The clasps on the helmet were stiff. Eli's fingers slipped on the first one, caught it, worked it open with a click that seemed too loud in the white room. The second clasp resisted longer. He could feel Adrian's breath through the rubber, slow and even, the rhythm of a machine that had found its setting.

Marcus stood at the edge of the platform, watching. He didn't offer to help. He never did.

Eli got the third clasp open and peeled the helmet up. The rubber clung to Adrian's jaw, then released with a soft, wet sound. His hair was dark with sweat, plastered to his forehead. His eyes were open.

Eli waited for something—a blink, a flicker, a sign that the man he'd walked into this building with was still in there. Adrian's gaze stayed level with the far wall. His pupils were wide. His mouth hung slack, lips parted, a thin line of spit connecting them when the gag came free.

"Adrian." Eli's voice came out rough. He cleared his throat and tried again. "Hey. You with me?"

Nothing. Adrian's chest rose and fell under the black rubber. His hands lay still in the restraints, fingers loose, not curled. He looked like a man waiting for a bus, if that man had been drained of everything that made him a person.

Eli's hands were still shaking. He looked at them—his own fingers, trembling, the nails bitten short from years of race-day nerves. He pressed them flat against his thighs to make them stop. They didn't.

"The suit does that," Lena said from somewhere behind him. Her voice was clinical, unhurried, the voice she used when she was measuring something. "The acclimation phase smooths the neural pathways. He's not in pain. He's simply not entirely present."

Eli turned. Lena stood at the foot of the platform, a device in her gloved hands—something compact and black, with a strap and a soft pulsing bulb at one end. The portable milker. He'd seen it in a catalog Marcus had shown him during the first collection, back when all of this was still hypothetical.

"Not entirely present," Eli repeated. The words tasted wrong in his mouth. "That's what you call it."

"I call it what it is." Lena's brown eyes met his, and for a moment the clinical mask slipped—there was something almost gentle in her face, almost apologetic. Then it was gone. She stepped past him, toward the platform, and the mask was back in place. "He'll be more himself by morning. The first night is always the deepest."

"More himself," Eli said. "That's supposed to make me feel better?"

Lena didn't answer. She was already leaning over Adrian, attaching the milker's tube to the collection line at his groin. The device clicked into place with a sound like a seatbelt. She checked the seal, tugged it once, nodded.

Marcus moved, a dark shape at the edge of Eli's vision. He'd been standing so still that Eli had almost forgotten him. Now he crossed the room with that easy, unhurried stride, his charcoal suit immaculate, his gray eyes fixed on Adrian's face.

"He took the suit well," Marcus said. It wasn't a question. "Better than most. The calm ones always do."

"He was calm when I sealed him in." Eli's voice cracked on the last word. "He told me to put the helmet on him. He said—he said he trusted me."

Marcus's smile didn't reach his eyes. "And you did. And now he's serving the facility, exactly as agreed. You should be proud, Eli. You helped make this happen."

The words landed like a hand on a bruise. Eli's stomach turned. He looked back at Adrian, at the slack face, the empty eyes, the chest rising and falling under the rubber. The man who'd held him in the locker room, who'd promised to be there when it was over, who'd claimed him as mine with a certainty that had made Eli's chest ache.

That man was gone. In his place was this—a body in a suit, breathing.

"He'll serve the facility now," Marcus said, almost gently. "All day, every day, until we're done with him."

Eli's hands curled into fists at his sides. The nails bit into his palms. He felt the heat in his belly again, the same heat that had risen when he watched the machine work Adrian's body—that shameful, traitorous heat that had pooled behind the steel cage locked around his groin.

He hated it. He hated that it was still there. He hated that he couldn't look away from Adrian's body, even now, even with the emptiness behind his eyes.

Lena had finished with the milker. She straightened, wiped her gloves on a cloth she pulled from her pocket, and turned to Marcus. "The fuck machine is ready. Do you want it now or after transport?"

"Now," Marcus said. "I want him fully acclimated before he's moved."

Eli's breath caught. "Moved where?"

Marcus glanced at him, a flicker of amusement in his gray eyes. "He'll be working in the east wing. Light duties at first—cleaning, inventory, assisting with new arrivals. The machine keeps him productive while the suit does its work."

"He's not a—" Eli stopped. He didn't know what Adrian was. He didn't know what any of them were. "He's not a thing. He's a person. He came here for me."

"And he'll leave here because of you," Marcus said. "Once the engagement period is complete, he'll be released, paid, and free to go. Same as you. Same as Sam. The facility honors its contracts."

The word Sam hit Eli like a slap. Sam, sealed in latex somewhere in this building, waiting to be broken. Sam, who'd asked too many questions and threatened to call the police. Sam, whose freedom depended on Eli's recruitment contract.

Eli had three days. Three days to find three boys like him—desperate, broke, willing to trade their bodies for cash. Three days to decide whether he was the kind of man who did that to someone else.

He looked at Adrian again. The milker was pulsing now, a soft rhythmic squeeze against the collection tube, and Adrian's body responded—a slight twitch of his hips, a subtle shift of his shoulders. His face didn't change. His eyes stayed empty.

But his cock was getting hard inside the suit.

Eli saw it. He couldn't not see it—the way the rubber strained at Adrian's groin, the way the milker's bulb pressed against the swelling shape beneath. The machine was working him. The suit was working him. And Adrian's body was obeying, the way a body does when it's given no choice.

Lena moved past Eli, carrying the fuck machine—a slim, curved rod with a padded base and a strap. She climbed onto the platform, kneeling beside Adrian's thigh, and Eli watched her hands work the suit's anal opening, watched her slide the rod into the rubber sleeve, watched her strap the base to Adrian's thigh with quick, practiced movements.

Adrian's hips shifted again. A low sound escaped his throat—not quite a moan, not quite a whimper. Something between. The sound of a body being used.

Eli's own body responded. The heat in his belly surged, pressed against the cage, made his cock throb against the steel. He hated it. He hated the way his breath came shorter, the way his hands shook for a different reason now, the way his eyes kept finding the curve of Adrian's ass, the way the rubber clung to the shape of him.

"You're hard," Marcus said. Not a question.

Eli's face burned. "I'm not—"

"Don't lie to me, Eli." Marcus's voice was soft, almost kind, which made it worse. "I've been doing this for a long time. I can read the signs."

Eli's jaw tightened. He wanted to say something sharp, something that would cut Marcus down and prove he wasn't the thing Marcus thought he was. But the words wouldn't come. Because he was hard. Because the cage was pressing against him, and the heat was real, and he couldn't look away from Adrian's body on the platform.

"It's natural," Marcus said, stepping closer. "The body responds to what it sees. You watched him go through the same process you went through. Your body remembers. It wants."

"I don't want—"

"You do." Marcus's gray eyes held Eli's, steady and cold. "You just don't want to want it. That's the difference between you and him." He nodded at Adrian. "He's past wanting. He's past resisting. He's just a body now, and the body does what the body does."

Eli's throat was tight. "He trusted me."

"And you honored that trust." Marcus's voice was almost gentle. "You sealed him in. You connected the tube. You gave him what he asked for. Now you're watching him serve the facility, exactly as he agreed."

"He agreed to one night." Eli's voice cracked. "One night on the platform. Not—not this."

"One night on the platform is how it starts. The suit does the rest." Marcus's smile was thin, almost pitying. "You know this, Eli. You've been through it yourself. The first night is the hardest. After that, the body learns."

Eli's hands were shaking again. He pressed them against his thighs, hard, until the tremor stopped. "I didn't—I didn't know it would be like this."

"You knew enough." Marcus's voice was flat now, the gentleness gone. "You knew what the facility does. You knew what the collection process involves. You came anyway, because you needed the money. And now Adrian's here, because he needed yours."

Eli felt the words like a blade. He wanted to argue, wanted to say it wasn't his fault, that he hadn't known, that he'd never meant for Adrian to end up like this. But the words wouldn't come. Because Marcus was right. Eli had known. Not all of it, maybe, but enough. And he'd come anyway.

Lena had finished with the fuck machine. She stepped off the platform, pulling off her gloves, and nodded to Marcus. "He's ready for transport."

Marcus nodded. He crossed to the platform and reached for the restraints—the cuffs at Adrian's wrists, the straps at his ankles. They came free with a series of clicks, and Adrian's body sagged, then steadied. His feet found the floor. His hands hung at his sides.

For a moment, nothing happened. Adrian stood on the platform, head slightly bowed, chest rising and falling under the rubber. The milker pulsed at his groin, a soft mechanical rhythm. The fuck machine was a dark shape against his thigh, its base strapped in place.

Then he moved.

It wasn't a walk. It was more like a shuffle—even, mechanical, each step the same length as the last. His arms didn't swing. His head didn't turn. He moved like a man following a track, his body carrying him forward without any visible decision to do so.

Eli's breath caught. "Adrian."

Adrian didn't stop. He didn't look at Eli. He shuffled past him, close enough that Eli could smell the sweat and rubber on him, close enough that he could see the milker pulsing against the suit, could see the way Adrian's cock strained against the rubber, thick and hard and leaking.

Eli's own cock throbbed against the cage. The heat in his belly surged, made his knees weak. He wanted to reach out, wanted to grab Adrian's arm, wanted to stop him—but his hands wouldn't move. He could only stand there, frozen, watching the body that once held Adrian walk away.

Adrian reached the door. His hand lifted—not his whole arm, just the hand, a puppet's gesture—and pressed the plate. The door slid open. He stepped through without hesitating, without looking back, and the door slid shut behind him with a soft hiss.

The room was suddenly very quiet. The downlights hummed overhead. The platform stood empty, the restraints hanging loose, the rubber sheet still bearing the imprint of Adrian's body.

Eli stood at the edge of the platform, his hands white on the steel, his breath coming in short, shallow gasps. The heat was still there, pulsing behind the cage, and he hated it. He hated himself for feeling it. He hated Marcus for making him watch. He hated Adrian for leaving.

He hated that he didn't know what he was anymore.

"He'll serve the facility now," Marcus said from behind him. His voice was calm, measured, the voice of a man who had seen this a hundred times. "All day, every day, until we're done with him."

Eli's knuckles went white on the steel rail. The words sat in the room like a second body—heavy, breathing, impossible to ignore. He turned, slow, and found Marcus watching him with those gray eyes that gave nothing back. "You said one night. That was the deal."

"The deal was one night on the platform." Marcus smoothed a crease from his cuff, unhurried. "What happens after the platform is the facility's business. You knew that when you brought him here."

"I didn't bring him here. He came because—" Eli stopped. The sentence died in his throat because he didn't know how to finish it. Because he'd asked. Because Adrian had said yes. Because Eli had wanted someone beside him when he walked through that door, and now that someone was shuffling down a corridor with a machine strapped to his cock and nothing behind his eyes.

"Because you needed him," Marcus finished for him. "And he needed you. It's a beautiful symmetry, really. You both got what you asked for."

Eli's stomach turned. The cage pressed against his groin, a cold reminder of everything he'd signed away. "And Sam? Is that what you tell yourself about him too? That he got what he asked for?"

Marcus's smile didn't waver. "Sam asked questions. Sam threatened police. Sam made choices, and his choices led him here. The same way yours led you here, and Adrian's led him here. I don't make anyone do anything, Eli. I just provide the door."

The room's downlights hummed overhead, steady and indifferent. Eli could still smell Adrian on the air—sweat and rubber and something faintly chemical, the smell of the suit's lining. He'd sealed that suit himself. He'd worked the clasps with his own shaking fingers, guided the helmet over Adrian's head, watched the rubber settle against his jaw like a second skin.

He'd made a choice. Every step of the way, he'd made a choice.

"The east wing," Eli said, his voice flat. "What happens to him there?"

Marcus tilted his head, considering. "He'll be productive. The suit keeps him calm, the machine keeps him stimulated, and the work keeps him occupied. He'll eat, he'll rest, he'll serve his engagement. In a few weeks, when the count is complete, he'll walk out of here with more money than he's ever held and a story he'll never tell."

"And if he doesn't walk out?"

"He will." Marcus's voice was certain, almost kind. "They always do. The body remembers what it learned here, but the mind—the mind finds a way to forget. It's the body's greatest gift."

Eli thought of the way Adrian had moved—the puppet's gesture of his hand, the even shuffle of his feet, the empty eyes that didn't blink. He thought of the way Adrian's cock had strained against the rubber, hard and leaking, responding to a machine that didn't care who he was.

He thought of the way his own body had responded to watch it.

"I want to see him," Eli said. "Tomorrow. I want to see that he's okay."

Marcus's eyebrows rose a fraction. "That's not how the facility works, Eli. You know that."

"I know what you've shown me." Eli's voice was steadier now, harder. "You've shown me the collection room. You've shown me the platform. You've shown me Sam sealed in a suit and Adrian shuffled out of here like he was on rails. I haven't seen what happens after. I want to see it."

Marcus studied him for a long moment. The hum of the downlights filled the silence. Eli's hands were still shaking, but he kept them flat against his thighs, kept his chin up, kept his eyes on Marcus's.

"Tomorrow night," Marcus said finally. "Your third count. After it's done, if you've signed the recruitment agreement, I'll show you the east wing. You can see Adrian. You can see Sam. You can see exactly what the facility does with the boys who serve it."

Eli's throat tightened. The recruitment agreement. Three boys like him. Three bodies to trade for Sam's freedom, for the key to his cage, for the chance to walk away from this place and never look back.

"And if I don't sign?"

Marcus's smile thinned. "Then you'll still have your third count. You'll still get paid. You'll still walk out of here with the key to your cage and your friend still sealed in the east wing, waiting for someone to decide he's worth saving."

The words landed like a door closing. Eli stood at the edge of the platform, the steel rail cold under his hands, the empty room stretching around him. Adrian was gone. Sam was gone. And in three nights, Eli would be the one on the chair, the machine working his body, the cage locked around him, waiting to see which way he'd break.

"You have until nine tomorrow," Marcus said, checking his watch. "The door's unlocked. Lena will be waiting in the collection room." He turned and walked toward the door, his footsteps unhurried on the white floor. "Don't be late, Eli. You wouldn't want to miss your own count."

The door slid shut behind him. The room was quiet again, the platform empty, the restraints hanging loose. Eli stood alone in the white light, the smell of Adrian still in his nose, the weight of the cage still pressing against his groin, and the recruitment agreement still unsigned in his jacket pocket.