Reformation.

James strode down Fifth Avenue, weaving through the late afternoon crowd with the ease of someone who had walked this path a thousand times. All around, the city hummed with life – it was that perfect hour of mid-afternoon where everyone had found their rhythm for the day. The autumn air had a crisp bite to it, leaves swirling along the pavement intermingling with the rubbish, but his mind was far from his surroundings. He was moving catatonically almost, lost in the rhythm of his daily routine: work, home, sleep. Repeat.

But then something brought him back to himself.

As he passed a café window, a glint of colour caught his eye. He slowed, turning his head to see a woman sitting at one of the outdoor tables. Her face was obscured by a long, silk scarf wrapped tightly around her head. But despite the obscurity, it all struck him with a sudden, inexplicable familiarity. A strange, uneasy feeling climbed up and curled around the base of his spine like a cheshire cat.

A flash of a memory struck him, a fragment too quick to fully form, like the shadowy dream figures that grasp after one’s eyelids as they flutter open to face the day.

Where have I seen her before?

He glanced at his watch – he was almost late for his train – then back at the woman. She was reading, her eyes transfixed on the pages of a paperback, oblivious to his presence. James shook his head and started to walk away, but the sense of déjà vu clung to him like cigar smoke. It lingered, tugging at something buried deep within him.

Suddenly, a memory surfaced…

Five Years Prior

James found himself shackled to a chair in a dimly lit room, the cold sting of dread settling deep in his gut. His breath came in shallow bursts as he stared through the one-way mirror. On the other side, seated at a sterile white table, was Ethan, one of his ex-lovers.

Ethan looked confused, his fingers nervously fidgeting with the edge of his sleeve. He had no idea what was really happening, why he was there. None of the other exes had. They all thought they were part of some research study, answering questions about their past relationships for a sociology experiment. They didn’t know that this was a different kind of experiment – or who was on the receiving end of it.

A man in a nondescript navy suit, his expression cold, stood next to James, clipboard in hand. He leaned over and spoke rapidly in a low, clipped tone. “So far, you’ve racked up fifteen points, Mr. Greene. That puts you at level three.”

James swallowed hard. His mouth was dry.

“Three?” he asked, voice cracking.

“Yes. Level three. Based on these tallies, you’ve cheated on your partners eight times. You’re in some serious trouble.” The man’s voice lacked any sympathy, but neither did it betray any joy – it was completely matter-of-fact. He was detached, clinical, like a butcher reading off a list of cuts. It was clear he was here to do one job, finish it, and clock out for the day. 

“As you know, your punishment is based on the number of points you accrue, which, in turn, is determined by how many times and how severely you betrayed your partners.”

James nodded lightly, though his mind was racing. Just a few hours ago, he hadn’t taken this whole thing seriously. When the mysterious card had arrived at his apartment, inviting him to attend a “relationship rehabilitation session,” with his girlfriend, he had laughed it off. But late that night, when the pounding on his door awoke him and he found himself forcibly escorted from his home by the suits – men who had the silent menace of seasoned criminals – he quickly realised this was no laughing matter.

Now, sitting here in the dankness and dim, with the steel of handcuffs cutting into the flesh of his wrists, there was no mistaking it. This was real.

The man tapped his pen on the clipboard. “Level three is just a moderate punishment. It means you’ll be branded. A small ‘A’ on the neck, marking you as an adulterer.”

James’s stomach dropped, but he let out a short, sharp laugh before he could help himself. Restraint had never been his forte. “Next you’ll tell me you’re only going to refer to me as ‘Hester’ from now on,” he guffawed. The man’s neck turned a shade of purple James had seldom seen outside of wine glasses and he crouched deftly in front of him, taking him brusquely by the jawbone. “You think this is funny, Mr. Greene?” and suddenly James realised he was deadly serious and his insides began to quiver.

Branded. It sounded mediaeval, something from another time, another world. The punishment must be meted out by the same shadowy organisation that had orchestrated this entire operation. The Programme had been explained to him as a necessary corrective measure for men like him – serial cheaters – people who didn’t care how much damage they left in their wake. It was a final reckoning for those who couldn’t be trusted to reform on their own.

Seeing the fear in his eyes the man slackened his grip slightly. “Good,” he said, “because if you find this to be amusing I’m happy to add some additional points and take you up to level five.” He glanced down at his clipboard. “Castration is level five. You don’t want to go there.”

James barely heard him. His eyes were locked on Ethan, who was speaking now, answering questions. He had been one of James’ more serious relationships – in fact, Ethan was the only time that he thought he might truly settle down with a man, for good. He had cheated on Ethan too, of course, but he had never known. Not for sure, anyway. His answers were calm, measured, but as he spoke about their time together, and as the man’s pen continued to mark tics on the clipboard, a wave of guilt crashed over James.

He had hurt Ethan. He had hurt all of them. And now, along with that guilt, came the creeping realisation that it was time to pay. The only other thing that kept reappearing in his mind was – where was Annette? He had expected her to be there with him for their first session but she had never appeared.

After Ethan, there were more exes – some tearful, some bitter, some indifferent. Each of their testimonies added to his growing tally of points. By the time the final interview concluded, James was trembling. His final score had sealed his fate – but what level had he landed at? What would the punishment be?

After the last of his exes had been interviewed, he was led from the sterile room, down a series of long, dimly lit corridors by two of The Programme’s enforcers. The men flanked him as they trudged slowly but inexorably towards their destination, their faces smooth & expressionless, like statues carved from alabaster. He walked between them, barely feeling the ground beneath his feet, his thoughts spinning out of control.

Eventually, they arrived at a heavy metal door, and one of the men punched in a code on a keypad. A loud click echoed behind them down the empty hallway, and the door swung slowly open.

Inside, the room was unlike anything James had expected.

It was a holding pen – cramped, damp, and dimly lit, filled with people huddled together on benches or standing against the walls. The air was thick with tension and fear – the sour scent of terror creating a palpable, almost suffocating atmosphere. The moment James entered, every set of eyes turned toward him. Most of the people here were men, their faces etched with despair, but tucked in amongst them were a few women as well. All of them bore the same look of dread that had settled over him like a heavy blanket of fog.

"Get in," one of the guards growled, shoving him roughly forward.

James stumbled into the room, his legs barely holding him upright as the door slammed shut behind him. The clanging sound of the door shutting reverberated off the cold concrete walls, making his ears ring. He stood there for a moment, trying to get his bearings, but it was impossible to ignore the rising panic gnawing at his insides.

He spotted an empty corner and made his way over, sinking onto the bench with shaky legs. His hands wouldn’t stop trembling.

"How long have you been here?" James asked the man next to him, his voice hoarse from the dryness in his throat.

The man didn’t look up. His eyes were bloodshot, his face so gaunt it was like his cheekbones were a bit too big for his skin. "A couple of hours, I think. Or maybe days. It’s hard to tell."

James swallowed hard and scanned the room again – more slowly this time. He realised that the women, though fewer in number, looked no less broken. It was clear that the punishment wasn’t reserved just for men.

"How bad is it?" he asked.

The man next to him turned to face him this time, his expression vacant. "Depends on how much you did. You cheat a few times, you get branded. Do it more often, or for a longer time before they catch you, and well…"

“But I don’t understand,” James said, “they told me I was coming for The Programme with my girlfriend, Annette. But I haven’t seen her – do they keep our partners held in a separate pen?” 

The man grimaced and started to answer.

Before he could begin, the door on the far end of the room creaked open. A guard stepped inside, his footsteps loud in the tense silence. He barked a name, and the man stood up, his face pale.

The guard led the man through the door, and it closed behind them with a heavy thud.

The room seemed to exhale in unison. No one spoke, but every eye was fixed on the door, waiting. A few minutes passed, then a muffled shout, barely audible, seeped through the walls. James’ heart rate spiked – it was pumping so fast he might as well have been running a marathon. The sound grew louder, more desperate, escalating into a scream that cut through the silence like a blade. James felt his stomach churn. The noise reminded him of when he used to help his father with the pig slaughter on the farm. He could see the faces of the people around him tightening, jaws clenching, fists balling up in helpless terror.

The scream turned into a wail, filled with agony, and then was abruptly cut off. Silence followed, but it was the kind of silence that made the air feel thick, oppressive, like a lightning storm waiting to unleash itself on a hot summer day.

The door opened. The same guard re-entered, but this time he wasn’t alone. He dragged the limp body of the man, who was now sobbing uncontrollably, his legs stained red with blood. The sight of it made James’s insides twist into knots. The guard dumped the man onto the cold floor and turned to leave without a word. The door clanged shut once more, locking them all back in their cage.

James could barely breathe. The reality of what had just happened settled across the room like a heavy weight. The man lay curled up on the floor, whimpering. James wanted to look away, but he couldn’t. His eyes were drawn to the crimson streaks staining the concrete, to the man’s trembling hands as he tried to crawl back to the bench.

James felt sick, bile rising in his throat. He stood up abruptly, staggering toward the opposite corner of the room, clutching his chest as if trying to keep his pounding heart inside his ribs. The sheer brutality of what he had witnessed was something he couldn’t process. He hadn’t believed it would go this far. He hadn’t wanted to think it.

"You need to get out of here," a voice whispered from behind him, “and to do that, you need to remain calm.”

James turned, his head still spinning. A woman sat on the bench nearest him, her face hidden behind her hair. She glanced up briefly, her eyes a haunting stare.

"They’re going to brand you," she said softly. "If you’re lucky, that’s all you’ll get. But… you heard it. You saw it. Don’t let them take you beyond level three."

"Level three?" he rasped. "What… what level was that?"

She closed her eyes slowly. "Four… That wasn’t even the full treatment."

James felt the world tilt beneath him. He slumped against the wall, his knees weak, his hands clammy. This was real. And he had cheated so many times there was no telling…

The woman spoke again, her voice low and calm, as if she had already resigned herself to her fate. "They’ll call your name soon. It won’t take long. Just… keep your head down. Don’t say anything, don’t try to fight it. Fighting only makes it worse." He started to ask how she knew all this but then he saw the scars ringing her waistline – a repeat offender. He shivered.

As they sat there, the process repeated, again and again, each time leaving the room in a state of mute dread. Sometimes the punishment was branding. But other times… other times, it was much worse.

Hours passed, though James couldn’t be sure how long. Eventually, his name was called.

He rose slowly, his legs weak and unsteady beneath him. The room around him blurred as he followed the guard through the door, down another long hallway, and into a small, sterile room where the branding iron waited, glowing hot.

The guard forced him into a chair and tilted his head to the side. James clenched his fists as the searing pain burned into his skin, the smell of scorched flesh filling his nostrils. He bit down hard, refusing to scream, refusing to give them the satisfaction.

When it was over, the guard removed the iron and stepped back, leaving James alone with his pain. He touched the side of his neck, wincing at the tenderness of the newly burned flesh.

He had survived. As they led him slowly out of the room, he again asked – where was Annette? 

“Don’t you know?” the guard smirked, “She’s the one who referred you. She was interviewed before you even arrived.”

Present Day

James blinked, the flashback fading as quickly as it had arrived. He was back on Fifth Avenue, the woman with the scarf still sitting at her table. He stared at her, heart pounding. Why had that memory surfaced? Was she one of the exes from that awful day? His mind raced, clicking through each woman’s face, each moment in that cold, sterile room.

He shook his head, trying to dismiss the thought. It had been five years since The Programme, and that was in a whole other country. Five years since he had received the small, discreet ‘A’ on the side of his neck, just below the jawline. He kept it hidden well enough. It had faded over time, but it was always there, a permanent reminder of his transgressions.

But he had changed. He was different now.

The wedding ring on his finger glinted in the sunlight as he turned his hand over. He had married a year ago – a woman who knew everything about his past and loved him anyway. He had reformed, made amends. Or at least, tried to.

The woman at the café rose to leave, wrapping her coat tighter around her body. As she passed him, her eyes flickered toward him for just a moment. She froze.

James felt his breath catch. It was her. There, not ten feet from him, was Annette.

For a split second, their gazes met, and he saw something in her eyes. Panic? Recognition? He couldn’t be sure. But before he could speak, she spun on her heel and began walking quickly down the street, her head tucked low, scarf flapping in the wind.

James stood rooted in place. Something gnawed at him, a suspicion that tugged at the edges of his consciousness. He began to follow her, keeping his distance, but close enough to see her scarf bobbing swiftly through the crowd.

She glanced over her shoulder once, her eyes wide, and quickened her pace. James felt a knot tighten in his chest. He wanted to grab her – shake her – make her feel the pain she had inflicted on him all those years before. But part of him also wanted to thank her – without The Programme, he wasn’t sure he ever would have changed his ways.

As she neared a subway entrance, she pulled the scarf tighter around her neck, but in that second, the wind caught the fabric and shifted it.

That’s when he saw it.

A small, faint brand, barely visible, just below her ear.

The letter ‘A.’

James stopped cold.

His mind reeled, fragments of memory crashing together, making sense in an instant. Annette was the one who had reported him, the one who had handed him over to The Programme five years ago to be branded or worse. The one who had knowingly sent him to his doom.

And now, she was branded too.

James watched as she disappeared down the subway steps, her scarf trailing behind her like a crimson banner, before vanishing entirely into the depths below. His heart pounded in his chest, a storm of emotions and questions swirling inside him – confusion, guilt, relief.

As the city moved on around him, James stood still, staring at the empty subway entrance, the echo of her footsteps ringing through his consciousness. The past, it seemed, had a way of coming back – no matter how far you ran from it.

The ‘A’ on his neck itched.