POV: I Am Fear
Fear doesn’t come to destroy you.
Fear comes to love you.
And never let you go.
I Am Fear.
I have an owner.
He is twenty-one years old.
He works in IT.
This story began with an offer to work abroad in IT.
It was tempting — his career was just starting, and the line “work abroad” would look good on his thin résumé.
He checked the company's website carefully.
Young, fast-growing foreign IT firm.
White background, subtle particle animation, logo glowing with confidence.
I was always there beside him, but gave no sign.
He didn’t know yet that I would never leave.
Honestly, I had no expectations.
Still, a faint unease hung there — like cold air slipping under the door.
After passing the online tests and interview, the employer bought him a plane ticket and covered the hotel.
All that time, I stayed close.
On the second day after arrival, at exactly 8:13, the representative messaged him.
Suggested coffee in the hotel lobby bar, then a ride to the office.
The lobby smelled of fresh-ground coffee, warm wood, and air conditioning.
Soft lamp light, quiet hum of voices.
The representative had a level smile, shirt without a single crease. Plus extended medical insurance and a company apartment.
My owner was honestly impressed — who offers all that upfront?
I stayed quiet.
Everything felt natural. Relaxed.
The meeting dragged on.
He wanted to stay longer in the lobby.
Over tea, the rep mentioned a company tradition — elite sweets for newcomers, a small sign of appreciation.
He handed over a box.
Black, heavy, gold lettering.
The chocolate melted on the tongue — bitter, with caramel salt and a light cherry sourness.
Simply fantastic taste.
My owner ate slowly, sipping tea, his shoulders finally loosening, breath coming easier for the first time in days.
The last time in his life he would taste anything with such pleasure.
Then they got into the corporate minivan.
Leather seats cool against his back.
Outside — sunny weather, palm trees flashing by, heated asphalt smell drifting in through the vents.
The day felt perfect.
I felt his heart beating fast — excited, almost happy — in anticipation of new horizons.
After some time in the van, light dizziness crept in.
Nausea rose in waves, like something spoiled turning in his stomach.
Darkness closed from the edges, then swallowed everything.
Silence rang in his ears.
My owner woke up in an unknown place.
His head throbbed so hard it felt ready to split.
The air was thick — sweat, metal, sour dampness.
A small, poorly lit room.
The first thing he saw — a gun barrel pointed straight at his face.
Rapid foreign speech, quick sharp sounds he couldn’t understand.
Shock hit like ice water. Then it sank in, slowly. That was the first time I wrapped myself around him with full strength.
Tightly. Until his ribs ached.
And I didn’t want to let go.
We became one.
His heart slammed so hard I felt it shake my own edges.
After some time, under guard, they led him to a room.
Cramped. Two bunk beds along the walls.
Thin mattresses, springs creaking with every shift.
Five men of different ages and races.
Mostly silent. Mostly indifferent.
Only one — about my owner’s age, small black mole on his cheek — came over.
“Everything’s fine. You should rest.”
Voice low, calm.
He held out his hand.
The handshake was firm, dry, warm — like he was giving my owner a piece of his strength, just for a second.
“My name is Beard.”
My owner told him his name.
They shook hands.
Beard saw how shaken he was and said quietly again:
“Everything will be fine. Rest a little.”
My owner lay down.
The sheet smelled of laundry and someone else’s sweat.
Despite everything, he fell asleep fast.
About five hours later they woke him.
Led him to a room.
Handcuffed to a chair.
Cold metal bit into his wrists.
Gun barrel pressed to his temple.
Bald man in his forties, dark glasses, heavy accent but understandable. Stuffy room, air thick, sweat running down his back — probably on purpose.
Scenes like in kidnapping movies, but reality was more boring, gray, tediously slow.
After the briefing — a large hall.
Thirty-four people in handcuffs.
My owner saw Beard — already at a desk.
My owner was seated at a computer, chained.
Number 1*618.
Keyboards clacked evenly, like steady rain on a tin roof.
The curator walked behind — heavy steps, boots squeaking on linoleum.
Overseers with rifles — eyes empty.
The work — deceiving people online.
Two thousand seven hundred eighteen fake accounts a day — most blocked quickly, but enough got through.
Legends built on AI: yachts, jets, photos and videos indistinguishable from real.
The program changed face and voice: today tall blond, yesterday fiery brunette, tomorrow irresistible chestnut.
Girls started conversations, bit on the bright images.
He gained trust — talked about trading, fabulous wealth, secret techniques.
Manipulation schemes worked almost every time.
When the victim was ready — link. Trap snapped shut. Money gone forever.
One woman, voice trembling in the chat, transferred $13,490 — all her savings for her daughter’s cancer treatment. She wrote: “I trust you. This is her last chance.”
Another man, retired teacher, sent $8,765 after three weeks of daily messages. His last words before the block: “I believed you were my friend.”
Operators brought in millions, perhaps billions.
A conveyor belt for sucking money out. Monstrous mix of human ingenuity and AI.
Work — thirteen hours a day, sometimes more.
Breaks for food, bathroom, sleep — then again.
Food tasteless: rice, chicken, plastic fork scraping against teeth.
Air thick with sweat and overheated computers.
During one short break, an operator got a plastic cup of tea.
He tried to take it with bound hands and spilled some on the desk.
Tea crept toward the keyboard.
The man next to him silently leaned over and nudged the cup closer with his elbow so it wouldn’t fall.
No one spoke.
A minute later everyone was back at their screens.
Keyboards clacked evenly.
On odd days — short walk around the perimeter.
Ground dusty, sun burning the neck.
The building old — Beard whispered once: once a psychiatric hospital.
Damp smell even outside.
At night — quiet whispers.
My owner talked about life outside: parents, first snow, smell of mom’s borscht.
Beard mostly listened.
Almost never spoke about his own life.
But his silence was warm, like a palm resting on the shoulder.
He didn’t judge, didn’t pity out loud — just stayed close.
In those moments my owner could be himself.
No pretending. No deceiving.
Beard helped him remember who he was.
That was the favorite part of the day — a tiny island of humanity in a gray ocean.
Dreams were always the same.
Old childhood home.
Wooden door, paint peeling.
Someone pounding from outside — heavy blows, wood cracking.
He pressed his whole body against it.
The wood bent under his hands.
He woke in sweat, sheet wet, heart racing.
Time passed. Day after day, week after week, month after month.
He got used to the routine.
At first he hated himself with all his soul, but eventually gave up.
No other way out.
Once his nerves broke.
Young woman, five children.
Ready to invest all her savings.
At the last moment he changed his mind.
Cleared the chat completely.
Curator summoned him.
Tried to lie — not believed.
Punishment: three days without lunch or walks.
Air in the cell stale, throat sore.
At night Beard secretly passed part of his own meal — hid it in his clothes, piece by piece.
“Eat. I’ll manage.”
Voice quiet but firm.
My owner ate in the dark, tears flowing.
His throat closed tight. He could barely swallow.
In that moment he decided: no more pity.
Follow instructions strictly.
Life went on.
But lately — incidents.
Beard began having epileptic seizures right at the desk. Body jerked, eyes rolled back, foam on lips. Smell of burnt wiring mixed with fear — my fear.
Doctors came — syringes, pills.
At first things seemed to stabilize, then seizures returned.
My owner worried — I felt it in every shallow breath he took.
Overheard from curators: “productivity dropping, can’t continue like this.”
Bad premonition.
That night the conversation lasted longer than usual.
Beard spoke little, but differently — as if saying goodbye.
At midnight three came.
Took him by force.
He didn’t resist.
Footsteps receded down the corridor — heavy, echoing.
Door closed.
Silence.
I remembered that sound.
No one saw Beard again.
Days turned to sludge.
Beard’s desk stood empty. Keyboard covered in dust. No one sat there.
My owner looked at the empty spot every day.
Missed him so much, as if part of him was gone.
Like a tiny snowflake on blinding white snow.
At night he thought: where is he? How is he? Is he alive?
Tormenting questions.
Today is March 14 again — 3.14.
Sitting in a cozy café, enjoying a double espresso — bitter, hot, cup warm in his palms — my owner recalled that period.
His hand shook just a little when he lifted the cup. Eight months later, and it still remembered.
More than eight months since liberation.
Government troops entered, freed everyone, cleared the area.
Bureaucracy: immigration detention — cold floors, smell of disinfectant.
Consular procedures, long flight.
Tears of joy from parents — salty, hot.
News showed bulldozers demolishing the scam center.
To some — a news note. To him — a piece of his life.
One tiny thread remained — Beard.
He searched online many times: by the mole, by the handshake, by the voice in memory.
Even tried to find relatives.
No results.
But hope doesn’t fade.
He still hopes one day to see Beard again.
Even if it’s only in a dream.
Even if it’s only once.
I am fear.
I have an owner.
And I love him.
I live in an era when humans can witness the birth of galaxies and manipulate matter at the level of elementary particles, yet according to authoritative international organizations, approximately one in every 150 people on the planet is in conditions of forced labor.
Fear comes to love you.
And never let you go.
I Am Fear.
I have an owner.
He is twenty-one years old.
He works in IT.
This story began with an offer to work abroad in IT.
It was tempting — his career was just starting, and the line “work abroad” would look good on his thin résumé.
He checked the company's website carefully.
Young, fast-growing foreign IT firm.
White background, subtle particle animation, logo glowing with confidence.
I was always there beside him, but gave no sign.
He didn’t know yet that I would never leave.
Honestly, I had no expectations.
Still, a faint unease hung there — like cold air slipping under the door.
After passing the online tests and interview, the employer bought him a plane ticket and covered the hotel.
All that time, I stayed close.
On the second day after arrival, at exactly 8:13, the representative messaged him.
Suggested coffee in the hotel lobby bar, then a ride to the office.
The lobby smelled of fresh-ground coffee, warm wood, and air conditioning.
Soft lamp light, quiet hum of voices.
The representative had a level smile, shirt without a single crease. Plus extended medical insurance and a company apartment.
My owner was honestly impressed — who offers all that upfront?
I stayed quiet.
Everything felt natural. Relaxed.
The meeting dragged on.
He wanted to stay longer in the lobby.
Over tea, the rep mentioned a company tradition — elite sweets for newcomers, a small sign of appreciation.
He handed over a box.
Black, heavy, gold lettering.
The chocolate melted on the tongue — bitter, with caramel salt and a light cherry sourness.
Simply fantastic taste.
My owner ate slowly, sipping tea, his shoulders finally loosening, breath coming easier for the first time in days.
The last time in his life he would taste anything with such pleasure.
Then they got into the corporate minivan.
Leather seats cool against his back.
Outside — sunny weather, palm trees flashing by, heated asphalt smell drifting in through the vents.
The day felt perfect.
I felt his heart beating fast — excited, almost happy — in anticipation of new horizons.
After some time in the van, light dizziness crept in.
Nausea rose in waves, like something spoiled turning in his stomach.
Darkness closed from the edges, then swallowed everything.
Silence rang in his ears.
My owner woke up in an unknown place.
His head throbbed so hard it felt ready to split.
The air was thick — sweat, metal, sour dampness.
A small, poorly lit room.
The first thing he saw — a gun barrel pointed straight at his face.
Rapid foreign speech, quick sharp sounds he couldn’t understand.
Shock hit like ice water. Then it sank in, slowly. That was the first time I wrapped myself around him with full strength.
Tightly. Until his ribs ached.
And I didn’t want to let go.
We became one.
His heart slammed so hard I felt it shake my own edges.
After some time, under guard, they led him to a room.
Cramped. Two bunk beds along the walls.
Thin mattresses, springs creaking with every shift.
Five men of different ages and races.
Mostly silent. Mostly indifferent.
Only one — about my owner’s age, small black mole on his cheek — came over.
“Everything’s fine. You should rest.”
Voice low, calm.
He held out his hand.
The handshake was firm, dry, warm — like he was giving my owner a piece of his strength, just for a second.
“My name is Beard.”
My owner told him his name.
They shook hands.
Beard saw how shaken he was and said quietly again:
“Everything will be fine. Rest a little.”
My owner lay down.
The sheet smelled of laundry and someone else’s sweat.
Despite everything, he fell asleep fast.
About five hours later they woke him.
Led him to a room.
Handcuffed to a chair.
Cold metal bit into his wrists.
Gun barrel pressed to his temple.
Bald man in his forties, dark glasses, heavy accent but understandable. Stuffy room, air thick, sweat running down his back — probably on purpose.
Scenes like in kidnapping movies, but reality was more boring, gray, tediously slow.
After the briefing — a large hall.
Thirty-four people in handcuffs.
My owner saw Beard — already at a desk.
My owner was seated at a computer, chained.
Number 1*618.
Keyboards clacked evenly, like steady rain on a tin roof.
The curator walked behind — heavy steps, boots squeaking on linoleum.
Overseers with rifles — eyes empty.
The work — deceiving people online.
Two thousand seven hundred eighteen fake accounts a day — most blocked quickly, but enough got through.
Legends built on AI: yachts, jets, photos and videos indistinguishable from real.
The program changed face and voice: today tall blond, yesterday fiery brunette, tomorrow irresistible chestnut.
Girls started conversations, bit on the bright images.
He gained trust — talked about trading, fabulous wealth, secret techniques.
Manipulation schemes worked almost every time.
When the victim was ready — link. Trap snapped shut. Money gone forever.
One woman, voice trembling in the chat, transferred $13,490 — all her savings for her daughter’s cancer treatment. She wrote: “I trust you. This is her last chance.”
Another man, retired teacher, sent $8,765 after three weeks of daily messages. His last words before the block: “I believed you were my friend.”
Operators brought in millions, perhaps billions.
A conveyor belt for sucking money out. Monstrous mix of human ingenuity and AI.
Work — thirteen hours a day, sometimes more.
Breaks for food, bathroom, sleep — then again.
Food tasteless: rice, chicken, plastic fork scraping against teeth.
Air thick with sweat and overheated computers.
During one short break, an operator got a plastic cup of tea.
He tried to take it with bound hands and spilled some on the desk.
Tea crept toward the keyboard.
The man next to him silently leaned over and nudged the cup closer with his elbow so it wouldn’t fall.
No one spoke.
A minute later everyone was back at their screens.
Keyboards clacked evenly.
On odd days — short walk around the perimeter.
Ground dusty, sun burning the neck.
The building old — Beard whispered once: once a psychiatric hospital.
Damp smell even outside.
At night — quiet whispers.
My owner talked about life outside: parents, first snow, smell of mom’s borscht.
Beard mostly listened.
Almost never spoke about his own life.
But his silence was warm, like a palm resting on the shoulder.
He didn’t judge, didn’t pity out loud — just stayed close.
In those moments my owner could be himself.
No pretending. No deceiving.
Beard helped him remember who he was.
That was the favorite part of the day — a tiny island of humanity in a gray ocean.
Dreams were always the same.
Old childhood home.
Wooden door, paint peeling.
Someone pounding from outside — heavy blows, wood cracking.
He pressed his whole body against it.
The wood bent under his hands.
He woke in sweat, sheet wet, heart racing.
Time passed. Day after day, week after week, month after month.
He got used to the routine.
At first he hated himself with all his soul, but eventually gave up.
No other way out.
Once his nerves broke.
Young woman, five children.
Ready to invest all her savings.
At the last moment he changed his mind.
Cleared the chat completely.
Curator summoned him.
Tried to lie — not believed.
Punishment: three days without lunch or walks.
Air in the cell stale, throat sore.
At night Beard secretly passed part of his own meal — hid it in his clothes, piece by piece.
“Eat. I’ll manage.”
Voice quiet but firm.
My owner ate in the dark, tears flowing.
His throat closed tight. He could barely swallow.
In that moment he decided: no more pity.
Follow instructions strictly.
Life went on.
But lately — incidents.
Beard began having epileptic seizures right at the desk. Body jerked, eyes rolled back, foam on lips. Smell of burnt wiring mixed with fear — my fear.
Doctors came — syringes, pills.
At first things seemed to stabilize, then seizures returned.
My owner worried — I felt it in every shallow breath he took.
Overheard from curators: “productivity dropping, can’t continue like this.”
Bad premonition.
That night the conversation lasted longer than usual.
Beard spoke little, but differently — as if saying goodbye.
At midnight three came.
Took him by force.
He didn’t resist.
Footsteps receded down the corridor — heavy, echoing.
Door closed.
Silence.
I remembered that sound.
No one saw Beard again.
Days turned to sludge.
Beard’s desk stood empty. Keyboard covered in dust. No one sat there.
My owner looked at the empty spot every day.
Missed him so much, as if part of him was gone.
Like a tiny snowflake on blinding white snow.
At night he thought: where is he? How is he? Is he alive?
Tormenting questions.
Today is March 14 again — 3.14.
Sitting in a cozy café, enjoying a double espresso — bitter, hot, cup warm in his palms — my owner recalled that period.
His hand shook just a little when he lifted the cup. Eight months later, and it still remembered.
More than eight months since liberation.
Government troops entered, freed everyone, cleared the area.
Bureaucracy: immigration detention — cold floors, smell of disinfectant.
Consular procedures, long flight.
Tears of joy from parents — salty, hot.
News showed bulldozers demolishing the scam center.
To some — a news note. To him — a piece of his life.
One tiny thread remained — Beard.
He searched online many times: by the mole, by the handshake, by the voice in memory.
Even tried to find relatives.
No results.
But hope doesn’t fade.
He still hopes one day to see Beard again.
Even if it’s only in a dream.
Even if it’s only once.
I am fear.
I have an owner.
And I love him.
I live in an era when humans can witness the birth of galaxies and manipulate matter at the level of elementary particles, yet according to authoritative international organizations, approximately one in every 150 people on the planet is in conditions of forced labor.
About the Author:
Daulet was born in Almaty and earned a Master’s in Tokyo at Japan’s National Graduate Institute for Policy Studies.
He is the creator of the POV: I Am… Universe — short stories from impossible perspectives: a virus loving the child it destroys, a house remembering generations as it faces demolition, a smartphone knowing its owner better than any human.
Blending literary fiction, gentle magical realism, and quiet speculation, his work explores love, memory, grief, and humanity in a changing world.
He is the author of the novels AQSU, KÖK TÖBE, and LEPSY.
Stories keep us alive.
He is the creator of the POV: I Am… Universe — short stories from impossible perspectives: a virus loving the child it destroys, a house remembering generations as it faces demolition, a smartphone knowing its owner better than any human.
Blending literary fiction, gentle magical realism, and quiet speculation, his work explores love, memory, grief, and humanity in a changing world.
He is the author of the novels AQSU, KÖK TÖBE, and LEPSY.
Stories keep us alive.
About the Author
