The heavy click of the lock engaging behind him was a sound Eli knew from two nights of hearing it seal him in. Now it sealed Adrian in with him, and the difference sat in his chest like a stone he couldn't swallow.

Marcus moved first. He crossed to a panel on the far wall and pressed a sequence of buttons, and the platform hummed beneath Adrian's body, adjusting its angle. Then Lena stepped forward from where she'd been standing against the wall, her lab coat already off, a black blouse beneath it, her gloved hands holding something folded and dark.

The suit. Eli recognized the sheen of it before she even unfolded it—that same seamless black rubber, the same way it caught the light like wet skin. Lena shook it out, and it hung from her hands like a second body, empty and waiting.

Adrian's head turned on the platform. His wrists strained against the straps, once, twice, testing, and then he went still. His eyes found Eli across the room, and Eli saw something in them he hadn't expected—not fear, exactly. Something steadier. Like Adrian was checking that Eli was still there, still watching, still real.

Eli opened his mouth. He didn't know what he was going to say—maybe stop, maybe wait, maybe something that would end this before it started. But Marcus spoke first, his voice carrying across the room like a blade laid flat.

"You'll want to watch this part, Elias. It'll be your turn to help with the next one."

The words landed wrong. Eli's stomach turned. He looked at Adrian, at the platform, at the suit in Lena's hands, and he couldn't find the shape of any of it fitting together.

"I thought you said I was helping," Eli said. His voice came out thinner than he wanted.

Marcus smiled, that same smile that never reached his eyes. "You are. Helping me break in the new stock." He gestured at Adrian with a tilt of his chin. "That's the job. You'll learn it by doing."

Lena moved to the head of the platform. She worked without ceremony, her gloved hands moving in practiced sequence. She lifted Adrian's head, slid something beneath it—a padded rest—and then she began to work the suit over his feet.

Eli watched. That was all he could do. He watched the black rubber crawl up Adrian's calves, over his knees, his thighs. Lena pulled it with both hands, working it over his hips, and Eli saw the suit settle against Adrian's skin, saw the way it clung, the way it sealed. There was something obscene about the sight—the way the rubber found every line of Adrian's body, every muscle, every curve, until it looked less like clothing and more like a second skin that had been waiting for him.

"The suit is custom-fit," Lena said, not looking up. Her voice was clinical, detached, the same voice she'd used on Eli. "It's designed to hold the body in a specific configuration. The compression helps with the collection process."

Collection. The word hung in the air. Eli had heard it a dozen times now, from Marcus, from Lena, from the machines, but it still didn't fit right in his mouth. It made what happened to him sound like something you did to fruit, to milk, to anything but a person.

Lena pulled the suit up over Adrian's chest. She worked his arms in one at a time, the rubber sliding over his biceps, his forearms, his wrists. The straps on the platform held his hands in place, and Lena had to work around them, her fingers deft and quick. Adrian's breathing was audible now, a low steady rhythm that Eli could hear across the room.

Then came the zipper.

Lena's fingers found the zipper tab at the base of Adrian's spine. She pulled. The sound was a long, slow rasp—metal teeth closing over rubber, sealing the suit shut. It went up his back in one smooth motion, and Eli watched the two edges of black rubber meet and lock, watched the suit tighten around Adrian's shoulders, his ribs, his waist. When the zipper reached the nape of his neck, Lena tucked the tab into a small flap and smoothed it flat, and the suit was seamless again. Like it had never been open. Like Adrian had always been wearing it.

Adrian's chest rose and fell under the rubber. The suit was so tight Eli could see his breathing, the way his ribs expanded against the compression, the way the fabric gave just slightly with each inhale. His eyes were still on Eli, and Eli realized he hadn't looked away, hadn't been able to, the whole time Lena was working the suit over his body.

"Good," Marcus said. He was closer now, Eli hadn't heard him move, and his voice came from just behind Eli's shoulder. "Now the rest."

Eli felt a hand on his shoulder. Marcus's hand. It wasn't a heavy hand, wasn't pushing, but it was there, warm through Eli's thin t-shirt, and it turned him gently, guiding him toward the platform. Toward Adrian.

"You'll help with the helmet," Marcus said. "And the gag. Lena will show you."

Eli's feet moved. He didn't tell them to, but they moved anyway, carrying him forward until he stood at the head of the platform, looking down at Adrian's face. The padded rest cradled his skull, and his dark hair was spread against the black fabric, and his eyes—those steady eyes—were looking up at Eli.

"Lena." Marcus's voice, quiet and patient. "Walk him through it."

Lena appeared at Eli's side. She was holding something dark and folded—the helmet, Eli realized, the same hood he'd worn, the same mask with its sealed mouth and its small eye holes. She held it out to him, and Eli's hands came up without his permission and took it.

The rubber was cool and heavy in his palms. It had a weight to it, a smell—that same chemical, rubbery smell that had filled his own lungs for six hours. He could feel the seams under his fingers, the reinforced mouth slit, the straps that would cinch it tight.

"Turn it so the opening faces you," Lena said. Her voice was calm, instructional, like she was teaching him to tie a knot. "You'll fit it over his head first, then the gag goes in, then you seal the slit."

Eli looked at Adrian. Adrian's eyes were calm. That was the thing that got to Eli—the calm. He'd expected fear, or anger, or something that would make this easier to stop. But Adrian just lay there, breathing in his new rubber skin, watching Eli hold the helmet that would seal his face away.

"Do it," Adrian said. His voice was quiet, steady, the same voice he'd used when he told Eli to beg. "Put it on me."

Eli's hands shook. He stepped closer, the platform edge pressing against his thighs, and he lifted the helmet. The rubber was heavier than he remembered, or maybe his arms were weaker. He positioned it over Adrian's head, the opening gaping dark, and then he lowered it.

The rubber settled over Adrian's face like water closing over a stone. Eli watched the black fabric slide over his forehead, over his brows, over his cheeks, and then Adrian's eyes were gone, hidden behind the small round lenses, and his mouth was gone, hidden behind the sealed slit, and all that was left was the shape of his head in black rubber, breathing.

Eli's hands were still on the helmet, on the edges of it, feeling the heat of Adrian's skin through the thin layer between them. Adrian's breath fogged the lenses, cleared, fogged again. His chest rose and fell under the suit.

"The gag," Lena said.

Eli looked at her. She was holding a small rubber object—a sphere, maybe, or an egg, dark and smooth, with a strap attached. She held it out to Eli, and he took it, his fingers clumsy.

"You'll open the mouth slit," Lena said, "and press the gag inside. It's designed to hold his jaw open, to keep his mouth accessible. The strap goes around the back of the helmet and buckles at the base of the skull."

Eli looked down at the gag in his hand. It was smaller than he'd expected, smooth and solid, with a texture that made his fingers want to pull away. He thought about his own gag, about the hours he'd spent with it filling his mouth, the drool that had pooled in the corners of the rubber, the way his jaw had ached.

His hands moved. He found the edge of the mouth slit, the rubber seam that held it closed, and he worked it open. Adrian's lips were visible beneath, slightly parted, waiting. Eli pressed the gag against them, and Adrian opened his mouth, and the rubber ball slid past his teeth and settled against his tongue.

Adrian's jaw went slack. The gag filled his mouth, and Eli could see the slight bulge of it through the rubber of the helmet, could see the way his lips stretched around it. He pulled the strap around the back of Adrian's skull, felt for the buckle, and cinched it tight. Adrian made a small sound—not a protest, just a sound, a sound of adjustment, of settling into the new shape of his mouth.

"Good," Lena said. "Now the rest of the restraints."

Eli hadn't noticed the straps on the platform before—not really, not the way he noticed them now. There were more of them than he'd thought: wide leather bands at Adrian's wrists and ankles, already buckled, but also thinner straps at his elbows, his knees, his thighs. Lena showed him how to tighten them, how to pull the leather snug against the rubber suit, how to make sure the buckle was seated properly.

Eli worked his way down Adrian's body, his hands moving over the rubber, over the heat of Adrian's skin beneath it. He could feel Adrian's muscles through the suit, the tension in his thighs, the way his calves flexed when Eli pulled the straps tight. He tightened the elbow straps, the knee straps, the thigh straps, and with each one he felt something shift inside him, something he didn't have a name for.

"The last one," Lena said, "is the collection tube."

Eli looked up. She was standing at the foot of the platform, holding something that made his stomach clench—a clear plastic tube, flexible, with a flared end and a connector fitting. The same tube that had been attached to his own cock, the same tube that had sucked and pulled and drained him until he couldn't think.

"There's a small opening in the suit," Lena said. "At the front, at the groin. You'll fit the tube through it and secure the seal."

Eli's hands were on the platform's edge. His knuckles were white. He could see the opening in the rubber—a small reinforced ring, just at the base of Adrian's cock, a place where the suit was designed to be breached.

"Eli." Marcus's voice, from behind him. "The tube."

Eli picked it up. His fingers were numb. He stepped to the side of the platform, where the opening was, and he looked at Adrian's face—at the helmet, the fogged lenses, the sealed mouth. Adrian's head turned slightly, following him, and Eli thought he could see the shape of his eyes behind the rubber.

He fitted the tube through the opening. The rubber gave way easily, designed for it, and the flared end settled against Adrian's skin, against the base of his cock, which was soft and warm and real beneath Eli's fingers. Eli felt Adrian's whole body tense, felt the muscles of his thighs jump under the suit, and then he worked the seal closed, the rubber ring tightening around the tube.

"Good," Marcus said. "Now we can begin."

Eli stepped back. His hands were shaking. He looked at Adrian—fully sealed now, fully restrained, the tube jutting from his groin, the helmet covering his face, the gag filling his mouth—and he couldn't believe what he had just done.

Marcus crossed to the panel on the wall. He pressed a button, and the platform hummed again, adjusting its angle, tilting Adrian's hips up slightly. Then Marcus pressed another button, and a machine Eli hadn't noticed—a low console beside the platform—began to whir.

The tube in Adrian's groin twitched.

Adrian's body jerked against the straps. Once. A muffled sound escaped the gag—a sound that might have been a gasp, might have been a grunt, might have been something Eli didn't want to name. His fingers curled against the leather, and his toes flexed inside the rubber boots of the suit, and his whole body went rigid as the machine began to pull.

Eli watched. He couldn't look away. He watched the tube pulse against Adrian's cock, watched Adrian's hips strain against the straps, watched the black rubber of the suit tighten and shift as Adrian's body fought the machine's rhythm. The muffled sounds came again, regular now, timed to the machine's cycle—a low, rhythmic noise that Eli recognized from his own throat, from his own hours in the chair.

The room filled with the machine's hum. It was the same hum Eli had heard through his own sealed helmet, the same hum that had pulsed through his body for six hours, the same hum that had become the soundtrack of his own undoing. Now it filled the white room, and it was Adrian's turn to hear it.

Eli's hands were still on the platform's edge. His knuckles were white. He could feel the vibration of the machine through the steel, through his palms, through his whole body. He could smell the rubber, the heat of it, the faint chemical scent that clung to the air. He could hear Adrian's breathing, fast and shallow through the gag, could hear the leather creak as Adrian's wrists strained against it.

Marcus's voice came from behind him.

"Good. Now you watch the whole night. Tomorrow—"

Eli didn't hear the rest. He was watching Adrian's body on the platform, watching the machine work him, watching the rubber suit move with his breathing. And somewhere in his own body, in the cage locked around his groin, in the heat gathering in his belly, in the tightness in his chest, something was responding.

He didn't know what it meant. He didn't know what it made him.

He only knew he couldn't look away.

The machine hummed. Adrian's body jerked. And Eli stood at the edge of the platform, his hands white on the steel, watching the night begin.