The SoulWatch: AfterMAGA (BL)

David rolled each sleeve once, hoping the new cuffs might show more muscles than he actually had—an act of vanity the system would surely label: compensatory.

A gate camera blinked red as he approached. He tugged at his T-shirt hem, feeling the silent caption form: SUBJECT: DAVID SHEFFIELD — STATUS: REVIEWING.

The iron bars slid apart and a mansion big enough to eclipse the afternoon sun rose ahead. It wasn't a home; it was a proclamation that disorder lived elsewhere.

A soft chime greeted him inside—his phone syncing to the building's security system.

GUEST LOGGED. SPIRITUAL FITNESS: YELLOW.

He pocketed the device, heart thudding.

The sound made him flinch. It echoed the metallic click of the garden gate at Witherhorn on Saturday—the one that shut behind him and the hooded stranger who disappeared before any questions could be asked.

The foyer swallowed him—white marble, hushed air. A single ceiling lens pivoted to keep him centered while floor sensors magnified every step. Above, a staircase curved skyward, banister so bright it threw back a warped reflection of a boy already smaller than this house expected.

"David, what a surprise." Michelle's voice sliced through the stillness as she emerged from a side room. Her smile—polite, practiced, insincere—glinted like cut glass. "Johnny said he invited you, but I didn't expect you so soon."

A barely audible chime sounded from the walls—the house's emotion-detection system logging their conversation. Michelle's smile flickered as she glanced toward a nearly invisible speaker grille.

David met her gaze, hands tucked in his pockets to steady himself. "Yeah—he wanted to make up for our less‑than‑perfect symphony outing. The coffee spill."

"A make-up visit? How thoughtful." Her tone carried something sharper now—not quite bitterness, but a knowing edge. "Though I thought you two had already... reconciled."

She let her gaze travel over him, lingering. "And look at you, all grown up."

"You know, I meant what I said at the symphony—you two did look good together," she paused, studying him, "If Johnny's too distracted to notice, maybe you should give somebody else a little of that attention instead…. Somebody more appropriate."

The flirtation was light—but pointed, a deliberate tug at David's focus.

Heat crept into David's cheeks. "I'm here for Johnny," he said, steady but quiet.

Michelle's eyebrow arched. "Of course." She swept an arm toward a pair of double doors leading to a gleaming sitting room. "It's your first time here, isn't it? Grand, isn't it—though some say it lacks charm." Her smile widened, razor‑thin. "Why don't you wait in there? Johnny will be down any minute."

David scanned the cold grandeur. No family photos, no clutter—nothing alive. "It's… impressive," he managed.

Michelle drifted closer, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Johnny's been… different lately. Good to watch, really. I imagine it's harder for you." Her eyes gleamed, enjoying the weight of her insinuation.

"We all change, Michelle," David replied, jaw tight. "It's what we do about it that matters."

"Very true," she murmured. "Well—make yourself… comfortable." With a final, appraising glance, she glided toward the staircase, heels clicking like punctuation marks.

David remained on the marble threshold of the sitting room, sensing Michelle's gaze on his back until she disappeared above. The mansion seemed to inhale around him, its chill settling over his skin. Yet beneath the oppressive perfection, his resolve burned steady: he had come for Johnny, and he would not be diverted—by flirtation, by grandeur, or by the polished armor of the Ashford name.

The hallway stretched out before David. He had just stepped through the threshold when the distant murmur of voices grew sharper—footsteps approaching, one brisk and heavy, the other measured and reluctant.

David instinctively slipped into the shadows. Although the hallway's motion sensors had already detected him, the darkness granted him a few crucial seconds before the house's behavioral analysis algorithms could identify him as an eavesdropper.

As Johnny moved to pass his father, his shoulders were squared, but David could read the tension in his jaw, the stiffness in his stride. The air between them crackled with something electric—expectation, control, and a brewing storm—and David could almost see the weight of Saul's presence pressing down on his son like gravity.

"Your compliance metrics dropped three points this week, Johnny." Saul's voice resonated through the hallway, cold and clinical. "Attendance variance, emotional irregularities, association patterns—all trending downward."

David watched as Johnny's back stiffened, his hands clenched at his sides.

The SoulWatch on Johnny's wrist pulsed amber—stress indicators climbing. Johnny noticed, flexing his fingers to steady his breathing, but the device kept blinking its warning.

There was a silence, a beat too long, before Johnny responded.

"The SoulWatch data doesn't account for—" Johnny began, then stopped himself. "I can improve the scores, sir."

Saul's expression didn't change, but his voice dropped, a quiet rumble of disapproval.

"Yes, you can. And you will," Saul ordered. "Mandatory faith calibration sessions every day this week—Dr. Prophet has your spiritual optimization schedule. Your biometric baseline needs recalibration. Your only other priority is ROTC."

David's stomach churned as he saw the way Johnny's shoulders slumped slightly, a barely perceptible sign of defeat. He could feel the pressure radiating from Saul, the crushing weight of expectation that pressed down on Johnny, molding him into a shape that fit Saul's vision.

"But what about baseball practice?" Johnny asked, his voice steady despite the slight tremor David could detect. "Coach said—"

"Coach Martinez's requests have been flagged by the Spiritual Wellness Committee," Saul interrupted, consulting his tablet. "Your commitment to your team is compromising your faith metrics."

Johnny's SoulWatch pulsed red for half a second before snapping back to amber. Saul's eyes flicked to it, then back to his son's face. "Your metrics don't lie, Jonathan. Your heart rate spikes every time baseball comes up. Attachment breeds rebellion."

David's fingers dug into the smooth wood of the banister, his knuckles turning white. He could see the struggle in Johnny's eyes, the internal battle between the desire to please his father and the passion for the game he loved. It was a battle David knew all too well, the constant tug-of-war between who you were and who the world wanted you to be.

Saul stepped closer to Johnny, his voice lowering to a commanding tone. "Your FaithCoin earning potential depends on these metrics, Jonathan. Pathlight recruitment algorithms are watching. Prove the investment in your spiritual development was worth it, or face mandatory intervention. Do you understand the data?"

Johnny's nod was stiff, his expression carefully controlled. "Yes, sir. I understand."

He started to swallow, "What if the data's wrong?"

Saul's expression hardened.

"The data is never wrong. Only our obedience to it."

David's heart ached for his friend, for the boy who used to laugh freely and easily, whose eyes used to light up at the mention of baseball. That boy seemed to be disappearing, swallowed up by the expectations and demands of Saul Ashford and the world he represented.

As Saul turned and walked away, his footsteps echoing through the hallway, David couldn't help but feel a surge of protective instinct. He wanted to shield Johnny from the crushing weight of his father's expectations, to remind him of the boy he used to be. But for now, all he could do was watch and wait, a silent sentinel in the shadows, hoping that the Johnny he knew and loved was still in there, fighting to survive.

Johnny remained still for a moment after Saul was gone, shoulders taut, gaze fixed ahead. Then, sensing David's presence at last, he turned his head slightly.

"You saw that, huh?"

David stepped forward. "Yeah."

Johnny gave a humorless laugh, dry and tight. "Welcome to the Ashford estate."

David didn't smile. "You okay?"

"No," Johnny said, then after a beat, "but I will be."

They stood in silence for a moment, the ornate hall pressing in around them, the echoes of Saul's voice still lingering in the air like dust. Then Johnny exhaled slowly, shoulders lowering by degrees.

"C'mon," he said. "Let's go upstairs."

David followed, his footsteps echoing behind Johnny's. The weight of the moment lingered, thick and unwelcome, but beneath it flickered something else—David's quiet, unshakable resolve.

He was here for Johnny. And he wasn't going anywhere.

Johnny led David up the grand staircase into his bedroom—the one room where he'd managed to disable most of the monitoring systems. Signal jammers hummed quietly behind his bookshelf, and black tape covered the camera lens above his closet. A surprising refuge of privacy nestled within the stark surveillance of the Ashford mansion.

The moment the door swung open, a warm, inviting atmosphere enveloped them—an unkempt sanctuary brimming with scattered clothing and well-thumbed novels, their spines cracked and faded, titles hinting at adventures lost to the hurried passage of time. Here, in this human space, is a glimpse of the boy who once wore his passion like a badge.

David stepped inside, his eyes wandering across the various artifacts that tell the story of a young man torn between ambition and affection. On one shelf, baseball trophies gleamed dull in the muted light—moments of triumph captured in metal, each a reminder of Johnny's victories on the field and the joy he found in the game.

Johnny lingered by the door, his posture both guarded and relaxed in this familiar space. As David observed, he caught a flicker of something vulnerable in his friend's demeanor—a brief unshackling of the carefully cultivated image that has shadowed him since their childhood days.

Once, they were inseparable, their bond forged through dreams created by shared laughter and the hours spent poring over books together, reading aloud to one another in the guise of studying.

Johnny closed the door and flicked a hidden switch—white noise generators embedded in the walls activated with a soft hiss. "We've got maybe twenty minutes before the house flags this as 'unusual isolation behavior,'" he said quietly.

David scanned the familiar chaos—the same beautiful disaster he used to tease Johnny about. Clothes draped over the desk chair, books scattered across the floor, a half-eaten sandwich fossilizing on the nightstand. In any other house, it would have driven his orderly mind crazy. Here, it felt like the only honest thing in the building.

"Do you remember this one?" Johnny picked up a trophy from his display shelf.

"Yeah, I do," David replied, a half-smile ghosting onto his face. "That was the summer of your big comeback." Their shared laughter floated briefly in the air, but it evaporated under the weight of unspoken tensions. A flicker of uncertainty flashed across Johnny's features—a hesitation that speaks of everything unsaid.

"It was the summer I pitched my perfect game," Johnny said with both pride and resignation.

Johnny's eyes roamed over the shelf, his gaze locking onto the trophy. Its polished silver surface gleamed under the light, reflecting a distorted version of the room around him. The engraved plaque glinted with pride.

Then Johnny reached for a tarnished trophy—Junior League MVP. He cradled it for a beat, thumb brushing the dent near the base, before turning and offering it to David.

"Here—hold it a second."

David's breath caught. He cupped his palms beneath Johnny's, and for a heartbeat their fingers overlapped, skin to skin, the metal caught between them like a live wire.

Johnny's SoulWatch blinked yellow—elevated heart rate, proximity alert. He twisted his wrist away from David's view, but not before David caught the warning pulse.

The trophy was heavier than David remembered—solid, almost reluctant to leave Johnny's hands—as though it carried every inning Johnny had ever thrown, every expectation Saul now stacked on his shoulders.

The charge of the contact lingered long after Johnny let go, heat blooming through David's arms. He felt the full weight settle—accomplishment transformed into burden—and realized he was literally supporting Johnny's history, his talent, his dreams. Johnny's hand hovered near the rim an instant longer, as if deciding whether to reclaim it or allow the load to be shared.

"It's only baseball," Johnny muttered, trying for nonchalance, but the tremor in his voice betrayed him.

David tightened his grip—all careful steadiness—answering without words: I can hold this for you, as long as you need.

With an exhale tinged by reluctance, Johnny shifts his gaze, looking away toward the scattered books, seemingly preoccupied. "My dad wants me to quit baseball completely, this is gonna be my last season" he murmured, the words tumbling from his lips like stones cast into an uncertain sea. "Calls it a distraction from... more important things."

Stunned, David's breath catches. He steps back slightly, trying to gauge Johnny's expression, half-expecting this to be some kind of twisted joke. "Wait, what? You're kidding, right? Baseball is your life! It's—it's everything you love."

"It's not that simple, David." The gravity of Johnny's tone pulls at the atmosphere, anchoring their conversation in something far more serious than mere childhood dreams.

"Dad says I need to focus on my responsibilities, on my future. He doesn't see it—he doesn't see me." The finality in his words sends a chill spiraling through David, the passion in Johnny's voice laced with the quiet desperation to break free.

For a moment, they stood there, caught in the depths of each other's eyes—a fleeting connection tinged with longing and sorrow. David's heart raced as he took in the shadows painted across Johnny's features. This is the boy who used to glow with love for the game, and now, the bright flame appears dimmed beneath the weight of expectations that threaten to suffocate him.

"But—it's who you are! You're going to go pro. You can't just throw that away." David's voice broke, infused with a fierce determination to ignite the fading spark.

Johnny's gaze shifted, hesitation slipping in, as if battling his own internal storm. The memories of every pitch, every swing, flood David's mind—of nights spent helping Johnny practice, the joy that filled the air when Johnny had triumphed on the field.

"Baseball isn't just a game to you," David continued softly. "It's a part of you. Your passion—it matters."

And then David knew. Johnny was being replaced, plank by plank. His best timber being stripped.

An uneasy silence stretches between them as David searched Johnny's eyes, trying to bridge the widening chasm between what the world demands and the young man he knows him to be.

Johnny laughed softly, an almost defensive sound, brushing off the seriousness that has settled into the room like thick fog. "Yeah, maybe I'm just stuck in my own head. I mean, it's only baseball."

Yet even as he speaks, David can see the slight tremble in his posture—the cracks in his armor that David can sense even through the veneer of practiced ease.

"Johnny…" David's voice dropped further, stepping closer still, reaching for honesty amidst the chaos. "You're not him."

David looked at him, stripped and rebuilt, and wondered how many pieces you had to lose before the world stopped calling you the same name.

Johnny's SoulWatch flashed red—just once, quick as a camera's blink. Johnny immediately pressed his sleeve down over it, jaw tightening. "Don't," he whispered, though whether to David or the device, neither of them knew.

The statement lingers in the air, a declaration heavy with meaning. For a fleeting moment, their eyes lock, and David watched as a flicker of confusion mingles with something deeper, hidden beneath the surface. Johnny's laugh died in his throat, the silence that followed quieter than any calibration session.

A soft knock fractured the hush.

"Johnny - Dad wants you downstairs. Jez Hawkins is here."

Michelle's voice, velvet around a steel core, slid through the half‑open door. A spear of corridor light cut across the room, washing the amber shadows from Johnny's face. In that spill of brightness his shoulders lifted, spine clicking into parade‑ground posture, the mask re‑facing itself with practiced ease.

David still held the old MVP trophy. He felt its chill now—brass gone inert, dream gone heavy. Gently, he set it back on the shelf. His fingers grazed the gold-colored inscription: a spark, a promise, a secret.

"I should head out," David murmured, voice low but sure.

"Homework… shelter duties." Half‑truths to soothe the room, whole truths in the thrum of his pulse: I won't watch them strip you down again.

Johnny's eyes flickered—loss, gratitude, fear—then steadied. He brushed David's wrist, quick as a match flare.

Johnny glanced down at his SoulWatch—still pulsing faint yellow from David's proximity. He pressed the device against his thigh until the light dimmed to black. "Text me when you get home safe," he said, voice carefully neutral for any listening algorithms.

Michelle lingered in the doorway, one brow arched, mouth curved in a Cheshire line. "Be safe on the bike, David," she said, tone unreadable as glass.

David slipped past her, the mansion's marble throat swallowing his footsteps. Behind him the bedroom door closed—soft, final. Saul's baritone drifted up the staircase like distant thunder. Outside, night air bit cold into his lungs, but it tasted like freedom.

He exhaled into the cold night, the gate sealing shut behind him. Whatever came next, he wouldn't let Johnny be erased without a fight.