The morning sun found him first—a blade of heat across his bare back, waking him from the stupor he'd fallen into sometime in the dark. Rian blinked against the light. The world swam into focus through crusted lashes: grass, damp and flattened, inches from his face. The smell of wet earth and stale beer. The rough scrape of hemp rope around his wrists, cinched so tight the fibers bit into his skin with every breath.

He was on his knees. His arms were wrenched behind him, bound to something solid—wood, he realized as he shifted and felt the grain against his spine. A wooden stake driven into the ground. The collar was still around his neck, cold metal against his throat, and the earphone was still wedged in his ear, silent for now but waiting.

He tried to lift his head. The muscles of his neck screamed. He'd spent the night curled on the basement floor, and his body had locked into that shape—spine curved, shoulders hunched, legs tucked against his chest like a child. But now someone had dragged him here, tied him upright, left him facing the open lawn.

The yard was huge. Green stretched in every direction, bordered by tall hedges and old trees, their leaves still wet with dew. A white patio table stood under a striped umbrella, the remains of breakfast still on it—plates with crumbs, a half-empty glass. And beyond that, the mansion rose, its windows dark, reflecting the morning sky like dead eyes.

Rian's stomach cramped. He couldn't remember the last time he'd eaten. The whiskey from last night? The party? That felt like a different life. He swallowed, tasting bile and dust.

Footsteps on the grass.

Riko came first, strolling out of the house with a ceramic mug in his hand, wearing a linen shirt unbuttoned at the collar, looking like he owned the morning. Because he did. He owned everything here, including Rian.

"Ah, you're awake." Riko's voice was bright, almost cheerful. He took a sip from the mug. "Good sleep? We let you rest. The viewers got bored after a while, but they're back now."

Rian's gaze dropped. He heard the drone of flies somewhere nearby. The grass was wet under his shins. He was naked. The rope burned.

Behind Riko, Dr. Hari emerged, dressed in a white shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, his hands gloved—surgical gloves, white and pristine, stretching over his fingers. He wasn't holding anything. He just stood at the edge of the patio, watching, his gray eyes flat and measuring.

Then Joko shuffled out, thinner in the daylight, his dark hoodie zipped to his chin despite the growing heat. He carried something in both hands. A bowl. White ceramic, chipped at the rim. Steam still rose from it, faint in the cool morning air.

Rian's mouth watered before he could stop it. The smell hit him—rice, fried egg, a hint of soy sauce. Normal food. The kind you ate at a breakfast table, with a fork, sitting upright like a person.

Joko set the bowl down on the grass, about six feet in front of Rian. Then he stepped back, his thin lips curving into a smirk, his hollow eyes fixed on Rian's face.

"Breakfast time, dog," he said. His voice was a low rasp, barely above a whisper, but it carried.

Rian stared at the bowl. The rice was white, steaming. A fried egg lay on top, its edges crispy, the yolk still soft. Beside it, a piece of fried chicken and a few slices of cucumber. Someone's leftover breakfast. The morning staff's, maybe. Or Riko's. He didn't care. His stomach clenched. He was so goddamn hungry.

He looked at Riko. "Please," he heard himself say, the word scraping out of his throat. "Please, just—let me—"

Riko's eyebrows rose. He took another sip of his coffee, leisurely, and glanced at Joko. "Did he just say please?"

"Think so," Joko said. He was holding something in his other hand. A remote. Rian recognized it. The collar's controller.

"That's good," Riko said. "That's very good. But you won't eat until you earn it."

He pulled a phone from his pocket, tapped the screen, and Rian heard a faint murmur of voices through the earphone. Not Joko's voice. A crowd. The livestream. They were still there. Of course they were still there.

"They've been making suggestions all morning," Riko said, scrolling. "'Spit in his food.' 'Make him bark.' 'Make him lick your shoes.'" He looked up, his dark eyes gleaming. "But someone just said something I like better." He turned the phone so Rian could see the screen. A comment stream scrolled too fast to read. But one comment was pinned at the top, highlighted in red:

"Bikin dia ngemis dulu."

Make him beg first.

Riko smiled. He didn't need to translate. The words hung in the air, already understood.

"You heard them," Riko said softly. He crouched down, bringing his face level with Rian's. His breath smelled like coffee. His smile was boyish, friendly, and completely wrong. "Beg for it. Beg to eat. Beg to be allowed to put your mouth on this food like the dog you are."

Rian's face burned. The rope sawed against his wrists as he shifted. The flies were gathering on the bowl now, landing on the egg, crawling along the rim. The food was getting cold. His hunger was a raw, animal thing, pushing against his shame.

"How do I beg?" he whispered.

Riko laughed. "How do you think? On your belly. Nose to the ground. Show them you mean it." He stood up, stepped back, and gestured to the space between Rian and the bowl. "Go on. Show the viewers you're their dog."

Rian didn't move. His wrists were tied to the stake—he couldn't lower himself to the ground even if he wanted to. He was stuck, kneeling, his arms locked behind him. He looked at the rope, then at Riko. "I can't," he said. "The rope—"

"Ah." Riko clicked his tongue. "Right." He walked around behind the stake. Rian felt his fingers brush the knot, testing it. "If I untie you, you won't run?"

"Where would I run?" Rian said. His voice was flat. The answer was nowhere. The walls around this property were high. The gates were locked. He was naked, collared, in the middle of nowhere, with three men and forty-eight thousand viewers watching him fail.

"Good point," Riko said. He pulled the rope loose. Rian's arms fell forward, numb and useless. He caught himself on his palms in the grass, gasping as blood rushed back into his fingers. The circulation was a hot tingle of pins and needles.

"Now," Riko said, stepping back to his position, "on your belly. Crawl to the bowl. Beg."

Rian stayed on all fours, his head hanging, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps. The grass was cool under his hands. The flies buzzed. The sun was climbing, already hot on his back. He could hear the livestream through the earphone—a low murmur of voices, someone laughing, someone saying "come on."

He closed his eyes.

Just do it, he told himself. It's just crawling. It's just begging. It's just food. You've already done worse.

But his body wouldn't move. The last shred of dignity held him rooted, trembling, on all fours, six feet from a bowl of leftover breakfast, while the world watched.

"Time's wasting," Joko's voice came through the earphone, dry and thin. "The audience is getting bored. Do you want me to help you decide?"

Rian's hand moved before he thought. He lowered his chest to the grass, his belly against the damp earth, his arms stretching out in front of him. He was lying flat, face down, his cheek pressed to the cool ground, his body long and exposed under the sun.

"That's it," Riko said, his voice warm with approval. "Now crawl. Drag yourself forward. One inch at a time. And beg."

Rian dragged himself forward. His arms pulled, his toes pushed against the grass, his body slid over the wet ground. The collar scraped against the earth. The earphone crackled with static. He heard the viewers' reactions through the tiny speaker—cheers, laughter, a comment read aloud by Joko: "He's doing it. What a good dog."

He reached the bowl. His face was inches from it now. He could smell the food properly: rice, egg, oil, chicken skin, garlic. His stomach cramped again, a sharp, violent hunger that made him whimper. He wanted to shove his face into the bowl, to eat like the animal they wanted him to be. But Riko had said beg first.

"Please," Rian whispered into the grass. "Please let me eat."

"Louder. They can't hear you."

Rian lifted his head. The bowl was right there. The flies scattered, then resettled. He looked past it, at Riko's bare feet on the grass, at Dr. Hari's gloved hands folded behind his back, at Joko's shadow stretching long in the morning light.

"Please," he said, louder, his voice cracking. "Please let me eat. I'm so hungry. Please. I'll do anything. Please let me eat."

The earphone was silent. The livestream was silent, too, the murmur gone, everyone holding their breath.

Riko walked forward. He crouched beside Rian, close enough that Rian could smell his cologne, the coffee on his breath. He didn't touch the bowl. He just looked at Rian, his head tilted, studying him like a man examining a new acquisition.

"Say it properly," he said. "Say 'Master, please let your dog eat.'"

Rian's throat closed. The words stuck. But the hunger was a sharp, demanding thing, and the audience was waiting, and the sun was hot on his bare skin, and he had already done so much worse than say a word.

"Master," he said, the syllable scraping out of him like a broken bone, "please let your dog eat."

Riko smiled. He reached down and ruffled Rian's hair, gentle, almost affectionate. "Good boy," he said. "Now eat. Eat like you mean it."

Rian lowered his face to the bowl. The rice was soft against his lips, the egg greasy on his tongue. He ate. He didn't think about dignity or shame or the forty-eight thousand people watching him lap food off the ground like a dog. He just ate, because eating was all that mattered, and the food was salty and warm, and his body remembered what it was to be alive.

He heard Riko's voice above him, but the words were distant, muffled by the blood pounding in his ears. Something about the viewers, about the next command. Rian kept eating, his tongue scraping the bottom of the bowl, until the rice was gone and the egg was just a smear of yolk on white ceramic.

He lifted his head. His chin was wet. The bowl was empty. The flies buzzed around his face, landing on his cheek, his nose. He didn't brush them away.

Riko was looking at his phone. "They're asking for more," he said. "They want to see you lick my shoes. They want to hear you bark."

Rian's stomach turned over. The food sat heavy and hot, churning with his nausea. He stayed on his belly, face to the ground, waiting.

Riko crouched beside him again. He slipped his foot out of his sandal, placed his bare ankle near Rian's mouth. "Not yet," he said, as if reading Rian's thoughts. "First, they want to see you beg again. For something else."

He pulled out his phone, tapped it, and the earphone crackled with a single synthesized word: "Mendekat." Joko's voice, flat and cold, filling Rian's skull.

Rian crawled forward, an inch, another, until his face was at Riko's feet. The grass was wet under his chest. The sun burned his back. The collar hummed, low and waiting.

Riko looked down at him. The morning light caught his dark eyes, showed the cruel glitter beneath the boyish charm. He glanced at the phone in his hand, then at the camera mounted on the patio railing, then back at Rian.

"You heard that," he said, his voice soft. "Mulai."