The Fine Print
The coffee shop smelled like burnt espresso and broken dreams, which felt about right for a Tuesday morning in my life. I shifted on the cracked vinyl seat, trying to find a position where the duct tape wasn't stabbing my ass through my jeans, and stared at the man across from me like he'd just offered to sell me a bridge in Brooklyn.
"One hundred thousand dollars," I repeated, letting each word roll off my tongue like I was tasting them for poison. "For a psychological study."
The man—who'd introduced himself as Mr. Winters, because of course he had—adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses and slid the folder closer to me across the sticky table. Everything about him screamed 'middle management at a community college,' from his beige cardigan to the way he kept clicking his pen. Click-click. Click-click. Like a metronome counting down to my next bad decision.
"That's correct, Miss West. One hundred thousand dollars, deposited directly into your account upon signing." His voice had that careful neutrality of someone who'd practiced this speech in the mirror. "The Mire Institute is very selective about our research participants."
I snorted, earning myself a disapproving look from the mom at the next table who was trying to wrangle three kids and a defeated-looking husband. "Right. And what exactly does the Mire Institute research? How to separate idiots from their kidneys?"
Mr. Winters didn't even crack a smile. "Behavioral psychology. Specifically, adult behavioral modification and conditioning in controlled environments."
"Sounds kinky."
This time, he did react—a slight tightening around his eyes that made me want to push harder. But I needed this money. God, did I need this money.
Twenty-three years old, two jobs that barely covered rent on a studio apartment that came with free cockroaches and a view of the dumpster. Tattoo apprenticeships didn't pay shit, and bartending at a dive bar where the biggest tip was avoiding the handsy regulars wasn't exactly putting me through the lifestyle of the rich and famous. My credit cards were maxed, my car was one breakdown away from scrap metal, and last week I'd eaten ramen for six days straight.
Pride was a luxury I couldn't afford.
"The study would last between six months to a year," Winters continued, his pen clicking faster now.Click-click-click. "During which time you would reside at our facility. All expenses paid, naturally."
"Naturally." I pulled the folder toward me, flipping it open. The top page was standard enough—logos, official-looking seals, a bunch of text about advancing the field of behavioral science. I flipped to the next page. And the next.
And then I stopped flipping.
"Physical restraint?" I read aloud, my voice climbing despite myself. "Sensory deprivation? Sexual stim—" I slammed the folder shut, heat crawling up my neck. The mom at the next table was definitely glaring now. "What the fuck kind of study is this?"
"Please keep your voice down, Miss West." Winters hadn't even flinched. "Everything is clearly outlined in the consent documentation. The Institute believes in full transparency."
"Transparency? This reads like the world's most detailed BDSM contract." I opened the folder again, scanning the pages with growing disbelief. "Audio conditioning? Touch therapy? Supervised intimate encounters? Are you serious with this shit?"
"Completely serious. The Institute's research into adult behavioral modification requires... comprehensive methods."
I laughed. Actually laughed. Because what else could you do when someone in a beige cardigan sat across from you with a straight face and basically asked if you'd sign up to be a lab rat in some rich pervert's sex dungeon?
"This is a scam," I said, shoving the folder back across the table. "A weird, elaborate scam. What's next, you're goingto tell me I need to pay a processing fee? Or maybe you need my social security number to 'verify my identity'?" I made air quotes, nearly knocking over my cold coffee.
"Miss West." Something in his tone made me stop. He reached into his briefcase—of course he had a briefcase—and pulled out a tablet. A few taps and he turned it toward me. "This is a live feed of your bank account. Please, refresh it."
My mouth went dry. I pulled out my phone, thumbs suddenly clumsy as I opened my banking app. I hit refresh once. Twice.
One hundred thousand dollars.
Sitting right there, like it had always belonged.
"What the—" The phone slipped from my numb fingers, clattering onto the table.
"Consider it a show of faith," Winters said, placing the tablet back in his briefcase with practiced efficiency. "The Institute is quite serious about our research, Miss West. That money is yours to keep, regardless of whether you proceed with the study."
I stared at my phone screen until the numbers blurred. A hundred grand. Enough to pay off my debt, fix my car, maybe even put a deposit on an apartment where the neighbors weren't cooking meth. Enough to breathe.
"This is insane," I whispered.
"Perhaps." He slid the folder back toward me. "But it's also real. Take your time. Read through everything. The choice is entirely yours."
My hands shook as I opened the folder again. This time, I read every word. Every horrifying, specific, absolutely batshit word.
