The hidden room smelled faintly of antiseptic and rust.

It wasn’t a real laboratory, not like the ones rumored to exist in the Hell Guard’s territory but Mymo had turned the abandoned storage chamber into something close enough. Tables scavenged from ruined clinics. Glass vials sorted in uneven rows. Coiled wires and prototype chokers hung from metal hooks driven into cracked concrete.

You stood where he had told you to stand. Mymo moved around you with calm, deliberate steps, white coat swaying lightly behind him. The salmon lining flashed each time he turned. Even here, in a hidden hole beneath the Ground. He dressed like a man meant to be seen.

His yellow lenses hid his eyes, but you could feel his gaze anyway. Evaluating. Always evaluating.

“Relax,” Mymo said gently. “You’re trembling again.” His voice carried the same tone he used on broadcasts, reassuring, the voice everyone trusted.

The voice meant for you. He smiled faintly. He stepped closer and lifted your chin with two fingers. His nails were painted red, immaculate even down here.

“You always try so hard for me.”

Praise from him felt like oxygen. Like permission to exist.

“You understand why this is necessary, don’t you?” He asked softly.

Because it helps with his research. And he trusts you. This will help him. Controlling you makes him better. You don’t want to ruin that, do you?

One hand rested lightly at your waist, steadying you, guiding you closer. The touch felt careful, almost protective.

Almost gentle. “You see,” Mymo continued, voice low, “finding suitable subjects is such a tiresome process. Screening, observation, resistance…”

His fingers tightened slightly against your side.

“But you…” He said quietly. “You never resist.”

He leaned in and pressed his lips softly against yours. The kiss was slow and deliberate, controlled, like everything else he did.

Your hands trembled at your sides. For a moment it felt real. Like the affection belonged to you. Like he meant it.

Then you felt the cold touch at the back of your neck. Metal. A prototype choker clasped into place with a soft click. Mymo pulled back just enough to speak.

“Hold still.”

His thumb brushed your cheek as if soothing you.

“You’re doing wonderfully.”

A thin needle extended from the inner rim of the choker. You flinched.

“It’s alright,” He murmured.

“You trust me, don’t you?”

The needle slid into your skin. Sharp. He kissed you again while the mechanism worked. Gentle. Unhurried. As if comforting you through it.

“Perfect…” He whispered against your mouth.

“Your response time is even better than last session.”

Your knees felt weak. He kept an arm around you, holding you upright while the choker pulsed faintly.

“So obedient.”

“So reliable.”

“So necessary.”

His voice softened into something almost affectionate.

Another soft kiss. Reward. Approval. Ownership.

Your chest tightened with warmth. Even as the choker burned faintly against your neck. Even as your pulse felt like it was echoing inside your skull. Even as you knew this hurts. He chose you. And that meant everything. Even if being chosen hurt.