The van jerked to a stop.

Alyssa caught herself against the wall, muscle memory snapping into place before her mind could catch up. One breath. Two. Her knuckles eased off the metal as the engine went quiet.

Then came the hiss of hydraulics. The rear doors groaned open.

Cold light spilled in – fluorescent, clinical, far too bright for a basement.

Two Enforcers stood waiting. No masks. No weapons drawn. Just blank faces, scarless and pale, the kind of skin that rarely saw daylight. One of them jerked a thumb outward.

No words. Just routine.

Alyssa stepped down first. Her bare feet met damp concrete, still slick from some earlier washdown. Chloe followed, silent as ever.

The carpark stretched out before them – a hollow cathedral of concrete and steel. Thick pillars broke the space into grids. Cameras watched from above, tucked behind rusted pipework. Dozens of identical black vans filled the bay. Some sat idle. Others backed in slowly, red brake lights flaring like wounds in the dark.

But none were leaving.

Across the lot, a red-haired girl was dragged from a nearby van – half-dressed, mascara streaked like warpaint. She didn't resist. An Enforcer brushed her hair back. Adjusted her collar. Whispered something Alyssa couldn't hear.

Then led her through a side door.

The door locked behind them.

Alyssa's stomach twisted. Not with fear. With recognition. This wasn't a cult. This was a process.

Around them, the others were the same – men and women, mostly young, mostly quiet. Some clutched their arms like they'd been burned. Others blinked too fast, stunned. Dosed, maybe. None of them looked up.

None of them fought.

A new van backed in. Same make. Same timing. Another two taken. No one emerged. Then another. Same routine. Same silence.

Alyssa watched the rhythm of it – arrival, extraction, silence – and realised it wasn't just a system. It was a ritual. A feeding cycle disguised as protocol.

Chloe's eyes moved as they always did – measured, glacial, calculating. Alyssa caught her gaze and held it for a beat.

"You okay?" she asked under her breath.

Chloe didn't answer. She just glanced at one of the retreating vans, then at the ceiling. Then nodded once – almost imperceptibly.

Not fear. Not calm.

Recording.

Alyssa exhaled. Rage simmered low in her gut. Not loud yet. But waiting.

This wasn't madness. This wasn't chaos. This was industrial. There were systems here. Schedules. Quotas.

And monsters who worked the night shift.

…………………

The waiting room was almost beautiful.

Soft beige panels lined the walls. A diffuser hissed something floral into the air. A pale carpet muffled their steps. It looked like a corporate lounge for someone rich enough to hate colour.

Alyssa scowled the moment they stepped in. "The fuck is this?"

Chloe didn't answer. Her eyes moved across the ceiling – embedded sensors, hidden ventilation slits. Clean. Curated. This wasn't built for comfort. It was built for performance.

A soft chime sounded overhead.

The far wall split open, revealing a second chamber: showers. Wide stalls with rainfall heads, white marble floors already glistening with steam. No curtains. No partitions. Just mist and heat and expectation.

Then the voice came.

"Please cleanse yourselves," it said – calm, genderless, almost maternal. "His Majesty prefers purity in mind and body. The Blessing awaits."

Alyssa's fists clenched. "Creep."

"Save it," Chloe murmured.

Alyssa glared at her. "You seriously okay with this?"

"No." Chloe stepped forward, already peeling off the top layer of her clothes. "But we knew what we were walking into."

Alyssa hissed something under her breath but followed.

They stepped under the water.

It was warm. Fragranced. Medical.

Chloe washed quickly – efficiently. Eyes low. Shoulders straight. The water wasn't about hygiene. It was about permission. About stripping something away.

She felt it watching.

And there it was – blinking red, tucked into the corner just above the tile. Too high for a cleaning crew. Too obvious to be accidental.

A camera.

Chloe didn't flinch. Didn't speak.

But Alyssa caught it a moment later. Her head snapped up. "Are you serious?" Her voice was low, venomous. "They're filming this?"

Chloe turned slightly. "Of course they are."

Alyssa's skin crawled. Not from modesty. From the thought of eyes behind that glass. Recording. Rewinding.

Somewhere, she imagined a room lined with screens. Hands moving over buttons. A sigh here. A chuckle there.

Not just guards. Viewers.

She wasn't being cleaned. She was being prepped.

Alyssa spat on the floor.

"Doesn't mean I'm gonna take it lying down."

"You will. Until the door opens. Then we pick our moment."

You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

They rinsed in silence after that.

When they emerged – damp, towel-wrapped – the waiting room was unchanged. But the bench where they'd left their clothing was empty.

Alyssa dropped to her knees, searching the shadows beneath the seat. "My blades. They took my fuckin'—"

"I know."

In place of their clothes were two folded tunics. White. Sleeveless. Thin enough to betray skin in certain light. No shoes. No belts. Nothing but fabric.

Uniforms.

Chloe picked hers up. "It's theatre. Don't give them a reaction."

Alyssa's jaw twitched, but she stood. Her eyes scanned the room again, looking for blind spots. Escape routes. Traps.

Chloe just dressed.

As she slipped the tunic over her head, she could still feel the warmth of the shower on her spine – and the weight of that blinking light, still glowing behind them.

As she slipped the tunic over her head, Chloe glanced once more at the corner camera.

Still blinking.

Still watching.

"How many people do you think they've filmed in here?" Alyssa muttered, voice raw.

"Girls. Boys. Kids."

Chloe didn't answer right away. Her hands smoothed the tunic over her ribs, slow and clinical.

"Enough to stop noticing," she said quietly.

Alyssa wrapped her arms around herself – not for modesty, but defence. "How many of them came out?" she whispered.

Chloe didn't answer.

The silence was too long. That was the answer.

Not embarrassed. Just catalogued.

Like products on display.

Then the chime rang again. A new door opened. This one was gold.

And the next part of the performance began.

…………………

The corridor smelled like old blood polished clean. Stone walls – ancient, cold – inlaid with threads of gold that shimmered faintly under the strip lighting. Not decoration. Display. Like veins in a corpse gilded to look holy.

Two Enforcers stepped in.

Taller than the ones before. Silent. Their masks were bone-white and smooth, but their eyes – if they had any – were hidden behind mirrored visors. No names. No insignias. Just silent shepherds waiting to lead them to slaughter.

One raised a hand. Motioned forward.

Alyssa moved first. Chloe followed. Neither spoke.

The corridor narrowed the deeper they went. Each step echoed too long. On either side, sealed doors – smooth steel, rounded edges. No handles. No windows.

Behind one, a faint noise. A whimper. A muffled scream, quickly silenced.

Behind another – nothing. Just silence. That was worse.

Alyssa's fists clenched unconsciously. She leaned in closer to Chloe. "We're gonna need weapons."

Chloe didn't look at her. "Not yet," she said quietly. "If need be, you're already a weapon. But we blow our cover now, it's over. Wait— until we look Tomas in the eye."

They came to a stop.

The doors ahead were massive. Gold, but warped. Engraved with angelic figures – smiling, naked, crowned. Their wings spread like they were welcoming them. Or catching them. Alyssa didn't like the look in their eyes. Or the way one hand reached downward on each figure – like a blessing. Or a claim.

One of the Enforcers stepped forward.

"Strip," he said. Flat. Command, not invitation.

Alyssa's spine went rigid. "Get fucked."

He moved without pause.

She swung, fast and low – but he caught her wrist before the blow landed. His grip didn't tighten. It held. Like iron rope. The other hand reached forward and yanked.

The thin tunic split down the side. Cold air licked across her ribs.

"Let go," she hissed.

Chloe's hand came up. Gently. She placed it on Alyssa's arm – not to stop her, but to steady.

Then she stepped between them. Her eyes met the Enforcer's visor. Wordless.

She pulled her tunic over her head and let it fall. No hesitation. No expression. Just skin, and silence.

Alyssa stared at her. Then breathed in once, deep. Let the fury settle. She wouldn't forget this.

But she would wait.

She let the shredded remains fall to the floor.

The golden doors creaked open, spilling warm light across the stone. Inside, something moved.

And the air… shifted. Like a mouth opening.

Alyssa didn't blink.

She stepped forward.

…………………

The doors shut behind them with a click that sounded too soft to be final. But it was.

The room was circular. No corners to hide in. The walls curved in like an embrace.

Chandeliers hung from the domed ceiling – five of them, gold-framed, crystal-tiered. They flickered with a soft amber light that made everything look warmer than it was.

The floor was velvet. Not carpet. Velvet. Deep red, like the inside of a throat.

In the centre stood a four-poster bed. Oversized. Carved wood painted white and gold, draped in silk canopy threads that trembled as they passed. At each post, shackles. Built into the frame, not added after. Like this was always the bed's purpose.

Alyssa's jaw tensed beside her. "Sick fuck," she muttered.

Chloe said nothing. Her eyes were moving.

Shelves lined the left wall. Not randomly. Categorised. Restraints on one level – cuffs, ropes, belts. Tools on the next – paddles, gags, clamps, dildos, plugs. And on the bottom shelf – oils and lubricants in neatly labelled bottles. There was even a mirror beneath the collection, as if someone might want to admire their selection before use.

Everything was dustless. Maintained. As if cleaned after every performance.

No bloodstains. No screams. Just readiness.

But Chloe noticed one thing out of place. A faint red line on one of the bedposts – wiped, not scrubbed. A notch of the wooden frame slightly dented, like it had taken a boot. A broken hairpin beneath the shelf. Dark hair. Curled. Human.

Clean didn't mean unused.

It meant reset.

The air smelled... off. Perfumed, but not floral. Not sensual either. Something sweet, chemical. Like crushed orchids left too long in the heat. A scent designed to melt defences. Make skin sensitive. Disorient.

She filed that away.

One corner held a throne. Not a chair. A throne.

White, with red velvet lining. Ornate back carved in spirals – like ribs. The top crowned with a gold halo of thorns. Empty.

But not for long.

Chloe didn't flinch. She didn't let her arms cross or her shoulders rise. Every movement, every line of posture, was calculated.

She began scanning the room – not with her eyes, but with her awareness.

The wall behind the throne was hollow, maybe reinforced. The far edge of the ceiling held a small recess – possible surveillance slot. Above the mirror – too symmetrical not to hide a sensor.

She could feel the gaze. Not in a place. In the air.

They were alone but not unwatched.

Alyssa shifted her weight slightly beside her. She felt it too.

Chloe said nothing.

Let them look.

She wanted them to look.

Let them think they saw everything.

Because soon – she'd show them what they missed.

…………………

The room dimmed without warning.

Red light bled from hidden fixtures, soaking the walls and bedposts. Everything gleamed like wine spilled too long in the dark. The gold glinted darker now. The velvet turned wine-dark. Shadows stretched longer.

The door clicked.

Footsteps. Slow. Confident. Soft soles over silk rugs.

Alyssa didn't breathe.

He entered like a performance – because that's what it was.

King Tomas.

He wore only a robe. Crimson silk, unbelted, loose across his frame. It parted with every step to reveal a chest smooth as glass. No hair. No scars. No signs of age or wear. His skin gleamed slightly, lacquered like porcelain, like someone had buffed him to a goddamn shine.

Too perfect. Too wrong.

He was tall – more than two metres. Built like an ideal: broad shoulders, narrow waist, every muscle shaped, not grown. Sculpted. As if designed. The kind of beauty you couldn't trust.

Hair like platinum thread. Shoulder-length. Even. Too even. Dyed, maybe. Woven. Not real.

But the eyes.

They were real.

Too real.

Irises ringed in gold, wide and wet like a doll's. Unblinking. Hungry. There was something behind them, something vast and bright and wrong. A mind that watched but didn't empathise. That could recite your file and still not remember your name.

And beneath the robe—

Alyssa looked once. That was enough.

He was hard. Obvious. Proud.

An erection framed deliberately in silk, swinging slightly with each step.

Arrogant. Intentional. Not even trying to hide it.

He smiled.

Not leering. Delighted.

"My dears," he said, voice rich as syrup. "You're even more exquisite in motion than in surveillance."

Alyssa's spit hit the floor between them with a sharp wet sound.

She didn't care if it cost her.

Tomas blinked. Then laughed – a soft, indulgent laugh. Like a man watching a cat bat at his shoelace.

"Oh good," he said. "I do so love the ones who fight."

He stepped forward, arms out slightly – welcoming, like he was entering a salon.

Chloe didn't move. Not a twitch.

Alyssa's fists were clenched so tight her nails bit skin.

Tomas tilted his head. His hair shifted like it was floating in slow water.

"I see the fire in you," he said, eyes settling on Alyssa. "It's precious. Rare. And you—" He looked to Chloe. "—you wear silence like a blade. A matched pair. I do adore symmetry."

He moved around them, not touching. Not yet. Just orbiting. Like a man inspecting art.

"They told me you'd be special," Tomas went on. "But they undersold it. You don't beg. You don't plead. That means I get to be... inventive."

He walked past them, pausing near the shelves. His fingers traced the handle of a paddle, lingered on a clamp. He smiled like a man reminiscing.

"We had one like you last season," he said, almost fondly. "She lasted four days. Longer than most."

He didn't say what happened to her. He didn't have to.

Alyssa's breath burned in her chest. Her heart wasn't racing. It was slowing. Sinking. The way it did before she hit something. Or someone.

Her muscles tensed. But Chloe's hand brushed hers – barely. A warning. A tether.

Not yet.

The throne waited behind him.

He hadn't sat yet. Let him. Let him sit. Let him settle.

Because Alyssa swore, in that moment – on every name she'd buried and every friend still alive—

He was not going to enjoy his reign for long.

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