My breathing shifts. I try to keep it steady.
He fastens it in place. The click of the lock is quiet. Final. Then he lifts his hand slightly, and I see it. A small device, a button. He holds it up just enough for me to register it. “If you move wrong,” he says, voice as flat as before, “if you don’t listen, if you make this harder than it needs to be…” He tilts the device. “…your head is gone.” No threat. No dramatics. Just information.
My pulse hammers once, hard, then settles into something colder. This is control. Not chaos. That means there are rules. Rules can be used. I meet his eyes. Not challenging. Not defiant. Present.
He watches me for a second. “Will you behave?”
I don’t speak. My throat feels too tight anyway.I nod. Once. Small. Controlled.
His gaze holds mine for another beat, like he’s measuring something. Then he lowers the device. “Good.” He turns away from me. Just like that. Like I’m already handled. Like the collar solved everything.
My body doesn’t feel solved. It feels like it’s coming apart. The moment he steps back, I try to shift.
Bad idea.
My arms tremble the second I put weight into them, muscles weak from disuse and shock. I push myself up slowly, elbows shaking, core tight as I try to sit. Everything hurts.
Everything.
My shoulders scream. My hips ache. My legs don’t want to cooperate when I try to bring them in under me. I swallow hard and keep going anyway. Small movements. Slow. Controlled.
He doesn’t help me. Doesn’t even watch closely. He walks to the side of the room, picks something up, and sets it on the bed beside me. “Put that on,” he says.
I look down. Clothes. No. Not clothes. Lingerie. Thin fabric. Minimal. Meant to show more than it covers. My stomach turns again.
He doesn’t wait for a response. Doesn’t check if I understand. Doesn’t care.He walks to the door and opens it. “Someone will be in to make you presentable.”
Presentable.
The word lands like something sour in my mouth. Then he’s gone.
The door closes. The lock clicks again. Silence. Different now. Heavier.
I sit there for a second, breathing through the pain, through the weight of the collar pressing against my throat, through the way my body feels like it doesn’t belong to me anymore. Then I reach for the fabric. My hands shake. Not from fear. From weakness. From the aftermath of everything. I force my fingers to work anyway. I get it on. Piece by piece. Every movement reminds me of where I am. Why I’m here. What they’re turning me into. I don’t rush. Rushing leads to mistakes. Mistakes lead to that button being pressed. I finish. Sit back. Wait. It doesn’t take long.
The door opens again.
A woman steps inside. Hope hits before I can stop it. It’s automatic. Instinct. Someone else. Someone who might understand. Someone who might help. I look at her. And then I see the collar around her neck. Same as mine. The hope dies. Quietly. Quickly.She doesn’t look at me when she walks in. Not really. Her eyes pass over me, register me, and move on. There’s no softness there. No cruelty either. Just absence. Like she turned that part of herself off a long time ago. She carries a small case. Sets it down on the table. Opens it. Makeup. Tools. Brushes.
My stomach twists again.
She steps closer. I don’t pull away. I don’t speak yet. She reaches out, tilts my chin slightly. Her touch is light. Practiced. Detached.
“Please,” I say before I can stop myself. The word comes out quiet. Careful. It feels too big in this room.
She doesn’t react. Not even a flicker. Her hands keep moving, brushing something across my skin, adjusting my face, turning me slightly to catch the light better.
“I need—” I start again. Nothing. Not a word. Not a look. Not anything.
She avoids my eyes completely. That’s when it hits. She’s not ignoring me because she doesn’t care. She’s ignoring me because she has to. Because speaking would be dangerous. Because whatever system put that collar on me put one on her too, and she learned the rules long before I did.
My mouth closes. I stop trying.
She works in silence. Foundation. Color. Something on my eyes. My lips. My hair. Pulled back. Adjusted. Every step stripping something else away. Not violently. Not roughly. Just replacing me.When she’s done, she steps back. Looks at me. For a second, something almost breaks through. Regret. Maybe. Then it’s gone. She closes the case. Turns. Leaves.
The door shuts. The lock clicks.
I’m alone again. I sit there for a second, breathing. Then I stand. Slow. Careful. Testing my balance. My legs hold. Barely. I move toward the wall. There’s a mirror. I didn’t notice it before. Or maybe I didn’t want to. Now I can’t avoid it. I stop in front of it. And I look. The girl staring back at me, isn’t me. Not fully. My face is still mine. My eyes are still mine. But everything else…is wrong.
