"Is that really me?" I whisper, though I know the answer.
"Yes. That's who you're becoming. Who you are now."
"I don't recognize her."
"I know. But that's good, Eden. That means you're changing. Growing. Becoming who you were meant to be instead of who the Sanctuary tried to make you."
"How can you say that? How can there be no shame in—in what's on that screen?"
"Because you're choosing it. Because your body wants it. Because submission isn't weakness—it's trust. It's surrender. It's allowing yourself to be vulnerable with someone who can handle that vulnerability without abusing it."
"You are abusing it. You're using it to train me for a showcase. To make me perform for an audience. To prove to the Consortium that you're worthy of their inner circle."
"Yes. But I'm also protecting you while I do it. Caring for you. Making sure you're ready so the experience isn't traumatic. Both things can be true."
There's that phrase again.
Both things can be true.
I hate it.
Hate how it makes impossible sense.
Hate how it lets him justify everything.
"Am I forcing your mouth open in that video?" he asks, gesturing to the screen where I'm clearly performing without any visible coercion. "Am I pushing your head? Am I holding youdown? Or are you doing it yourself? Following my instructions because some part of you wants to please me?"
I don't answer because I can't.
Because he's right and we both know it.
Iamchoosing it.
In some twisted, fucked-up way that I don't fully understand, I'm choosing this.
Not because I want to.
But because not choosing feels worse.
Because disappointing him feels worse than the humiliation.
Because his approval feels better than any pride I might salvage from resistance.
Because I'm being conditioned and I know it but can't stop it from working.
The conditioning has already won.
The afternoon session is worse.
Or better, depending on how you measure these things.
Worse because of what he makes me do.
Better because of how my body responds.
I don't know anymore.
Don't know how to evaluate anything that happens in this room.
