Left wrist. Click.
Right ankle. Click.
Left ankle. Click.
She's spread now. Fully exposed. Her back against the smooth steel of the cross, her front facing the jungle clearing where hidden cameras capture every trembling breath.
The waist restraint engages. Then the throat collar, adjusted loose enough to allow breathing and swallowing but tight enough to remind her constantly of its presence.
Scarletta whimpers.
The attendants step aside. Their work is done for now. They'll remain in the clearing, visible at the edges of her peripheral vision, maintaining the illusion of an audience while I make my way to claim what belongs to me.
I rise from my chair and take one final look at the left wall of monitors.
Volk has made progress. He's no longer in the mud pit where I last observed him. The cameras track his stumbling path through the undergrowth of Chaff Island, his naked body caked with honey residue and whatever organic material has adhered to it during his desperate attempts to wash himself clean.
I zoom the camera on his torso.
The image resolves into clarity, and I see exactly what I expected. A column of red ants marching up from his hip toward his chest. Fire ants. The island has an abundant population of them, attracted by the synthetic honey compound that's now embedded in every pore of Volk's skin.
Each bite delivers a small dose of venom. Individually, the stings are merely painful. Cumulatively, over hours, they produce systemic inflammation that will eventually compromise his cardiovascular system.
Volk is trying to brush them off, but his movements are sluggish. The honey is acting as an adhesive, trapping the ants against his flesh even as they sting him repeatedly. He's learning that every solution creates a new problem.
I zoom further, wanting to observe the pattern of welts developing across his ribcage.
The image blurs.
I adjust the focus.
The blur persists, flickering at the edges with digital artifacts that indicate hardware malfunction rather than simple calibration issues.
I try a different camera angle. Same result. The secondary feeds from Chaff Island are all exhibiting the same degradation, though to varying degrees. Some cameras are functional. Others are producing images that are nearly unwatchable.
Irritation tightens my jaw.
This is unacceptable.
I pull up the maintenance log and schedule a comprehensive camera review for the coming week. Every unit on Chaff Island will need to be inspected, cleaned, and potentially replaced. The salt air and humidity take a toll on electronics, even military-grade equipment rated for harsh environments.
I should have anticipated this. Should have scheduled preventive maintenance before initiating the current operation. The fact that I didn't represents a lapse in my usual standards.
Volk will suffer regardless of whether I can watch in perfect clarity. The outcome isn't affected by the quality of my surveillance. But the documentation matters. When this is over, when his body has been reduced to ash and scattered across international waters, I want to have a complete record of what he experienced.
Justice requires witness.
I make a note to have my technical team prioritize the Chaff Island array and then dismiss the irritation from my thoughts. Dwelling on imperfection serves no purpose. The situation is what it is. Volk is being eaten alive by insects while Scarletta writhes against magnetic restraints under the hands of my attendants.
One screen shows punishment.
The other shows reward.
Both are exactly where they're supposed to be.
I power down my personal console, leaving the automated systems to continue their monitoring. The control room will record everything in my absence. Multiple redundancies ensurethat no moment goes uncaptured, even if I'm not present to observe in real-time.
The door to the hidden control room seals behind me with a soft hiss of pressure equalization. Outside, the jungle is alive with sound and motion. Birds calling. Insects humming. The distant crash of waves against volcanic rock.
