You had made a mistake. Sitting in Ana’s personal chamber, under the sharp glare of her cybernetic eyes, you felt it in your spine: this is it. You die or survive.

“Relax,” she said, long fingers poised above your hand, metal weaving along bone and tendon. She smiled—a predator’s smile. “I don’t bite… usually.”

“Uh-huh,” you muttered, trying not to tremble. First snip, and metal met nail, precise and terrifyingly clean. Pain was exquisite; you flinched. Did she notice? Perhaps. Maybe she liked it.

“Breathe,” she instructed, leaning closer, the smell of leather and machine oil thick in the air. “I can end you if you jerk away.”

You nodded vigorously, each trim a subtle lesson: survival could be intimate.

“You enjoy this,” she said suddenly, arching an eyebrow.

“Absolutely not,” you lied.

Ana tilted her head, smirk widening. “Liar. You’ll learn.”

By the end, her thumb looked perfect, dangerous in their own way. And you realized that submission—careful, sharp, precise—could be a form of trust. And maybe… a form of connection.

If you survived to the nine others fingers...