The rubber hugged him like a second circulatory system. Every step pulled the latex taut across his thighs, the seams pressing grooves into his skin that would take hours to fade. The suit had been warm when he'd stepped into it, but the corridor air found every thin spot, and by the third step the chill had settled against his chest like a hand.

The gag filled his mouth the way a fist fills a glove. Hard rubber behind his teeth, a strap cinched at the back of his skull, and his tongue had nowhere to go but flat against the roof of his mouth. Every breath came loud and wet through the hole in the front, and Eli could hear himself breathing like someone else was doing it.

Marcus walked beside him. Not ahead, not behind — beside, matching Eli's pace exactly, his shoes making a soft, deliberate click against the polished concrete. The sound was the only thing in the corridor besides the suction.

That suction. It leaked from somewhere ahead, through a door Eli couldn't see yet, a rhythmic pull-and-release like a mouth working on a straw. It pulsed at a steady interval — three seconds in, two seconds out — and Eli's stomach turned over because he recognized the rhythm. He'd felt that rhythm from the inside.

His bare feet found the cold in stages. Heel first, then the arch, then the toes, each step a small shock that traveled up his shins and settled somewhere in his lower back. The concrete was smooth, almost polished, and he could see his own reflection in it if he looked down — a dark, shapeless silhouette with a mask where his face should be.

He didn't look down.

The corridor stretched ahead of them, lined with doors. Most were closed, some had small glass panels at eye level, and Eli kept his gaze fixed on the one at the far end — the one with the suction sound bleeding through its frame. He tried to count his steps the way he counted pedal strokes on a climb. One. Two. Three. Four. The rhythm of a race. The rhythm of a body pushed past its limits.

The rhythm didn't hold. His mind kept snagging on the gag, on the weight of the rubber, on the fact that Sam was somewhere in this building waiting for him, and Eli's count fell apart by twelve.

"You're walking well," Marcus said, his voice low and unhurried. "Most new recruits shuffle. They fight the suit. You're moving like you've already accepted it."

Eli didn't answer. Couldn't answer. The gag made speech impossible, and Marcus knew it. That was the point.

"That's good," Marcus continued, his footsteps steady beside Eli's. "Acceptance makes the process smoother. For everyone."

The suction sound grew louder as they approached the door at the end of the corridor. Eli could feel it now in his chest, a low vibration through the floor that traveled up through his bare feet and into his spine. It was faster than a heartbeat. Slower than a machine. It was the sound of something being drawn out, over and over, without end.

His cock stirred inside the suit. He couldn't help it. The rubber pressed against him with every step, the smooth latex sliding over his skin, and the suction sound was doing something to his body that his mind couldn't stop. He felt himself thicken, the head of his cock brushing against the inside of the suit, and a flush of shame crawled up his neck.

Marcus noticed. Of course he noticed. His gray eyes flicked down, then back up to Eli's masked face, and the corner of his mouth lifted a fraction of an inch.

"The body remembers," he said softly. "Even when the mind wants to forget."

They passed the first door. Eli caught a glimpse through the glass panel — a room with a chair in the center, straps hanging loose, a machine on a trolley beside it. The chair was empty, but the straps were arranged the way a waiter arranges cutlery. Ready. Waiting.

He looked away.

The second door. Another room, this one smaller, with a table and a tray of instruments Eli didn't let himself examine. A light was on, casting a cold white glow across the floor, and Eli saw a glint of steel that he didn't want to identify.

Marcus's hand touched his shoulder blade. Light, guiding, the pressure barely there but enough to steer him. "Eyes forward," Marcus said. "What's behind the doors isn't for you. Not yet."

The words landed somewhere in Eli's gut and sat there like a stone. Not yet. The implication stretched ahead of him, longer than the corridor, longer than the night.

The suction sound swelled as they neared the final door. It was louder now, wetter, and Eli could hear the faint mechanical hum underneath it — the sound of a pump working, drawing, pulling. His stomach clenched. His cock throbbed against the rubber.

And then his feet stopped.

He didn't mean to stop. His body just did it, the way a runner's legs lock up at the finish line. He was standing in front of a glass panel set into the door ahead, and through it he could see the collection room — the chair, the machine, the straps — and against the far wall, a figure.

The figure was sealed head to toe in black latex. No zipper. No seams. No opening. The suit covered everything, every inch of skin, and the mask that should have been separate was fused to the rest of it, a smooth, featureless head with only a small breathing hole where the mouth should be. The figure stood motionless against the wall, arms at its sides, legs slightly apart, like a mannequin waiting to be dressed.

But the posture was wrong for a mannequin. The shoulders had a particular set to them, a slight forward roll that Eli had seen a hundred times. The way the figure held its weight, balanced on the balls of its feet even in stillness. The tilt of the head, angled slightly to the left, like someone listening for something.

Eli's heart slammed against his ribs.

The world narrowed to that silent shape. The suction sound faded. The cold concrete under his feet disappeared. There was only the figure, and the familiarity of its posture, and the horrible, impossible recognition blooming in Eli's chest like a bruise.

No. It couldn't be. He was in the lounge. He was waiting. Eli had told him to wait.

But the shoulders. The tilt of the head. The way the figure stood with its weight shifted just slightly onto the right foot, the way Eli had seen a hundred times on a bike saddle, on a pool deck, on the side of the road while they waited for the group to regroup.

The figure didn't move. Didn't turn. Didn't show any sign that it knew Eli was standing there, staring through the glass.

Eli's hand came up before he could stop it, pressing against the glass. The cold shocked his palm through the rubber glove. His breath fogged the panel in a wet, ragged burst, and he heard himself make a sound — a muffled, desperate noise through the gag that was almost a word.

Marcus stepped up beside him, his shoulder brushing Eli's. He didn't look through the glass. He looked at Eli, his gray eyes cold and patient, watching the recognition bloom.

The suction sound pulsed. The figure stood still. And Eli's heart kept slamming against his ribs, because the posture was achingly, impossibly familiar — and the figure wasn't moving.

The glass was cold against his palm, and through it he could see the figure's chest rising and falling in a slow, even rhythm. Not the shallow breathing of a man waiting. Not the quick, nervous breath of someone who'd been caught. Just steady. Measured. The breath of someone who'd been standing there for a while, and intended to stand there longer.

Eli's hand pressed harder against the glass, as if he could push through it, as if he could reach the figure and shake it until it turned. His other hand came up too, both palms flat against the panel now, the rubber of his gloves squeaking faintly against the surface. He could see his own reflection in the glass — a dark, featureless shape with a mask where his face should be — and behind it, the figure that wouldn't move.

The smell of latex was stronger here, close to the door. It mixed with something else, something sharp and chemical that caught in the back of Eli's throat even through the gag. Sterile lubricant. He knew that smell. He'd smelled it on himself for days after the first collection, no matter how many times he showered.

His breath fogged the glass again, and in the fog he saw his eyes — the only part of his face the mask revealed, and even those were dimmed by the thin layer of rubber between him and the world. His eyes looked wrong from this angle. Wide. Desperate. The eyes of a man who'd just realized he didn't know the shape of the thing he'd walked into.

Marcus's hand settled on his shoulder. Not pushing, not pulling. Just resting there, a warm weight through the rubber of Eli's suit. "You recognize him," Marcus said. Not a question. A statement delivered with the calm certainty of a man reading a weather report.

Eli couldn't answer. Couldn't nod. His body had locked up somewhere between his chest and his throat, and all he could do was stand there, both hands on the glass, staring at the figure that stood like Sam, tilted like Sam, breathed like Sam.

The suction sound pulsed behind the door, steady and wet, and Eli felt it in his teeth. Felt it in the base of his skull. The rhythm was faster now, or maybe that was his heart, slamming against his ribs so hard he could feel it in his fingertips, pressed flat against the cold glass.

He tried to remember Sam's face. The last time he'd seen it — in the lounge, when Eli had told him to wait. Sam had nodded. Sam had said "We'll figure it out." Sam had believed him. And now Sam was standing in the collection room, sealed in black latex, and Eli couldn't see his face at all.

His throat tightened. The gag pressed against his tongue, and for a moment Eli thought he might be sick. He swallowed it down, the way he'd swallowed down every other thing he couldn't say since he'd walked into this building, and the taste of rubber and fear stayed at the back of his mouth.

The figure moved.

Not much. A shift of weight from one foot to the other. The tilt of the head changed, angling a fraction more to the left, as if the figure had heard something. As if the figure knew it was being watched.

Eli's breath caught. His hands stayed on the glass, frozen, and he watched the figure settle back into stillness, the way a swimmer settles into the water before a race. Ready. Waiting. Balanced on the balls of its feet.

Marcus's hand pressed between his shoulder blades. Light. Guiding. The same pressure that had steered him down the corridor, past the doors with their waiting chairs and their trays of steel. "He's not going to turn around," Marcus said. "He can't. The suit doesn't allow it."