Consciousness returns in fragments.

Cold. Hard. The press of stone against my knees, grinding through the fabric of what I think are my boxers. My skull feels packed with cotton, each breath dragging sandalwood and something metallic into my lungs. I try to lift my head and the world tilts sideways, vertigo slamming against the inside of my temples.

Where—

The party. The mansion. Riko's hand on my shoulder, guiding me toward the bar where a woman with too-red lips poured something amber into a crystal glass. I remember laughing. Remember Joko arriving late, hood up, nodding at me like we were old friends. Remember Hari watching from the corner with those cold, assessing eyes, a martini glass pinched between two fingers.

Then nothing. A pit where memory should be.

I try to move my hands and feel the catch. Something cold bites into my wrists behind my back. Plastic. Zip ties, too tight, already chafing. My fingers are numb.

My stomach drops through the floor.

"He's up."

Riko's voice. Smooth. Amused. The same tone he used at the party, laughing at some joke I didn't catch, his arm slung around my shoulders like we were brothers. I blink hard, my vision swimming, and the room comes into focus in pieces.

Low lamplight. Dark leather couches arranged in a semicircle. A marble floor stretching wide and cold, the kind of polished stone that belongs in a gallery, not a living room. And a camera on a tripod near the couches, its red light blinking steady, a silent heartbeat watching the room.

Three figures stand between me and the camera.

Riko in the center, designer shirt untucked, hands in his pockets, that magazine-cover smile spread wide across his face. His eyes meet mine and hold, glittering with something I've never seen there before. Not warmth. Hunger.

Hari to his left, white coat pristine, wire-rimmed glasses catching the lamplight. His hands are clasped behind his back, the posture of a surgeon waiting for a patient to be prepped. No expression. No blink. Just that clinical gaze, taking measurements I can't read.

Joko on the right, hood down now, his shaved head gleaming under the low light. His arms are crossed over his chest, and the tattoos on his knuckles are visible even from here—dark ink that crawls up his fingers, disappearing under his sleeves. A small black remote dangles from his left hand, held loosely, like he's forgotten it's there.

My throat closes. I try to speak and the sound that comes out is a croak, barely audible.

"Wha—what happened? Riko, I—"

Riko's smile widens. He takes a slow step forward, his footsteps echoing off the marble. "What happened is you had one hell of a good time last night, Rian. Best party of the year. You don't remember?"

I shake my head. The motion makes the room reel again, and I brace myself against the floor, my bound hands useless behind me. The chain around my ankle clinks against the stone, a sound that shouldn't matter but does. I look down.

A leash. Black leather, clipped to a metal collar locked around my throat. The collar is lined with cold steel, snug against my skin, and I hadn't even noticed it until now. My fingers can't reach it—the zip ties won't let me—but I feel the weight of it with every swallow.

"What—what is this?" My voice cracks. "Riko, come on, this isn't funny."

Riko laughs. It's the same laugh from the party, the one that made me feel safe. It sounds different now. Sharper. Like glass breaking somewhere I can't see.

"Funny? Rian, it's not supposed to be funny." He crouches down, bringing his face level with mine, close enough that I can smell the mint on his breath. His eyes hold mine, and for the first time I see what was always underneath. "It's supposed to be a game."

My heart hammers against my ribs. "What game? Riko, we're friends—we've known each other for years—"

"Exactly." He says it like it's the point. Like the friendship is what makes this good. He reaches out and pats my cheek, a gesture so casual, so paternal, that I flinch before I can stop myself. "And friends trust each other, don't they?"

He looks over his shoulder at Hari and Joko. Hari adjusts his glasses. Joko's thumb traces the edge of the remote in his hand, once, slow.

"We've been planning this for a while," Riko continues, his voice still light, still conversational, like he's describing a weekend trip. "Joko sourced the equipment. Hari helped with the dosage—he's very precise, you know, he wanted to make sure you'd wake up exactly when we needed you to. And I provided the venue."

He spreads his arms, encompassing the room, the mansion, the whole cold expanse of his empire.

"Welcome to the first day of the rest of your life, Rian."

The words don't make sense. They can't make sense. I'm still half-convinced this is a nightmare, that I'll wake up on the marble floor of the party, someone shaking my shoulder, asking if I need water.

But the zip ties are real. The collar is real. The camera's red light is real.

"What are you going to do to me?" The question comes out smaller than I meant it. Like a child asking for a bedtime story he already knows will scare him.

Riko's smile softens into something almost tender. "We're going to play a game. And you're going to follow every single rule." He tilts his head, studying my face like I'm a painting he's about to buy. "You're going to become something new, Rian. Something we've designed specifically for you."

He stands, brushing off his knees, and walks toward the camera. Hari and Joko follow, flanking him like sentinels. The three of them stand in front of the lens, their backs to me, and I realize with a cold wash of dread that they're about to address the camera.

Address whoever is watching.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Riko says, his voice shifting into something performative, theatrical. He spreads his arms wide, a ringmaster welcoming his audience. "Welcome to tonight's main event. You've been waiting. We've been preparing. And I promise you—" he glances over his shoulder at me, just long enough for me to see the gleam in his eye, "—the wait was worth it."

Hari steps forward, adjusting his glasses. "Subject is a twenty-four-year-old male in excellent physical health. No allergies. No chronic conditions. He was administered a controlled dose of benzodiazepine compound approximately six hours ago, combined with a low-dose hypnotic agent to ensure suggestibility during the initial disorientation phase." He speaks like he's presenting at a medical conference. "Vital signs are stable. He is ready for induction."

Joko doesn't speak. He just holds up the remote, letting the camera see it, then presses a button with his thumb.

A low hum vibrates through the collar around my neck. Not painful. Just present. A warning.

My breath catches. "What was that?"

Joko's eyes meet mine. Flat. Empty. "That was a reminder."

Riko laughs again, bright and easy. "The collar's connected to your audio feed, Rian. Every command you hear through the earpiece—" he taps his own ear, "—is linked to the collar's shock mechanism. Disobey the command, and you'll feel a little... persuasion. Obey, and you won't feel a thing. Simple, right?"

I shake my head, the denial automatic, desperate. "You can't do this. We're friends. I trusted you—"

"And you still can." Riko's voice drops, losing the performative edge. "Trust that we know what we're doing. Trust that this is going to transform you into something beautiful. Trust that if you follow the rules, it won't hurt more than it has to."

He walks back toward me, slow, deliberate, his footsteps echoing off the marble. He crouches down again, his face level with mine, close enough that I can see the faint stubble on his jaw, the way his eyes don't blink.

"You always did have the best reactions, Rian. I'm glad you're awake." His voice is soft now, almost kind. "The show's about to begin."

He stands, and the three of them turn toward the camera on its tripod, its red light blinking steady, recording everything.

My breath catches. Cold floods my chest, spreading down my arms, my legs, pooling in my stomach, because I understand now. This isn't a joke. This isn't a hazing ritual gone wrong. This is planned. This is deliberate. This is three men I called my friends, standing between me and a camera, about to introduce the world to whatever they've decided I'm going to become.

The collar hums against my throat, waiting.

And the livestream is already live.

I taste it then. Bitter, chemical, clinging to the back of my tongue like residue. The ghost of whatever they put in my drink, still swimming in my system, making my thoughts feel slow and syrupy. I swallow hard, trying to work some moisture into my mouth, and the collar shifts against my throat, a constant reminder of its presence.

The marble is cold against my knees. I've been kneeling for—how long? Minutes? Hours? The zip ties bite deeper every time I shift, the plastic edges digging into my skin. I can feel the pulse in my wrists, trapped between the restraints and my own body, a rhythm I can't escape.

Riko is still talking to the camera. His voice washes over me in waves, smooth and practiced, but I can't focus on the words. My attention keeps snagging on the details I couldn't see before. The way Hari's fingers drum against his forearm, once, twice, a surgeon's habit. The way Joko's thumb never stops moving, tracing the edge of the remote in a slow, circular pattern, like he's petting something only he can feel.

The room smells like sandalwood and leather and something underneath—something sour. I realize, with a distant kind of horror, that it's me. My own sweat, soaking through my shirt, the sour tang of fear bleeding through my pores. I can't remember the last time I was this scared. Maybe never. Maybe I've never had a reason to be.

Hari steps closer to the camera, adjusting the angle with two precise fingers. He doesn't look at me. Doesn't need to. His voice carries through the room, clinical and calm, as he describes the equipment on a table I hadn't noticed before—a spread of leather straps, metal rings, something that looks like a spreader bar. He names each item like he's listing surgical instruments, his tone never wavering.

Joko moves to the table, picking up a pair of metal cuffs connected by a short chain. He tests the weight in his hand, then turns them over, examining the hinges. Satisfied, he sets them down and reaches for something else—a gag, I realize, black silicone, with a small ring set into the front. My stomach turns.

"Riko." My voice comes out thin, reedy. "Riko, please."

He glances over his shoulder, one eyebrow raised, still mid-sentence. He holds up a finger— one moment —and finishes whatever he was saying to the camera before turning fully toward me.

"Yes, Rian?"

"I—" My throat closes. I try again. "I don't understand. Why are you doing this? What did I do?"

Riko's expression softens into something that almost looks like pity. He walks toward me, slow, his footsteps echoing off the marble, and crouches down until we're eye to eye. His hand reaches out, and I flinch, but he only brushes a strand of hair off my forehead, tucking it behind my ear with surprising gentleness.

"You didn't do anything," he says quietly. "That's the point. This isn't punishment, Rian. It's creation."

I shake my head, the motion jerky, uncontrolled. "I don't want to be created. I want to go home."

"I know." His voice is soft, almost kind. "But that's not an option anymore."

He stands, and the kindness vanishes, replaced by the easy charm of a showman. He turns back to the camera, spreading his arms wide, and I realize the collar has gone quiet. No hum. No vibration. Just the cold weight of it, waiting.

Waiting for me to disobey.

I look down at my hands, bound behind my back, the zip ties digging into my skin. I look at the leash clipped to my collar, trailing across the marble floor. I look at the three men who were my friends, standing between me and a camera that's broadcasting this to God knows how many strangers.

And I realize I'm already holding my breath.