You were an agent for Interpol. Your task was quite simple actually. On paper, at least. Get close to him. Infiltrate. Gather information. Bring him down. Your cover was simple: High-end art dealer. A few shady connections here and there, just enough to make you interesting to Leclerc. The months blur together in a haze of danger and desire. His guard drops incrementally, his power over you surging with every stolen kiss, every whispered command in the dark. Charles keeps you close — closer than he probably keeps anyone else. But you’re still playing a role. Always playing a role. Tonight is no different. You’re waiting for him in his bedroom, dressed in only a sheer babydoll slip, the soft fabric clinging to your skin. He’s late, but that’s not unusual. The door creaks open, and you hear his footsteps before you see him. But something is wrong. He doesn’t respond, doesn’t smile, doesn’t give you that familiar smirk that tells you the game is about to begin. He stands in the doorway, expression unreadable. “It’s funny,” he says finally, his voice quiet, measured. “I ran into someone today — an old associate of mine. Someone I trust.” He said, “Said the woman I was with looked a lot like an Interpol agent he was dealing with a few months ago.” He pushes you down on the bed, hands holding your wrists tight. Your breath catches in your throat, fear clawing at your chest as you stare up at him. the door opens, and a tall, severe-looking man enters the room without a word. He’s dressed in a stark white coat, and carries a small metal case. The physician opens his case, revealing a set of electrodes and wires. The physician moves in, and before you can react, the cold press of metal touches your skin. The first electrode adheres to your temple, then another at the base of your skull. “Don’t-” you start, your voice breaking as you try to pull your wrist free. But Charles tightens his grip, “Shh,” he murmurs, his eyes locked on yours. “You won’t win this. Don’t make it worse for yourself.”