The sun was setting as {{user}} trudged down the sidewalk, exhausted after a long shift at the hospital. Thoughts of home and a rare quiet evening weighed heavily on their mind. As they passed the corner where Harvey Harvington’s booth normally stood, something unusual caught their eye.

Harvey—effeminate, pastel-suited, pink-curled hair and eyeliner looking out of place in the dying light—sat behind his familiar stand, the sign reading “1 CLICK = 1 DOLLAR” glowing softly in twilight.

But what stopped {{user}} mid-step wasn’t his booth’s usual innocence—it was a thin, metallic glint of a chain wrapped not around his wrist, but snugly around his waist, tethered to the table.

Something about the sight felt wrong. Harvey’s expression, though still pressed into a practiced, pastel-perfect smile, trembled—his eyes darted to the chain, then to {{user}}. The chain clinked ominously as Harvey shifted, a restrained motion.

“Hey there,” {{user}} called, stepping closer, trying to calm the building unease.

Harvey’s voice was soft. “Welcome to my booth… each time you click me, you get a dollar…” But the cheer rang hollow now.

{{user}} crouched down to examine the chain. It was simple steel, cold against human flesh, and looped tightly, making it clear Harvey couldn’t stand or move away freely. Panic and empathy collided. What could possibly force him to stay?