to the small adjoining bathroom. Turning on the shower, he let the water run over him, wishing it could wash away the lingering terror from the night before. He scrubbed his skin harder than usual, trying to feel clean again.

Once he was finished and dressed in fresh clothes, he returned to the room. He froze as soon as he saw the screen.

GOOD MORNING, CHARLIE.

His heart skipped a beat. The words on the screen frightened him. He hadn’t seen any messages since his first day here. Now, seeing them again was jarring.

The words changed: HOW ABOUT SOME BREAKFAST?

Charlie’s eyes flicked to the dumbwaiter. A box of cereal and a carafe of milk sat waiting for him, alongside a bowl and a spoon. Charlie closed his eyes and took a deep breath. The idea of refusing tugged at the back of his mind. He hesitated, his heart racing. But the memory of being strapped down, the tube forced into his mouth, made his stomach churn. He couldn't go through that again. Enduring that helplessness... It terrified him.

His hesitation was short-lived. Slowly, almost reluctantly, Charlie approached the metal box. He pulled the contents out, setting the items on the small table. The dumbwaiter chute closed behind him with a mechanical clank. He stared at the cereal. His last shred of defiance told him not to comply, but he wasn’t willing to take that risk again.

With a shaking hand, he poured the cereal into the bowl and topped it with the milk—or what he assumed was milk. It looked thicker than usual. Or maybe he was just being paranoid after being forced to guzzle liters of whatever milk-based liquid they had filled him with.

He took a small bite, chewing slowly, resentment building as the sugary taste filled his mouth.

The screen’s words shifted: WELL DONE, YOUR FIRST WILLINGLY EATEN MEAL.

Charlie scoffed inwardly. Willingly? He chewed another spoonful, swallowing it down begrudgingly.

The screen continued: HERE’S YOUR REWARD.

The chute opened again. This time, it revealed a small remote.

Charlie raised an eyebrow as he picked it up, turning it over in his hands. “What’s this for?” he muttered, doing his best to keep resentment out of his tone.

The screen replied: FOR THE TV, OF COURSE. NOW YOUR MAIN SOURCE OF ENTERTAINMENT. MOST STREAMING SERVICES SHOULD BE PROVIDED, SO ENJOY.

A blank pause followed, then another message appeared: AND FINISH THAT BOX.

The screen went black again.

Charlie stared at the darkened screen for a long moment. He put the remote down, preferring to eat in silence. If they thought he would be thankful for this "reward," they were wrong. He’d do what they said, if only to save himself, but he wouldn’t allow them to think he should enjoy any part of it. He didn’t want their prizes, or to give them the satisfaction of thinking he was anything but a broken man complying out of fear. He’d suffer in silence, even if it meant he’d lose his mind.

He finished his first bowl of cereal, then poured himself another. By the end of the second, the fullness began to build in his stomach again, the feeling unsettling him as he ate. No doubt some lingering trauma from last night. He was already tense, anxiety twisting his insides. But he kept going, spoon after spoon, until the box was empty and the carafe drained. He sat back in his chair, his belly now uncomfortably bloated, pressing against the waistband of his pants.

He rubbed his stomach under the table, trying to soothe the ache. He’d never willingly eaten that much in one sitting before. He wasn’t a small guy. At 5’11 and hovering at about 215 pounds, Charlie had always been somewhere around average. But he was never one to overeat, never one to crave excess. The thought of his future made him nauseous. How long would this continue? What weight would he have to reach? Would he ever leave this place?

His thoughts spiraled, his mind racing through the possibilities and horrors of his situation. Eventually, he moved from the table to the loveseat, lying down to give his body some relief. His mind was exhausted, too worn out to think clearly.

About an hour later, the sound of the metal panel opening jerked him back to reality. He craned his neck to see a grilled sandwich waiting for him. Charlie groaned inwardly, his bloated stomach protesting. More? Already?

He sat up and walked over, retrieving the sandwich—a ham and cheese panini with cheese oozing from its edges, crispy and golden. He reluctantly took a bite, surprised by how good it tasted. The saltiness of the ham, the richness of the cheese, the flavor of whatever sauce they’d slathered on…it was frustratingly delicious.

The screen flickered to life again: HOW ABOUT WE PLAY A GAME? FOR EVERY FOOD ITEM YOU EAT, I’LL ANSWER ONE QUESTION.

Charlie paused mid-bite, the sandwich halfway to his mouth. He blinked at the screen, intrigued despite himself.

I’LL START YOU OFF WITH TWO: ONE FOR THE BAGEL YOU ATE ON DAY 1, AND ANOTHER FOR THE CEREAL.

Charlie put the sandwich down, swallowing as he sat up straighter. After what he had endured the night before, he thought he deserved a million questions and answers. But he kept that to himself. They hadn’t brought up what had happened, and neither would he. He thought carefully, not wanting to waste this opportunity. "Who are you?" he asked.

The screen responded quickly: YOUR CAPTOR.

Charlie clenched his jaw in annoyance. “That’s not fair,” he muttered under his breath. Of course, they wouldn’t give him anything useful. He mentally cursed himself for wasting the question. He needed to be smarter, more strategic.

He took another bite of the sandwich and chewed slowly, considering his next question. He could ask something more important, something like how long he would be there or how much weight they expected him to gain. But he didn't think he'd get a real answer. It had already been made clear to him on day one that his goal weight would remain undisclosed.

Instead, he asked, "Why me?"

The screen went silent for a long moment, and Charlie wondered if they’d refuse to answer altogether. But eventually, the response came: WHY NOT YOU? WHY ANYONE?

Charlie’s brow furrowed in frustration. “What’s the point of this game if you’re not going to answer the question?” he snapped, though he knew it was pointless to argue with the screen.

It stayed blank for a while, then read: FINISH THE SANDWICH, AND YOU’LL GET ANOTHER QUESTION.

Charlie, though furious, continued to eat. Each bite felt heavier than the last, but he ate it all anyway, every bite. A glass of lemonade appeared in the dumbwaiter, and he reached for it, to wash the sandwich down. He paused before bringing it to his lips, lifting it slightly. “Does this count?” he asked.

SURE, WHY NOT? the screen replied.

Charlie sighed and took a long sip. He set the glass down, feeling the weight in his stomach grow. "I'm ready with my next question," he said, forcing his mind to focus.

GO AHEAD.

"Are my family and friends looking for me?" The question came out softer than he intended, and his vulnerability was clear. He knew his family and friends would be looking for him. They had to be. The idea of them searching for him, hoping for his return, was his last shred of hope.

But the screen’s reply was blunt: NO.

Charlie’s stomach dropped. His eyes widened in disbelief. “What do you mean, no? Why wouldn’t they be?”

THEY THINK YOU’VE TAKEN A SPONTANEOUS TRIP TO EUROPE.

“What? Wh–why would they think that? I’ve never mentioned anything like that,” he stuttered.

The screen pulled up a gallery of images, photos of Charlie smiling at various landmarks, in front of castles, museums, and European landscapes. Pictures that looked unmistakably like him.

“That’s not—” he stammered, shaking his head. “That’s not me. Those aren’t real.” But they looked like him, JUST like him.

The screen’s cold, mechanical text returned: DEEP-FAKE PHOTOS HAVE BEEN UPLOADED TO YOUR SOCIALS. YOUR TEXTS ARE BEING RESPONDED TO. YOUR VOICE HAS BEEN MIMICKED FOR PHONE CALLS. THEY HAVE NO REASON TO SUSPECT ANYTHING.

Charlie’s heart sank. His pulse raced, his body feeling numb. No one’s looking for me. No one even knows I’m missing. 

His hands trembled as he picked up the glass of lemonade, chugging it as well as he could while trying not to spill on himself. Tears pricked his eyes as he swallowed. His last question came out shakily, barely more than a whisper: “Why are you doing this?”

The screen took its time, the seconds dragging on like hours. Finally, the words appeared: BECAUSE I CAN.

— — — — — — — — — — — — — —

Charlie tried to keep himself calm, though his mind reeled from the horrifying and frustrating answers he had received throughout the day.

He had pushed through meal after meal, trading each bite for scraps of information. A heavy bowl of spaghetti had earned him the unsettling confirmation that, yes, they were watching him—always. A thick, cheesy plate of chicken parmesan allowed him to discover that his captor gained enjoyment from this situation, the word "kink" slipping casually into the conversation as if it were normal to inflict such torment for pleasure. He choked down mozzarella sticks to learn that, no, there were no other captives. He was utterly alone.

He drank a strawberry banana smoothie to ask how they’d know when he weighed enough, which revealed that his bed was a scale. The final thing he ate had been a slice of rich carrot cake, far heavier than he could stomach, but he was desperate to know what would happen once he reached their mysterious goal. The answer was simple: nothing. They would simply let him leave. That was it. No explanation, no further details. After all the torment, he would just walk out.

Now, Charlie lay sprawled on the small sofa, clutching his swollen gut with both hands, trying to ease the tightness in his skin. His belly was so bloated it felt like a hard, painful ball pressing up against his ribs. He sipped water slowly, trying to aid his digestion, but each gulp barely made a dent in the tension running through his body. He shouldn’t have asked so many questions. His body wasn't used to eating like this, and the strain of it all had worn him down. His stomach ached, not just from overeating but from the weight of everything he had learned.

He’d tried to pace himself, to spread the questions out. But the offer had only been good for today, and he wasn’t willing to risk losing the opportunity. His captor could change the rules at any moment, and he didn’t want to be left in the dark. Knowledge was power, even if the answers didn’t lead directly to his escape. At least he had something to cling to now, a slightly clearer picture of what he was dealing with.

His mind wandered back to his friends and family, the people he cared about most. The knowledge that they weren’t looking for him, that they believed he was happy and on some spontaneous adventure, gnawed at him. How could they be so easily convinced? The deep fake photos haunted him—the images of himself terrifyingly accurate. Even if he could escape, what kind of world would he return to? Would they ever believe the truth?

His stomach churned, and not just from the overeating; it was the emotional weight of realizing how isolated he truly was. No one was coming for him. No one even knew he was gone. His only hope now was to comply, follow the rules, and try to survive.

He closed his eyes and forced himself to focus on that thin thread of hope. Maybe the weight goal wasn’t that far off. Maybe he only needed to gain a small amount, 10 or 20 pounds, before they would let him go. The thought felt flimsy, like a glimmer of light in a vast, dark tunnel. He doubted they would go through all this trouble for something so trivial. Still, it was the only thing keeping him from spiraling into complete despair.

He would have to play along. There was no other choice. For now, he needed to survive—one day at a time, one meal at a time—and hope that somewhere along the way, he’d find a way out of this nightmare.

Chapter Six - Day 26

Charlie sat on his small couch, his eyes glazed over as a TV show played in the background. He barely registered the plot or dialogue. It was just the noise that he needed, something to break the deafening silence of his captivity.

His initial resolve to ignore their offer of entertainment had eroded faster than he expected. Just a week later, he had caved, no longer able to bear the sound of his own thoughts and the overwhelming quiet that filled his small cell. The television, once a symbol of resistance, had become his companion. He had no choice. He needed another voice, even if it was only actors on a screen.

Charlie sighed deeply, rubbing his hands over his face. He still ate everything they sent him, forcing down each calorie with the hope that it would hasten his release. Yet, despite all the food, his body still felt the same. No significant changes, no sign that he was approaching whatever weight goal they had set for him. With no mirrors around, he couldn’t even check for himself. He would think sometimes that maybe there was a difference, a bit of softness around his hips perhaps, but it felt impossible to tell if those changes were new or had always been there. It was maddening, not just his situation and how he was treated, but the thought that his freedom was dictated by his captor, while he had no clue how close or far off he was. Whether they planned for him to remain there for a month or a year or a decade was completely unknown to Charlie, and he had no real way to influence the matter.

The familiar chime of the dumbwaiter broke through his thoughts. Dinner was here.

Charlie stood slowly, making his way over to the table where his meal awaited him. He lifted the tray to find a plate of hibachi steak and shrimp, served with fried rice and sautéed vegetables. Small dishes of sauces accompanied the meal, their savory aromas filling the room.

Charlie found himself excited by the sight of it. It had been a while since he'd had hibachi, even before he was kidnapped. It was starting to become a little easier to keep up with his meals, so it was no surprise that his stomach growled softly in anticipation. Still, he hadn’t expected to be excited about food, not anymore. He sat down, pulling the tray onto the table.

The first bite of steak melted in his mouth—juicy and tender. The vegetables were crisp and fresh, and the rice was perfectly seasoned and satisfying. Charlie speared a piece of shrimp and dipped it into the ginger sauce, his eyes fluttering shut as the flavors hit him. A soft, involuntary moan escaped his lips. Catching himself, he glanced up at the camera in the corner of the room. He still refused to allow himself to enjoy any part of his situation, but he had to admit that tonight's dinner was delicious.

He continued to eat, secretly savoring each mouthful. He didn’t know when a meal this nice would come around again. Most of what they provided tasted fine, good even, but seemed to prioritize fatty or high-calorie dishes.

Eventually, he finished the plate, feeling perfectly satisfied. If this were any other normal circumstance, he might have even been tempted to ask for seconds. The thought struck him. If he pushed his appetite further, he could gain faster. Why didn’t he just ask for more? Would they allow it? At the very least it couldn’t hurt to ask. He cleared his throat.

“Can I—uh, have some more?” he asked, feeling silly for calling out into the empty room, but he knew they were listening, and watching. "Please," he threw in at the end.

Minutes went by with no response, and Charlie began to think the answer was no. But then the dumbwaiter opened again, presenting him with another plate, another full serving.

“Thanks,” he muttered, genuinely surprised.

He dug into the second plate, this time pouring both sauces over the meat and rice. The food was just as delicious as before, and he got halfway through without much of a problem. But he soon began to slow down. Normally, he would have tapped out by now. His stomach would have told him it was enough and he would’ve listened. But these were far from normal circumstances, and his freedom depended on pushing past his limits. He’d never get out of there anytime soon if he didn’t.

Charlie took a deep breath and forced himself to keep eating. Bite after bite, he shoved the food into his mouth, even as it became less appetizing. His stomach tightened, his body begging him to stop, but he pushed on. He had to. He needed to.

When he finally finished, he leaned back in his chair, his gut pressing against his shirt. He was full, overly full, but even as he sat there he felt a wave of motivation surge through him.

“What about dessert?” he asked, before he could even really think it through.

The dumbwaiter chimed again, revealing a plate of six mochi ice cream in a variety of flavors: chocolate, vanilla, matcha.

“I’m gonna need more than that,” he muttered, taking a bite of one of them. He was determined to fit as much food in as he possibly could. Twelve more were delivered moments later.

Charlie dug in, focusing on the soft texture of the mochi and the sweet, cool ice cream inside. As the ice cream softened, it became easier to eat, and he worked his way through the tray, trying to ignore the increasing pressure in his stomach. By the time he reached the last few, each bite was a challenge. His body screamed at him to stop, but his mind was determined to keep going.

When the last mochi disappeared into his mouth, Charlie sank deeper into his chair, groaning from the overwhelming fullness. He pressed his fingers lightly into his upper abdomen, trying to relieve the tightness. His victory felt hollow. Was this really what it would take to get free?

Suddenly, the TV show that had been droning on in the background was interrupted by a message on the screen.

CONGRATS ON YOUR FIRST STUFFING! it read. HERE’S YOUR REWARD.

The dumbwaiter opened once again, and this time, Charlie found a phone and a charger sitting inside. The sight of it snapped him out of his food-induced haze, and he reached for it quickly, powering it on with shaking hands. There was only one app installed, a messaging app he didn’t recognize. He stared up at the camera, wondering if this was some sort of test.

The screen displayed a simple message: DON’T WORRY, THERE’S ONLY ONE NUMBER YOU CAN MESSAGE.

A single contact labeled ‘Requests’ was already loaded into the app. YOU CAN USE THAT TO MAKE REQUESTS FOR FOOD YOU’D LIKE TO EAT. JUST MAKE SURE IT’S AT LEAST ONE DAY AHEAD.

Charlie still tried to send a message anyway, typing in his father’s number, but the message failed to send. He tried again with his sister’s number, then a friend’s, and even his own number. Nothing.

His shoulders slumped. The brief hope that surged through him was completely gone.

Some prize, he thought bitterly, but he couldn’t deny that this phone meant something. It was a tool—a small form of control in this otherwise uncontrollable situation.

Charlie placed the phone down and stared at it for a long moment. He couldn’t contact the outside world, but he could make requests for the food he needed. And that meant he could push his appetite and his weight as far as possible. His next step toward freedom.

With a conflicted sigh, Charlie rubbed his aching stomach and resolved to go further, no matter how much it hurt.

Chapter Seven  - Day 86

Charlie stood under the steaming water of the small shower, zoning out as he let the heat work its way into his stiff muscles. The bathroom had become his sanctuary, the only space where there weren’t any cameras watching his every move. It was the one place where he allowed himself to truly sink into his thoughts, where he could process the last two months. Physically, he was fuller than he’d ever been. But mentally? Drained. Each day, he stuffed himself, taking full advantage of the perk they’d granted him—the ability to request his meals. Sometimes, he chose food he liked, but more often than not, he opted for the fattiest, most calorie-laden dishes he could think of. The faster he bulked up, the sooner he’d get out.

Just last night, he’d forced down two heaping servings of butter-loaded mashed potatoes, each drowned in thick gravy and topped with cheese, corn, and pieces of fried chicken. The meal had left him in a dazed, food-drunk haze, and he still felt full even as he showered that morning. And the effects of those indulgent meals were beginning to show, a fact that was impossible to ignore now.

Charlie glanced down at his body, still slick with water. His chest, which used to be flat and firm, had softened into a slight curve that sagged when he pressed his hands against it. His thighs, once lean from years of activity, had thickened, filling out in a way that was so different from muscle. But the biggest changes had come to his belly and ass. He could feel the gentle swell of his stomach pushing against his t-shirts daily, forming a noticeable curve, even when he wasn’t stuffed. The fabric pulled tight, outlining the faint roll of fat that had started to settle over his waistband. His rear, too, had expanded—he knew it because of the struggle he faced pulling on his shorts every morning. His boxers, whatever size they were, clung to him like a second skin, no longer loose or comfortable.

He sighed and ran his hands down from his chest to the soft paunch of his stomach, giving it a gentle squeeze. The sensation of his flesh yielding under his fingers was foreign. He’d always been active, relatively lean, never gaining much weight beyond the freshman fifteen along with everyone else. Now? Now his body was changing before his very eyes, and not because of some accidental overindulgence. It was deliberate. He was stuffing himself silly meal after meal, day after day. Every pound he gained brought him closer to freedom, or so he hoped. But as much as the thought of escape motivated him, there was a creeping sadness that came with it, a disappointment in what he was becoming. And, worse, a gnawing fear that this was all for nothing. What if they never let him go? What if this was just another layer of control?

He shoved the thought down, just like he did with the massive meals he consumed. Turning off the water, he stepped out of the shower and grabbed a towel, drying himself off quickly before opening the bathroom dumbwaiter. As always, a fresh set of clothes was waiting for him. He pulled the t-shirt over his head, wincing as it stretched snugly across his chest and belly. The boxers were no better, hugging his thighs and rear, leaving little breathing room.

Charlie braced himself for the hardest part: the sweat shorts. He slid them up his legs, getting stuck briefly halfway up his thighs. His brow furrowed as he struggled to pull them over his ass, requiring a bit too much effort before he finally managed to yank them into place. The shorts were painfully snug, the waistband digging in just under his soft belly, and he realized that tying them wasn’t even necessary anymore. They weren’t going anywhere. He sighed, letting his hand rest on the small swell of his stomach, wondering how much longer he had before he outgrew his provided attire. It had been months since he'd first arrived and still he hadn't reached their goal weight. Did he have to tear through his clothes completely before they sized him up? His captor seemed so meticulous, prepared for anything. He doubted an upgrade in clothes size would've been a detail they'd missed.

With a groan, Charlie left the bathroom and walked into the main room, glancing up at the camera in the corner. "I need bigger clothes," he said simply, keeping his tone even. After months of captivity, he’d grown more comfortable addressing his captor. He viewed them as an imaginary character. A distant, faceless entity. It was easier that way. Less terrifying.

The TV screen flickered to life. WHY? it read.

Charlie’s cheeks flushed with embarrassment. Not for the fact that he had gained weight—he’d been working toward it, after all—but admitting it to them felt like a submission, like acknowledging how much power they had over him, that their evil plan was actually working. “They just…don’t fit,” he muttered, fidgeting under the camera’s unblinking gaze.

The screen responded almost immediately: THEY LOOK FINE TO ME.

“Ugh, look!” Frustrated, Charlie stepped back from the camera, raising his arms to show how the shirt pulled tight and revealed the lower curve of his belly when he did so. “And these shorts are going to cut me in half. I can barely get them on,” he added, snapping the waistband against his skin for emphasis.

The screen went dark for a few moments, then finally flickered with a response: WHO SAYS YOU NEED TO BE COMFORTABLE?

Charlie threw his hands up in exasperation. Of course. They wanted him to suffer. Defeated, he slumped down at the table where he spent most of his time these days, eating. He couldn’t even remember what he’d requested for breakfast. The meals were beginning to blur together, the monotony of his routine eroding his sense of time.

The dumbwaiter chimed, and he looked up to see what had been delivered. Two towering stacks of chocolate chip banana pancakes greeted him, complete with extra butter and syrup on the side. His stomach rumbled at the sight of them, but he felt a wave of hopelessness wash over him. Just keep going, he thought. You just have to keep going.

But even as he picked up his fork, Charlie could feel his motivation slipping away.

Chapter Eight - Night 118

Charlie strolled across the sunlit campus, the familiar weight of his backpack on his shoulder. The afternoon was warm and bright, with students lounging on the grass or walking to their next classes. He smiled to himself, appreciating the freedom of it all.

His friends were sitting at a table inside the campus café, talking animatedly. As he approached, they greeted him with casual smiles and nods. Charlie dropped his backpack onto the ground, pulling up a chair to join them. The usual topics came up—recent projects, plans for the weekend, the looming weight of job applications now that they'd graduated.

But as he listened, something small tugged at the back of his mind, a brief pang in his stomach. Hunger, sharp and insistent.

“I’ll be right back,” he said to the group, standing abruptly, his stomach growling. His friends barely reacted, too engrossed in their conversation as Charlie made his way through the café.

Everything looked and smelled incredible. He scanned the menu, but nothing seemed to satisfy the gnawing hunger he felt. It was as if his body craved something more, something heavier. His eyes locked on a platter of burgers, piled high with cheese, bacon, and all the fixings. Without hesitation, he ordered three. The cashier gave him a surprised look, but Charlie shrugged it off. He was hungry. So hungry.

Back at the table, Charlie dropped the tray in front of him and immediately started eating. The first burger disappeared quickly, the second soon after. His friends were talking around him, but Charlie was barely paying attention. His focus was solely on the food. Bite after bite, he could feel a familiar pressure building in his stomach, but the hunger wasn’t going away. It was intensifying.

His friends began to notice. One of them made a half-joking comment about how much he was eating, but Charlie ignored it. The only thing that mattered was the food. The way it tasted, the way it filled him, the fleeting satisfaction after each bite. He needed more. His stomach grumbled, still hungry, as though the food had only stoked the fire. His friends exchanged glances as Charlie tore into the third burger, barely pausing for breath. When that too was gone, he looked around, desperate for something else.

Suddenly, a second tray appeared in front of him—piled high with fries, more burgers, and thick milkshakes. He didn’t even question where it came from. He just ate. The food was endless, and the more he consumed, the more ravenous he became.

His friends’ voices had grown quieter, their conversation stalling as they watched him with a mixture of concern and confusion. But Charlie was lost in the act of eating, his hands moving almost automatically from plate to mouth. As he gorged, something began to shift. His clothes felt tighter, his shirt pulling uncomfortably across his chest. He glanced down briefly and noticed his belly pressing against the fabric, straining the seams with each breath. But instead of stopping, the sight only spurred him on. He had to keep eating.

More food appeared in front of him—plates of butter-drenched pasta, fried chicken, mountains of mashed potatoes swimming in gravy. His stomach ached from the volume, but he couldn’t stop. Each bite seemed to fuel his hunger, his body demanding more and more. He was lost in the sensation of eating, the overwhelming need to consume everything in front of him.

The pressure in his belly was growing unbearable, and he could feel the waistband of his pants digging painfully into his flesh. His friends were staring openly now, their faces filled with horror. But Charlie couldn’t stop. He shoved another burger into his mouth, bacon grease dripping down his chin, the discomfort in his body mounting with each passing second.

The world around him seemed to blur, the sounds of the café and his friends’ voices fading into the background. All he could focus on was the food, the constant need to stuff his face, and the growing tightness of his skin as his body expanded with each bite. His belly pushed against the table now, rounding out and heavy, pressing into his lap. The pressure was immense, but he couldn’t slow down. His greasy hands trembled as they brought another spoonful of mashed potatoes to his lips. His shirt had ridden up completely, revealing the pale, bloated flesh of his stomach, stretched tight and shiny under the strain. The sound of the fabric straining was almost audible, tiny groans as the seams fought to hold together.

His friends stood up from the table, their faces twisted in a mix of fear and disgust. One of them spoke, but the words were distant and distorted. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered except the food.

As he reached for another plate, something snapped. His pants tore at the seams, his belly spilling out in front of him. The shock of it jarred him for a moment, and he paused, glancing down at his body. He had grown—visibly, dramatically. His chest was bloated, his thighs thick and pressing against each other, and his belly sagged over his waistband, heavy and swollen.

He looked up, finally taking in the expressions of his friends. They were backing away from him, their faces pale with shock. Someone screamed, but it was too late. Charlie was already reaching for more food, his hands moving mechanically as he continued to gorge.

The world around him spun as the pressure in his body mounted. His skin felt tight, too tight. Something was wrong. His hands were shaking as they brought another bite to his lips. His stomach stretched painfully, and with each breath, he felt like he might burst.

Then, suddenly, he was awake.

Charlie shot upright in bed, gasping for air. His heart pounded in his chest, and his body was drenched in sweat. He blinked, the familiar darkness of his prison surrounding him, disoriented, trying to shake off the vivid remnants of the dream. But the weight in his gut was real, the tightness in his clothes unmistakable. He looked down and felt his bloated belly pressing against the fabric of his shirt, his body soft and swollen beneath the thin material.

For a moment, he wasn’t sure what was real.

Chapter Nine - Day 146

Charlie moaned softly, the thick, sweet strawberry milkshake sliding down his throat. It was his second one tonight, the chill of it contrasting sharply with the warmth radiating from his stuffed belly. He lay sprawled across the couch, his free hand lazily rubbing his bloated middle, coaxing it to make room for the dense drink after his heavy dinner. Drinking had become easier than chewing lately. Liquids went down smoother, filled him quicker, and made the uncomfortable fullness somewhat bearable.

He sucked down the last of the milkshake, groaning as he set the empty cup on the coffee table, his arm heavy from the effort. He collapsed back into the cushions, feeling his swollen gut settle into his lap. "Uuurrrp," he burped loudly, unashamed, too occupied with the feeling in his gut to worry about decorum. It was just him anyway. Well, him and whoever was watching. But the thought barely registered anymore; his reality had shifted to a numb acceptance.

His fingers sank into the soft flesh of his belly, kneading the thick layer of fat that now covered every inch of his middle. Each day, the changes became harder to ignore. He could feel the stretch marks—the thin, reddish streaks marring his once-smooth skin—as his belly expanded quicker than he even knew was possible. His skin was tight, stretched to accommodate the mass he'd packed on, and yet, still pliable under his fingertips. His hand trailed down to his lower belly, feeling how it had started to pool over his thighs. Every time he touched it, he still felt a pang of discomfort, but he had grown accustomed to the reality that this was his body now.

Without a mirror, it was hard to truly grasp just how much he had changed. But the sensation of it all was undeniable. His belly rose and fell with each labored breath, the weight of it pulling him down, making him feel slow, sluggish. His chest only got softer, pushing slightly into his arms when he crossed them. His thighs pressed together slightly, the gap that once existed between them long gone.

He could still wear his shirts, though barely. Each one clung tightly to his sides, riding up over the lower half of his belly, leaving it exposed no matter how much he tugged. He hadn’t worn his shorts in weeks, they no longer fit. His captor refused to provide new clothes, so he’d given up trying to squeeze into them. It was easier to sit around in just his tight shirts and underwear, his belly hanging free.

Lately, he had taken to grazing, ordering snacks to eat between meals, and it was working wonders. His body felt heavier with each passing day, and though the rapid gain made him uneasy, he forced himself to be more accepting of it. It was what needed to happen, after all. The sooner he gained, the sooner this would be over. He hated not knowing how much he weighed now. Every time he tried to guess, his mind would spiral. Was he underestimating? Overestimating? In the end, it didn’t matter. Ignorance was bliss. Maybe it was better that he didn’t know.

Charlie reached for the half-eaten family-sized bag of chips beside him, popping one into his mouth without thinking, eating almost instinctively.

He’d started feeling… detached. The loneliness of living in this small, windowless room was eating away at him. He often found himself in a numb state, the small boost in dopamine from the salty, sugary, rich foods he consumed was the only thing that could stir any sort of positive emotion in him these days.

When he wasn’t eating, Charlie spent his time watching TV or playing video games on the console they’d provided as a reward for completely outgrowing his shorts. At least the games kept his mind busy, gave him something to focus on other than his ever-expanding body and the growing sense of isolation.

It had been months since he’d had any real human interaction. The most he ever got was when he'd chat with the screen, his captor, his enemy. Mostly about nothing, no serious questions were ever met with a serious answer. But he'd ask about what the weather was like currently, or what significant things might be happening in the news. It was his only connection to the real world, keeping him somewhat sane but even that thread was thin, fraying. The screen always replied with the answer, to his surprise. Maybe they felt bad for him. The thought made him scoff. There was no way they felt any shred of sympathy for him, if they did he wouldn't be there.

Finishing the bag of chips, Charlie glanced around. The emptiness of the table in front of him made him frown. He rubbed his belly absently, feeling the tightness in his skin as it pressed against his fingers. “I need something else,” he called out lazily, knowing his captor would have something waiting. Even on the days he forgot to request his meals in time, slipping into a food coma before he could send it in through his "phone," they never left him without. The meals were never as big as he requested for himself, but were certainly bigger than they’d given him in those first weeks of captivity.

The familiar chime of the dumbwaiter echoed through the small room, and Charlie sighed, bracing himself as he slowly lifted his heavy body from the loveseat. His movements were sluggish, every part of him feeling weighed down by the extra mass he'd been steadily accumulating. His belly gave a subtle bounce with each step, the weight pulling him forward, especially with how tight and full it felt after his many meals. Charlie could feel the nagging tension in his gut, but he tried not to focus on it too much. This was good. This was progress. He was growing, getting bigger, and getting out of here soon. That’s all that mattered.

He reached the dumbwaiter and peered inside, his brow furrowing at the sight of 6 cupcakes sitting neatly in a box. A strange choice, and not what he would have picked, but it didn’t matter. Calories were calories, and he had learned not to be picky. With a small grunt, Charlie grabbed the box and trudged back to the sofa, his ideal spot for eating these days. The cushions cradled his expanding frame perfectly.

Settling back into place, he unwrapped the first cupcake, its sugary scent filling his nose. He shoved it into his mouth, the sweetness immediately overwhelming his taste buds. His body wasn’t hungry, not even close, but he was going to finish them. It didn’t matter how long it took. He’d push through, just like he always did.

As he unwrapped the next one, his mind drifted back to the past, to the way things used to be. Sugary snacks and junk food had been rare indulgences for him back then, something he allowed himself maybe once a week, if that. Now they were daily staples, gorging on them multiple times a day. He had tried to be "good" at one point, requesting healthier options like salads, chicken breast, and fresh fruit, desperate to give his body a break from the constant barrage of filling meals. But that had lasted less than a day. By the end of the evening, he had given in, asking for whatever they had, so long as it was "satisfying," as he liked to put it. He preferred that to the label unhealthy—a much kinder way of thinking about what he'd been doing to his body.

He fidgeted with the waistband of his boxers as he finished another cupcake, feeling the elastic dig into his sides. His belly was pressing against it uncomfortably, the fabric stretched to its limit. If he didn’t get new clothes soon, he’d be forced to eat naked. As embarrassing as the thought was, he couldn’t deny that he was making great progress.

One by one, Charlie worked through the cupcakes. The flavors barely registered, just sugary sweetness and the slight tang of artificial frosting. He chewed through them, not because he wanted to, but because this was what he did now. It had become routine. By the time he reached the last one, his stomach was groaning, packed to the brim. He paused for a moment, staring at the final bite of cupcake as he realized just how quickly he’d consumed them. With a resigned sigh, he popped it into his mouth and chewed.

As he swallowed the last bite, the screen across the room flickered to life, casting a soft glow over the dim space. The words flashed on the screen: CONGRATS, CHARLIE! YOU’VE JUST COMPLETED YOUR FIRST 10K CALORIE DAY!

Charlie blinked at the message, the last bit of cupcake still on his tongue. Ten thousand calories? Had he really eaten that much? His belly, heavy and stretched tight beneath his shirt, suggested it was entirely possible. Still, the thought made him uneasy.

His stomach churned loudly, a reminder of just how much food he had consumed. Part of him was scared, terrified even, that his capacity had expanded so far, so quickly. And yet, a small part of him felt a twinge of pride. He was achieving what he’d set out to do, even if it was uncomfortable, even if it scared him.

“Alright,” he muttered to the screen, his voice tired. “What’s my reward?”

The screen paused for a moment before the words changed.

YOU’LL KNOW SOON ENOUGH.

Chapter Ten - Day 178

Charlie sat at the small table, staring blankly at his half-eaten dish of pad thai. It was one of his favorites, something he had specifically requested in an effort to reignite some motivation, but he just didn’t have it in him. He twisted a few noodles onto his fork, but the effort felt meaningless. He had no idea how long he’d been trapped here, forced to consume, day in and day out. The relentless drive he’d had to keep going—pushing himself, eating, gaining—was fading. He felt hollow.

Every night, Charlie hoped that he’d wake up somewhere else, back home, back in his own bed, free of this place. But every morning, he was greeted by the same cold room, the same routine. The changes in his body, which had once given him hope that he was inching closer to freedom, were now just reminders of how long he’d been stuck here. He used to think that every new roll of fat, every extra inch on his body, meant he was closer to meeting his captor's demands, closer to getting out. Now, though, all it felt like was an endless accumulation of fat, covering his chest, his stomach, his thighs. He couldn’t even tell how much more he’d gained, only that his clothes were tighter by the day, his body softer and heavier than he’d ever imagined it could be.

He felt like he was losing his mind. He probably was.

Lately, Charlie found himself talking to no one in particular, muttering to himself to pass the time. He played games with random items around the room, making up scenarios like a child with figurines. Sometimes he would stack them or throw them across the room, watching them bounce off the walls and counting how many times they landed upright. It was something, anything, to distract him from the endless eating, the endless waiting. But he didn’t know how much longer he could keep this up.

His stomach growled, but it wasn’t out of hunger. He was full, too full. He glanced down at the pad thai again, his appetite completely gone. How much fatter do they expect me to get? he wondered bitterly. He knew his body had changed in more ways than just gaining fat. He wasn’t as strong as he used to be, his muscles weakening from disuse. His taste buds had shifted too. He craved the rich, greasy meals they fed him now. That he fed himself. The thought of fresh fruit or vegetables seemed foreign, almost unappealing. These changes, he realized, weren’t something he could just reverse in a few days. It would take months, years even, to undo what had been done to him here. That is, if he ever got out.

Charlie leaned back in the chair, his weight shifting uncomfortably as his belly pressed against his comically tight shirt. He looked down at the mass of flesh that now rested heavily in his lap. With a mix of curiosity and disgust, he lifted it, jiggling it slightly before letting it drop. The soft slap as it landed against his thighs amazed him. He had grown so much, more than he ever thought possible.

The dumbwaiter beside him opened with a quiet hiss, revealing a small glass of sparkling water. Without thinking, Charlie reached over and picked it up, sipping slowly. The cold bubbles tickled his throat, momentarily distracting him from the dark thoughts circling his mind. He put the glass down and poked at the remaining pad thai, unable to bring himself to take another bite.

Then, a familiar heaviness crept through his body, and his eyelids drooped. Not again. His heart rate spiked, panic rising in his chest. Was he being punished? The last time this happened, it was after they’d blindfolded him, strapped him down, and forced a tube into his mouth until he could barely breathe. He hadn’t slowed his eating enough to warrant that again, had he? Or was this something else? Maybe, just maybe, he’d finally hit the target weight. Maybe he was about to wake up in his old life, back home.

His vision blurred, the room around him growing fuzzy as his body became too heavy to hold upright. The last thought that ran through his head was hoping it would be the latter.

— — — — — — — — — — — — — — —

Charlie blinked awake, his head pounding, the familiar ceiling of his room coming into focus. He was still here. No freedom. Not yet. But at least there were no restraints, no feeding tube this time. That was something, at least. He groaned softly, trying to sit up. His body felt sluggish, the remnants of whatever drug they’d used still working its way out of his system.

As he moved to lift the covers off himself, he noticed something strange. He was dressed, fully dressed. Not in the tight, ill-fitting clothes he’d been straining against for months, but in larger clothes, new ones. The same style, but with room to spare. He stretched, fully waking himself up, and looked down at his new outfit. His oversized shirt and pants felt almost... comfortable.

Then, Charlie’s eyes darted to the left. There was someone lying next to him in the bed.

“Whoa!” he yelped, scrambling backward, his body protesting the sudden movement. His hand slipped, and he tumbled off the edge of the bed, landing hard on the wooden floor with a thud. “Oof…” He groaned, struggling to his feet as quickly as his bulk would allow.

The person in the bed hadn’t moved, completely undisturbed by his fall. But Charlie’s heart raced as he stared at her chest, rising and falling with each slow breath. He took a step closer, his eyes locking onto her face, framed by brown curls.

Recognition hit him like a freight train.

“Lina?”