The hand in his hair kept moving. Slow. Steady. Rhythmic. Rian's knees ached against the cold stone, his breath coming in shallow gasps that fogged the inside of the VR headset. The camera feed showed him what the world saw—a naked boy on his knees, head bowed, trembling under a master's hand.

"Good dog," Riko murmured above him. "See? That wasn't so hard."

The earphones crackled. A flat, synthesized voice spoke directly into his skull—Joko's voice, processed through whatever software he'd rigged up in the control room. "Position one. Palms flat on the floor. Head down. Hold."

Rian's muscles locked. His hands stayed where they were—on his thighs, fingers curled, nails digging into his own skin. He couldn't. He wouldn't. The word *dog* echoed in his skull and he shook his head, just once, a tiny refusal that felt like the last thing he owned.

The collar hummed.

Electricity tore through his throat—a dry, brutal voltage that locked every muscle in his neck and shoulders and sent him crashing forward. His palms hit the stone, his elbows buckled, his forehead cracked against the floor as his whole body convulsed in a single, helpless spasm. The taste of copper flooded his mouth. His vision went white, then gray, then sharp again as the current cut off.

He lay there, cheek pressed to the cold damp stone, gasping. A thin line of drool trailed from his lips to the floor. His fingers scrabbled uselessly against the concrete, looking for something to hold onto, finding nothing.

"Uh oh," Riko said, and his voice was almost cheerful. "Someone didn't listen."

Footsteps. Leather soles on stone. Riko circled around to stand in front of him, then crouched down, bringing his face level with Rian's. The expensive cologne—something woody, something dark—filled Rian's nostrils, mixing with the smell of damp earth and stale cigarette smoke that clung to the basement air.

"The collar's just a reminder," Riko said softly. He reached out and tapped the metal ring around Rian's throat. Two sharp knocks that made Rian flinch. "But the earphones? That's Joko's voice. And Joko's voice *is* the collar. You understand?"

Rian didn't answer. Couldn't. His throat felt raw, his jaw still clenched from the aftershock.

"I asked if you understand."

Rian nodded against the floor. A tiny, desperate movement.

"Use your words, dog. The viewers can't see you nod."

"Yes," Rian whispered. His voice cracked on the single syllable. "Yes. I understand."

"Good boy." Riko patted his head twice, then stood. "Now. Joko's going to give you commands. You're going to follow them. And every time you follow one, you earn a little less pain. Sound fair?"

Rian said nothing. His hands were still spread on the floor where he'd fallen, his whole body shaking with the effort of holding himself up.

The earphones crackled again. "Position one," the synthesized voice repeated. "Palms flat. Head down. Hold."

Rian's stomach turned. But his hands moved—spreading flat on the cold stone, fingers splayed. He lowered his head until his forehead touched the floor between his palms. The position made his back curve, his spine visible through his skin, his ass raised slightly in the air. He looked exactly like what they wanted him to be.

"Holding," he breathed.

"Count to ten," the voice said.

"One…" The word came out broken. "Two… three…"

Riko's footsteps circled him. Slow. Patient. The click of leather on stone was the only sound in the room besides Rian's own ragged breathing and the distant hum of the livestream equipment.

"…eight… nine… ten."

"Release," the voice said.

Rian's arms gave out. He collapsed onto his side, chest heaving, sweat cooling on his skin. The basement air was cold against his exposed body, raising goosebumps along his arms and thighs. He curled into himself, instinctively, trying to cover what he could with his own limbs.

"Don't," Riko said. "Lie flat. On your back. Let them see you."

Rian's jaw clenched. But the memory of the shock was still singing in his nerves, and so he rolled onto his back, arms at his sides, legs straight. Naked. Exposed. The single bulb above him cast harsh shadows across his body, catching every hollow and curve—the dip of his collarbone, the hard line of his ribs, the soft flesh of his thighs.

Riko stood over him, looking down. In one hand, he held the end of a heavy iron chain—the other end was bolted to the concrete wall behind Rian. He wrapped the links around his fist, pulling it taut, and Rian felt the collar tighten against his throat.

"Time to move," Riko said. "On your hands and knees."

Rian pushed himself up. His arms trembled. His knees found the stone. He stayed there, head lowered, waiting.

Riko yanked the chain. The collar bit into Rian's throat, jerking him forward, forcing him to scramble on all fours to keep from being choked. His nails scraped the floor. His knees slid over the rough stone, leaving a trail of moisture and grit.

"Faster," Riko said, and pulled again.

Rian crawled. Across the basement floor, past the rusted kennel cage in the corner, past the workbench where Joko had set up his equipment. The chain guided him, yanking left, then right, forcing him to follow. His hands and knees ached. The cold seeped into his bones. The collar rubbed raw against his throat.

And all the while, the camera tracked him. The red light blinked steadily from the tripod near the wall. Forty-eight thousand people were watching him crawl like an animal. Somewhere, in a chat window he couldn't see, they were typing comments, laughing, judging, *wanting*.

"Stop."

Rian halted. His chest heaved. Sweat dripped from his jaw onto the stone.

Riko walked around to face him, still holding the chain. He crouched down, and for a moment, his expression softened into something almost kind. Almost human.

"You're doing well," he said quietly. "Really. Most people break the first time the collar fires. You're still here. That's something."

Rian looked up at him. His vision was blurry—tears or sweat, he couldn't tell. "Why?" he whispered. The word came out before he could stop it. "Why are you doing this?"

Riko's smile didn't waver. "Because you trusted us. Because you came here alone, drank our whiskey, and let us carry you downstairs. Because you're *here*, Rian." He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. "And because I've been bored for ten years, and you're the most interesting thing that's happened to me since we were kids."

He stood. The chain went taut again.

"Position two," the earphone voice said. "On your back. Hands at your sides. Knees bent. Feet flat."

Rian's stomach turned at the command—the vulnerability of it, the full exposure it demanded. But his body was already moving, already obeying. He rolled onto his back, drew his knees up, planted his feet on the stone. The position left him completely open, every inch of his body visible to the camera, to Riko, to the world.

"Good," Riko said softly. He reached down and ran a hand over Rian's chest—slow, almost tender, tracing the line of his sternum with one finger. "Look at you. So obedient when you want to be."

Rian's breath caught at the touch. His skin burned where Riko's fingers traced him. His body responded before his mind could stop it—a shiver, a sharp intake of air, a flutter in his chest that felt too much like wanting.

Riko's finger stopped just above his navel. "What's this?" he murmured. "Do you like being touched, Rian? Even now?"

Rian shook his head. Fast, desperate. "No. No, I—"

The earphone crackled. "Lie," the synthesized voice said. "Subject's heart rate spiked. Pupils dilated. Respiration increased."

Riko's smile widened. "Joko says you're lying." He pressed his palm flat against Rian's stomach, feeling the rapid rise and fall of his breathing. "Your body knows what it wants, even if your mouth doesn't."

He pulled his hand away. Rian felt the absence of warmth like a physical loss, and hated himself for it.

"Up," Riko said. "Hands and knees. We're not done yet."

Rian turned over, pushed himself up. The chain rattled as Riko walked to the wall and unhooked it from the iron ring, letting the full length of it pool on the floor. Then he walked back, wrapped the loose end around his hand, and tugged once—sharp, commanding.

The chain pulled. Rian's knees scraped forward across the stone, his palms sliding over grit and cold damp. The collar bit into his throat—not enough to choke, just enough to remind him who held the other end. Riko walked backward, watching him crawl, the chain wrapped twice around his fist like a leash.

"Slow down," Riko said, and his voice was casual, almost bored. "You're rushing. The viewers want to see you move. Give them a show."

Rian's muscles burned. His knees were raw. He forced himself to slow, each hand placement deliberate, each knee sliding forward inch by inch. The chain stayed loose now—Riko had stopped pulling—but the threat was still there, coiled in the slack.

The earphone crackled. "Position three," the synthesized voice said. "Stop. Lift your right hand. Place it over your left. Lower your chest to the floor. Hold."

Rian stopped. His right hand came up, trembling, and crossed over his left. He lowered his chest until his sternum pressed against the cold stone, his chin resting on his crossed wrists. The position arched his back, raised his hips, left him completely vulnerable and exposed to the camera behind him.

"Holding," he breathed.

"Count to twenty."

Rian's jaw clenched. His thighs were shaking. The position was designed to be held—every muscle in his core engaged, his neck craned forward, his ass raised and open to the lens. He could feel the weight of the camera's gaze like a physical pressure on his skin.

"One… two…" His voice was thin, barely audible. "Three…"

Behind him, Riko's footsteps circled. The chain dragged across the stone. Rian heard him stop—felt him standing somewhere behind and to the right, watching.

"Wider," Riko said. "Your knees. Spread them."

Rian's stomach turned. But his knees slid apart on the stone, widening his stance, lowering his hips further. The cold air touched places he'd never felt air touch before, and he shuddered.

"…seven… eight…"

"Good," Riko murmured. "Look at that. The chat is losing their minds."

Rian squeezed his eyes shut behind the headset. The live feed showed him what they saw—his own body, arched and spread, trembling under the harsh light. A thin line of drool hung from his lip. His fingers were spread on the stone in front of his face, nails white with strain.

"…fourteen… fifteen…"

His legs were shaking now. The muscles in his lower back burned. He was counting mechanically, desperately, the numbers becoming a mantra that kept him from thinking about what he was doing, what he looked like, what the forty-eight thousand people watching were typing into their chat windows.

"…nineteen… twenty."

"Release," the voice said.

Rian collapsed. His chest hit the floor, his knees splayed out, his forehead pressed against the stone. He lay there gasping, his whole body trembling, his skin slick with sweat despite the cold.

Riko's footsteps approached. The chain went slack, then tightened again as he crouched beside Rian's head.

"You're learning," Riko said softly. His hand came down on Rian's hair—not grabbing, just resting. The weight of it was almost gentle. "That's good. That's very good."

Rian didn't answer. Couldn't. His throat was too tight, his chest heaving too hard. He stared at the stone inches from his face—the tiny cracks in the concrete, a dark stain that might have been oil or blood or something older, something he didn't want to name.

"Up," Riko said. "Sit back on your heels. Hands on your thighs."

Rian pushed himself up. His knees screamed as he settled back, his weight resting on his heels, his hands placed on his thighs. The position was familiar—almost restful compared to the arched exposure of the last one. He kept his head down, his chin touching his chest.

"Look at the camera," Riko said.

Rian raised his head. The red light blinked at him from across the room. The lens stared back, unblinking, recording every micro-expression on his face.

"They want to see your eyes," Riko said. "They want to see the fear. Give it to them."

Rian stared into the lens. His lips parted. A soft, broken sound escaped his throat—not a word, just a breath, a surrender that he couldn't hold back.

The earphone crackled. "Heart rate elevated," the synthesized voice said. "Cortisol levels rising. Subject is entering distress."

"Good," Riko murmured. "Stay there. Let them look at you."

Seconds passed. A minute. The silence stretched, broken only by the hum of the equipment and Rian's ragged breathing. He held the pose, hands on his thighs, knees spread slightly, his body naked and still under the harsh light. The camera watched. The chat typed. The red light blinked.

Riko walked behind him. Rian felt the chain drag across his back—loose, grazing his spine—and then Riko's hand settled on his shoulder.

"Position four," Riko said quietly. "On your stomach. Arms stretched forward. Legs straight. Spread your ankles."

Rian lowered himself onto his belly. His arms stretched out in front of him, his legs straight behind, his ankles separated by a few inches. The position left him flat against the floor, completely exposed from every angle, unable to hide anything.

"Good," Riko said. He walked to Rian's feet and crouched, taking one ankle in his hand. "Joko, give me a meter."

The earphone clicked. A pause. Then: "Confirmed."

Riko pulled Rian's ankles apart, spreading his legs wide. The cold air touched the inside of his thighs, the soft skin there, and Rian shuddered violently.

"Hold that," Riko said. He released his ankle and walked back to Rian's head. He crouched again, reaching out to touch Rian's hair, stroking it slowly, almost tenderly. "You're doing so well. The viewers are impressed. Do you want to know what they're saying?"

Rian shook his head against the stone. A tiny, desperate movement.

"They're saying you're beautiful," Riko said softly. "They're saying they've never seen anyone submit so completely. They're saying they wish they were here." His fingers traced down Rian's cheek, along his jaw. "They want to touch you. They want to use you. They want to break you down until there's nothing left but the dog."

Rian's breath hitched. A tear escaped, sliding down his cheek to pool on the stone beneath his face.

"But I told them no," Riko continued. His hand settled on the back of Rian's neck, warm and firm. "Because you're mine. Mine to train. Mine to break. Mine to put back together."

Rian let out a sound—a whimper, high and broken, that he couldn't stop. His fingers curled against the stone, nails scraping uselessly at the concrete.

"Position five," the earphone said. "On your knees. Back straight. Hands clasped behind your neck. Elbows back."

Rian moved. His body was past thinking, past resisting—it just obeyed. He knelt, straightened his spine, brought his hands behind his neck and clasped them tight. His elbows pulled back, opening his chest, thrusting his ribs and stomach forward into the light.

Riko circled him slowly, examining him like a piece of livestock at auction. His hand reached out and traced the line of Rian's collarbone, then dragged down his sternum, leaving a trail of heat that made Rian's skin prickle.

"Look at you," Riko breathed. "Perfect. Absolutely fucking perfect."

He stopped in front of Rian, close enough that his knees almost touched Rian's. He reached up and took Rian's chin, tilting his head up, forcing him to meet his eyes.

"You're going to thank me," Riko said quietly. "You're going to look into that camera and thank me for training you. For giving you purpose. For making you into something useful."

Rian's lips parted. The word No was right there, on his tongue, ready to be spoken.

But the collar was humming. And his body was already obeying.

"Thank you," he whispered. His voice cracked on the second word. "For… for training me."

"Louder. Look at the camera."

Rian turned his head toward the red light. The lens swallowed his reflection. He saw himself kneeling, hands behind his neck, chest exposed, tears streaming down his face.

"Thank you," he said, louder this time. "Thank you for training me. For giving me… purpose."

The earphone crackled. "Chat reaction positive," the synthesized voice said. "Viewers increased by three thousand. Engagement rising."

Riko's smile widened. "See? You're a natural." He patted Rian's cheek twice, then stepped back. "Position six. On your back. Right knee up, left leg straight. Hands palm-up above your head."

Rian lay back on the cold stone. His right knee drew up, his foot flat on the floor. His left leg stayed straight. His arms stretched above his head, palms open, fingers loose. The position left him completely open—every vulnerable surface exposed, every soft place visible.

Riko walked to his head and crouched, looking down at him. The chain was still wrapped around his hand, and he let the loose links drag across Rian's chest, the cold metal leaving a trail of goosebumps.

"I want you to say it," Riko said softly. "I want you to tell the viewers what you are."

Rian's chest heaved. His vision was blurry with tears. "I'm…"

"Say it."

"I'm a dog." The words came out broken, barely audible. "I'm Riko's dog."

The earphone crackled. "Subject vocal confirmation logged. Timer set. Hold position for thirty seconds."

Riko smiled down at him. His hand found Rian's hair again, stroking it gently, almost lovingly. "Good boy. You're learning so fast."

The seconds passed. Rian lay there, open and exposed, tears running from the corners of his eyes into his hairline, his whole body trembling under the gaze of the camera and the hand in his hair.

The earphone clicked. "Timer complete."

Rian's arms dropped. He lay there, limp, unable to move, his chest heaving with sobs he couldn't control anymore. The tears came freely now, his whole body shaking with the force of them, his breath coming in ragged, broken gasps.

"Please," he whispered. The word was barely audible, lost in the sound of his own crying. "Please, I can't— I can't do this anymore. Please."

Riko crouched beside him. He watched him cry for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then his hand came down on Rian's head again, stroking, soothing.

"Shh," he murmured. "You're doing so well. Just a little more."

"No," Rian sobbed. "No, please, I can't— my knees— I can't—"

His voice broke completely. He turned onto his side, curling into himself, his hands covering his face as the sobs wracked his body. The chain rattled as he moved, but he didn't care anymore. He couldn't care. The shame, the fear, the cold, the pain—it all crashed over him at once, and he drowned in it.

Riko watched him break. The camera watched. Forty-eight thousand viewers watched a naked boy curl into a ball on a cold stone floor and sob until he couldn't breathe.

Riko stood. He walked to the tripod and leaned into the lens, blocking Rian from view. "And that," he said softly, "is how you break a man."

He stepped back. Turned. Walked to where Rian lay shuddering on the floor.

He crouched beside him. His hand found Rian's hair, stroking through the sweat-damp strands, gentle and slow.

"Good boy," he said softly. "That's enough for today. You earned a rest."

The earphone clicked off. The red light on the camera blinked out.