"Sweet dreams, little one. Daddy can't wait to meet you properly."
The voice followed me into sleep, where pink rooms became pink chains and every dream ended with the echo of my own voice, cocky and careless:
"Where do I sign?"
The First Session
The wake-up call came like a knife through velvet dreams.
"Good morning, little one. It's 7:00 AM. Time to start your first full day."
That voice. That fucking synthetic sweetness piped through hidden speakers like audio glucose. I buried my face in the pillow—surprisingly luxurious for a prison—and considered suffocating myself just to spite them.
"Compliance with morning routine affects privileges for the day. You have five minutes to get up."
Privileges. Right. Like I was a toddler who needed to earn her iPad time.
I rolled over, staring at the ceiling where I imagined cameras watched my every move. The collar sat heavy against my throat, a constant reminder that last night hadn't been a nightmare. I was really here, in this pink purgatory, about toexperience whatever twisted "research" the Mire Institute had planned.
"Fuck your morning routine," I muttered into the pastel void.
"Language, little one. That's your first warning of the day."
Of the day. Implying there would be multiple warnings. Implying there would be multiple days. The weight of that settled over me like a lead blanket.
"Four minutes remaining."
What happened if I didn't get up? Part of me wanted to find out, to test every boundary until something broke—preferably them, not me. But the smarter part, the part that had kept me alive through twenty-three years of bad decisions, whispered that I needed information before I started wars.
I sat up, the cotton nightgown riding up my thighs. Still no sign of my actual clothes. The room looked exactly the same in daylight—if this even was daylight. The pink walls seemed to glow with their own internal light source, creating a perpetual dawn that made my eyes ache.
"Three minutes remaining."
"I'm up, Jesus." I swung my legs over the side of the bed, bare feet sinking into plush carpet. "What now? Jumping jacks? Pledge of allegiance to the great god of fucked-up research?"
"Please proceed to the bathroom for morning hygiene. The door is now unlocked."
The bathroom door—which I'd nearly dislocated my shoulder trying to open last night—swung inward at my touch.Inside was more pink and white, looking like a spa had mated with a pediatrician's office. Toilet, sink, shower stall with frosted glass. No mirrors except a small one above the sink, too high to break and use as a weapon. These people had thought of everything.
On the counter sat a pink toothbrush, toothpaste, and a folded towel. No razors. No tweezers. Nothing sharp or potentially dangerous. Because apparently I was the danger here, not the people who'd kidnapped me and put me in a collar.
"You have fifteen minutes for bathroom privileges. Please shower and brush your teeth."
"Please?" I laughed, the sound bouncing off tile. "How polite. Do I get a gold star if I remember to flush?"
Silence. Right. The voice only responded to direct questions or rule-breaking. I was talking to myself like a crazy person. Then again, maybe that was the point. Drive me crazy enough and I'd probably beg for human interaction, even from my captors.
The shower was hot, at least. Good water pressure. Expensive shampoo and body wash that smelled like vanilla and something floral. I stood under the spray longer than necessary, trying to wash off the feeling of being watched. The collar was waterproof, apparently. Of course it was.
When I emerged, my nightgown was gone. In its place, folded on the closed toilet lid: white cotton panties, a soft pink sundress that would hit mid-thigh, and nothing else. No bra. No shoes. No dignity.
"You've got to be kidding me." I held up the dress like it might bite. "This is what you want me to wear?"
"Clothing is selected based on behavioral assessments. Compliance earns expanded wardrobe options."
"So if I'm a good girl, I get big girl clothes?" The sarcasm dripped like water from my hair. "How fucking generous."
"Language. Second warning."
