"Wonderful. Progress already. Would you like to know what comes next?"
"Do I have a choice?"
"You always have choices, little one. They're just limited to the ones we provide."
The screen descended again, showing a schedule in that same cheerful pink:
7:00 AM - Wake up
7:30 AM - Bathroom privileges
8:00 AM - Breakfast
9:00 AM - Morning session
12:00 PM - Lunch
1:00 PM - Quiet time
3:00 PM - Afternoon session
6:00 PM - Dinner
7:00 PM - Free time
9:00 PM - Evening routine
10:00 PM - Bedtime
"Sessions?" My voice was still rough. "What kind of sessions?"
"That depends entirely on you, Miss West. Cooperative subjects have very different experiences than resistant ones."
The threat was clear even through the sweet tone. Play along or suffer. Submit or be broken.
"I want to speak to Dr. Mire."
"Daddy will visit when you're ready. Right now, you need rest. It's nearly bedtime."
"It's—" I had no idea what time it was. How long I'd been unconscious. How long I'd been here. "I'm not tired."
"Bedtime isn't about being tired, little one. It's about routine. Structure. Learning to follow the rules."
The lights dimmed further. The screen retracted. And I was left alone in the growing darkness with only the weight of the collar and my own stupidity for company.
I lasted another hour before crawling into the bed. The sheets smelled like lavender. The pillows were obscenely comfortable. Everything about it was designed to seduce compliance through comfort.
"Good girl. Sleep well, little one. Tomorrow, we begin in earnest."
I stared at the ceiling, collar pressing against my throat with every swallow. Somewhere beyond these pink walls, Dr. Gabriel Mire was watching. Waiting. Patient as he'd promised to be.
I'd thought I was so smart. Thought I'd beaten the system by hiding, by running, by refusing to show up when called. But they'd just been letting me tire myself out, like a fish on a line. Now I was here, exactly where I'd signed up to be, in a nursery that looked like a fever dream and felt like a cage.
The last thought before exhaustion took me was that I should have read Section 61-A. Should have read every section, every word, every implication.
But then again, would it have mattered? The money had been too good, the temptation too strong, and my certainty that I could outsmart any system too absolute.
Now I was here. Collared. Caged. About to begin whatever "program" Dr. Mire had designed for girls too stupid to read the fine print.
