By the time Lune realized he was no longer being watched, it was already too late to undo.
The shift was subtle.
His parents stopped hovering at the doorway. Teachers stopped checking his reactions. Ms. Han no longer praised him in front of the class—she simply nodded, satisfied. His name stopped appearing in conversations about concern and started appearing in sentences like "He's fine."
Fine was the goal.
Lune refined his obedience with care.
He responded to rules before they were stated. He apologized before frustration escalated. He displayed just enough imperfection to appear human—forgotten homework once a month, a delayed response here and there, a mild disagreement that resolved quickly.
He learned the value of predictability.
Unpredictable children drew attention. Predictable ones faded into the background.
At school, he stopped being an example and became part of the scenery. Teachers trusted him without thinking about it. Group projects were assigned to him automatically, his presence assumed to stabilize outcomes.
"Put Lune with them," someone would say. "He'll handle it."
And he did.
He managed tone. Managed timing. Managed others' emotions with a precision that felt almost effortless now. He intervened before conflict peaked, offered solutions framed as compromises, withdrew before anyone noticed how often he led.
At home, the charts disappeared from the refrigerator. Not ceremoniously—just quietly, one evening, replaced by grocery lists and reminders.
His mother hugged him freely now. His father trusted him implicitly.
"We don't need the system anymore," his mother said once, smiling. "You understand."
She was right.
He did understand.
But not in the way she meant.
Control, Lune realized, was not about dominance. It was about absence. The absence of friction. The absence of suspicion. The absence of curiosity directed at him.
True mastery meant not standing out at all.
He began editing himself instinctively. Softening responses before they formed. Withholding observations that would make others uncomfortable. Letting small inaccuracies stand if correcting them would disrupt harmony.
Truth became optional. Comfort became currency.
One afternoon, a teacher praised him in front of the class for being "so well-adjusted." The word landed strangely in Lune's mind.
Adjusted to what?
He smiled anyway.
That night, standing in front of his mirror, Lune practiced nothing. No expressions. No reactions. He simply watched himself exist without effort.
The boy in the glass looked ordinary. Pleasant. Unremarkable.
Invisible.
Lune felt a quiet satisfaction settle in his chest—not pride, not happiness, but certainty.
No one was watching anymore.
And because of that, he could do exactly as he wished. As long as he never gave them a reason to look again.