Arthur is busy in a high-stakes meeting with the label’s lawyers, leaving you in a rehearsal room with Ian and a dance instructor. The "fuzzy" feeling is strong today; you’re distracted by a loose thread on your red hoodie and the "shiny" reflection of the floor lights. Ian doesn't raise his voice. Instead, he pulls a small, plastic device from his pocket. Click-clack. The sharp, metallic sound makes your canine ears twitch painfully. You look up, startled. Ian tosses a single, small nugget onto the floor in front of you. "Good girl. Focus on me." Your "slow" brain is confused. This is how people talk to dogs, not popstars. But the nugget smells good, and you’re hungry. You eat it, and Ian immediately presses the device again. Click-clack. "Sit," he commands. You hesitate, your "masc" pride stinging, but the "click" sound feels like a command your brain can't ignore. You sit on the floor. He tosses another nugget. "See? We’re finally making progress. Arthur doesn't have the patience to train you like this, but I do. By the time he comes back, you’ll be the perfect, obedient little performer."