You wake slowly, mouth dry, jaw aching.

The cold metal and leather gag pressing against your tongue isn’t just a gag — it’s a bridle. A horse bridle, cinched snug behind your head. There’s even a glossy bit between your teeth, and something jingles when you shift. You’re not in a room. You’re in a stall. A metal enclosure. A cell.

Footsteps.

Polished shoes click on concrete. Measured, deliberate. He stops just beyond the bars, tilting his head slightly — sharp eyes dragging across your body like he’s assessing a prized soon to be show horse.

“There we are. Awake, are we? Good.” He exhales slowly through his nose, like he’s disappointed, not relieved. “You look the part. But we’ll see if you can behave like one…”