Dr.'s Orders 1: Manipulation

Marcus Iron, white hair wild against black leather, sits pinned in the chair. Straps cross his chest, buckle his wrists, spread his ankles. The doctor circles him, calm. Thom Barron, blond, blue-eyed, starched white coat hugging his frame. His German accent curls around every word. "Don't worry. It's not as bad as it looks." Marcus's eyes flick to the extra straps, the metal rings bolted into the seat. Barron's fingers tighten another buckle at the thigh, leather creaking. Ink shows on both men. Barron's tattoo crawls out from under his cuff; Marcus's chest piece disappears beneath the restraint. The chair holds. The doctor straightens, gloved hand resting on Marcus's shoulder. Marcus swallows, pulse hammering. Barron watches him, unmoved, eyes bright and clinical. He leans in close. Another strap clicks into place.