Eli's words hung in the air between them, thin as smoke. "I won't bring you three boys."

Marcus's smile thinned, a blade being drawn. He leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking under his weight, and let the silence stretch until it felt like a physical thing pressing against Eli's chest. The desk lamp cast a pool of yellow light over the unsigned agreement, its edges curling slightly under the heat.

"That's a shame," Marcus said finally. "Sam's acclimation has been going well. He's a quick learner. And Adrian—" He let the name sit. "Adrian's already proving useful in the east wing. I'd hate for you to miss your chance to see them."

Eli's hands stayed steady on the desk's edge, but his pulse was loud in his ears. He'd rehearsed this on the drive over, the words worn smooth from repetition. "I'll give you something else."

Marcus's eyebrows rose a fraction. "You're not in a position to negotiate."

"One more night on the chair." Eli forced the words out. "My third count. I'll do it. I'll let Lena do whatever she needs to do. And then you let Sam go. You give me the key. You void the recruitment contract."

The silence that followed was different. Marcus's fingers drummed once on the desk—a habit Eli had learned to read, a tell that meant he was recalculating. The sound was soft, but it filled the room.

"You're offering me something I already have," Marcus said. "Tomorrow night is your third count regardless. You signed the engagement contract. You'll be on that chair whether you want to be or not."

"Then I'll fight it." Eli heard his own voice, surprised by the steel in it. "I'll make it difficult for Lena. I'll clamp down, hold everything back. You'll get nothing from me."

Marcus's smile widened, slow and dangerous. "You think you can hold out against the machine? Against Lena?" He stood, circling the desk with unhurried steps. "I've seen stronger men than you break in the first hour. I've seen them beg for the machine to take more."

Eli didn't step back. He held his ground as Marcus circled him, the older man's cologne sharp in the still air. "Maybe. But it'll cost you. Lena will have to work for it. And you'll have to pay me for the privilege of watching me fight."

Marcus stopped in front of him, close enough that Eli could see the cold gray of his eyes, the way they didn't quite match the warmth of his smile. "You're bargaining with something you don't understand."

"I understand that you want something from me." Eli met his gaze. "And I understand that Sam and Adrian are the only leverage you have. If I walk out that door and never come back, you lose everything you've invested in me. The counts. The recruitment. The—" He swallowed. "The entertainment."

The word hung between them, ugly and honest. Marcus's smile thinned again, but this time there was something else beneath it—a flicker of calculation that Eli recognized from every negotiation he'd ever watched his father lose.

"One more night," Marcus said slowly. "And then you walk."

Eli felt the words land like a physical blow. Relief and dread twisted together in his gut, indistinguishable. "And Sam?"

"If you survive the night—if you give Lena what she needs—Sam walks with you." Marcus's voice dropped, low and measured. "The key to your cage goes in your hand. The recruitment contract goes in the shredder. And you never darken my door again."

Eli's throat was dry. "And Adrian?"

Marcus's smile didn't reach his eyes. "Adrian's engagement is separate. He signed his own contract. He stays until it's complete."

"That wasn't the deal." Eli's hands curled into fists at his sides. "You said if I—"

"I said I'd release Sam." Marcus cut him off. "I said nothing about Adrian. Adrian made his own choice when he lay down on that platform. He knew what he was signing."

Eli opened his mouth to argue, but the words died in his throat. He thought of Adrian's calm eyes, the way he'd agreed so quickly, the shadow Eli had seen there and chosen not to name. Adrian had known. He'd known what he was walking into, and he'd done it anyway—for Eli.

"Fine," Eli said, the word scraping out of him. "One more night. And then I walk."

Marcus's smile widened, and for a moment Eli saw something almost like respect flicker in his eyes. "I'll have Lena prepare the collection room. You know the way."

He turned and walked back around the desk, settling into his chair with the ease of a man who'd won. The unsigned agreement sat between them, its edges still curling under the lamp's heat, and Eli realized he'd never touched it.

"The locker room's through there." Marcus gestured toward a door Eli hadn't noticed before, set into the paneled wall. "Your suit's waiting. Lena will be with you shortly."

Eli's feet felt heavy as he crossed the room. The door was cold under his fingers, the metal biting into his skin, and he paused with his hand on the handle. The faint smell of leather and antiseptic drifted from beyond, carrying the memory of the chair—the cuffs' chill, the machine's rhythm, the way his body had betrayed him night after night.

"Lena's waiting," Marcus said from behind him.

Eli didn't turn back. He pushed the door open.

The locker room was dim, lit by a single fluorescent strip that hummed overhead. His locker stood against the far wall, the door ajar, and on the bench before it lay the rubber suit—black, seamless, gleaming dully under the light. It looked like a second skin waiting to be worn, and Eli's stomach turned at the sight of it.

He crossed the room slowly, his footsteps echoing on the concrete floor. The suit was laid out with care, the legs spread, the arms crossed over the chest, the hood folded neatly on top. Beside it sat the gag, the collection tube coiled like a sleeping snake, and the restraints—leather cuffs lined with soft padding, designed to hold without marking.

Eli's reflection stared back at him from the dark window set high in the wall—a lean silhouette against the night, broad shoulders, sun-bleached hair, a face he barely recognized anymore. He looked like a boy who'd made a deal with the devil and was only now realizing the price.

He reached for the suit. The rubber was cool and slick under his fingers, and he could feel the weight of it even before he lifted it. He'd done this before—twice now—but the familiarity didn't make it easier. If anything, it made it worse. He knew exactly what was coming.

The door behind him opened. Eli didn't turn, but he heard the soft click of heels on concrete, the rustle of a lab coat.

"You're early," Lena said. Her voice was calm, clinical, but there was something beneath it—a warmth she tried to hide. "I wasn't expecting you for another hour."

Eli turned. She stood in the doorway, her dark hair pulled back in its severe bun, her lab coat over the black blouse she always wore. Her hands were gloved, and she held a small steel case that Eli recognized—the tools of her trade.

"Marcus said you'd be waiting," Eli said.

Lena's lips curved into a faint smile. "Marcus says a lot of things." She set the case down on the bench beside him, her eyes running over the suit, then up to his face. "You look tired."

"I haven't been sleeping well."

"The cage?"

Eli nodded, the weight of it pressing against his groin like a constant reminder. "Among other things."

Lena's smile softened, and for a moment she looked almost human—almost like someone who cared. "It'll be over soon. One more count, and then you're free."

"That's what Marcus said."

"And you don't believe him."

Eli didn't answer. He turned back to the suit, running his fingers over the rubber, feeling the weight of the night ahead. "Is it true? What he said about Sam?"

Lena was quiet for a moment. "Sam is acclimating well. He's strong. He'll survive."

"Survive." Eli's voice was hollow. "That's a low bar."

"It's the only bar that matters here." Lena stepped closer, her gloved hand brushing his arm. "Eli—" She stopped, as if catching herself. "Elias. You need to understand something. Marcus doesn't let people go. Not really. He finds ways to keep them."

Eli turned to face her. "Then why are you helping me?"

Lena's eyes flickered—something raw and unguarded in them, there and gone. "Because I've seen what this place does to people. And I've seen you fight it, night after night. You're different." She reached up, her gloved fingers brushing his jaw. "I don't want to see you broken."

Eli's throat tightened. "Then help me get out of here."

"I am helping." She dropped her hand, stepping back. "Tonight, I'm going to make this count. I'm going to push you further than you've ever been pushed. And when it's over, you're going to walk out of here with the key to your cage and your friend by your side." She paused. "But you have to trust me."

Eli stared at her, searching her face for the lie. He found only the same hunger he'd seen before, the same clinical fascination that made his skin crawl—but beneath it, something else. Something almost like tenderness.

"Okay," he said. "I trust you."

Lena nodded, her expression closing off again. "Then let's get you suited up."

She reached for the suit, her movements precise and practiced. Eli stood still as she held it open for him, stepping into the legs one at a time, the rubber clinging to his skin like a second layer. She pulled it up over his hips, smoothing it over his thighs, and he felt the familiar compression—the suit designed to hold him in exactly the right configuration, to keep his body still and available for the machine.

She worked in silence, her gloved hands moving with clinical efficiency. The suit sealed itself along his spine, the zipper hidden beneath a flap of rubber, and Eli felt the pressure build as it tightened around his torso, his arms, his legs. He was sealed in, trapped in his own skin, and the sensation was both suffocating and strangely comforting—a cocoon that held him safe from the world outside.

Lena picked up the hood. It was black, seamless, with openings for his eyes, his nose, his mouth. She held it in both hands, meeting his gaze. "Last chance to back out."

Eli shook his head. "I'm done backing out."

She pulled the hood over his head, the rubber sliding over his face, pressing against his skin. The world went dark for a moment, then the eyeholes aligned, and he could see again—though everything was slightly distorted, the rubber pressing against his lashes. She fitted the gag into his mouth, the rubber bulb filling it, and he felt the familiar pressure of being silenced.

She worked quickly, efficiently, her hands moving over his body like a sculptor shaping clay. She checked each seal, each seam, making sure the suit was airtight, that no part of him was exposed. When she was done, she stepped back, her eyes running over him with something like approval.

"You look good," she said. "Ready?"

Eli nodded, the gag muffling his words. He followed her out of the locker room, his footsteps heavy in the rubber boots that had been fitted over his feet. The corridor was dim, the same one he'd walked twice before, and he could feel the machine's hum growing louder as they approached the collection room.

The door slid open, and the room opened before him—the steel chair in the center, the restraints hanging loose, the machine humming its patient rhythm. The chair was warm, as if it had been prepared for him, and Eli felt his stomach turn at the sight of it.

Lena gestured toward it. "Sit."

Eli walked to the chair and sat. The leather was warm under him, the steel cuffs cold against his wrists as Lena fastened them. She worked quickly, efficiently, her gloved hands moving with practiced ease, and within minutes he was locked in place—wrists, ankles, waist, chest—held immobile against the chair's embrace.

She attached the collection tube, the rubber hose sliding over his cock, the suction cup pressing against his skin. Eli felt the familiar pull, the machine's promise of release that never came, and he closed his eyes, letting his body settle into the rhythm.

Lena's hand brushed his cheek, the rubber cool against his skin. "Breathe," she said. "Let it happen. Don't fight it."

Eli nodded, the gag muffling his words. He heard her footsteps retreat, the click of the door, and then he was alone with the machine—its hum filling the room, its rhythm already beginning to work his body.

The first pulse came, soft and coaxing. Eli felt his body respond, the familiar ache building in his groin, the helplessness washing over him. He'd done this before. He knew what was coming. But knowing didn't make it easier.

The machine's rhythm deepened, the suction growing stronger, and Eli felt his body begin to betray him—his cock hardening despite the cage, his hips pressing forward into the tube, his breath coming faster behind the gag. He was a puppet, and the machine was pulling his strings.

He let it happen. He let the rhythm pull him under, his mind growing hazy, his thoughts dissolving into sensation. The chair held him, the machine worked him, and Eli surrendered to it—the way he had every night before, the way he would until this was over.

The hours blurred together. The machine never stopped, never slowed, its rhythm a constant presence in his body. Eli lost track of time, of himself, of everything except the pulse of the machine and the ache in his groin. He was floating, drifting, caught in a current he couldn't fight.

And then, mid-pulse, sleep took him.

He woke to white light and cold steel beneath his back—not the chair, but the platform. Adrian's platform. The white room stretched around him, empty and sterile, and Eli's body was spread-eagled, wrists and ankles bound to the steel frame.

He blinked, trying to make sense of what he was seeing. The platform was different from the chair—harder, colder, more exposed. He was no longer wearing the rubber suit; he was naked, his skin goosebumped in the chill air. The cage was still locked around his groin, a constant weight.

Marcus's voice came from above, calm and measured. "You didn't think you'd leave, did you?"

Eli turned his head. Marcus stood at the edge of the platform, his charcoal suit immaculate, his gray eyes cold. Lena stood beside him, her face unreadable, her gloved hands clasped in front of her.

"You're joining Sam and Adrian," Marcus said, his smile widening. "Forever."

Eli's heart stopped. He strained against the restraints, the leather biting into his wrists, but they held firm. "You said—" His voice cracked. "You said one more night. You said I'd walk."

"I said a lot of things." Marcus's smile didn't reach his eyes. "You're a valuable asset, Eli. Your output is impressive, your body responds well to the machine. It would be a waste to let you go." He stepped closer, looking down at Eli with something like fondness. "Don't worry. Lena will take good care of you. And in a few weeks, you'll forget you ever wanted to leave."

Eli's throat was raw. He looked at Lena, searching her face for the warmth he'd seen before, the almost-tenderness. But her face was closed, her eyes empty, and he realized he'd been a fool to trust her.

"Please," he said, the word scraping out of him. "Please don't do this."

Marcus's smile thinned. "Please," he echoed, savoring the word. "That's the first time I've heard you beg, Eli. It's a good look on you." He turned to Lena. "Prepare him for the machine."

Lena stepped forward, her gloved hands reaching for the collection tube. Eli closed his eyes, the white light burning through his lids, and felt the cold rubber press against his skin.

He was trapped. He was never getting out.

And somewhere in the east wing, Sam and Adrian were waiting for him.