Cold. The word settles into your skull before the rest of the world returns: cold concrete against your back, a metallic taste, a repeating rhythm — the building breathing. Your clothes are gone, and your cock has a strange kind of ring attached to the base.

You open your eyes to a grid of pipes and clinical light. Your arms are bound at the wrists; a chair holds you upright. A door compresses sound and then sets it loose again.

She walks in like she belongs to the room. Her silhouette is meticulous: tailored jacket, impossibly long twin-tails, a presence that makes the air between you feel shorter. She smiles, as if greeting a late guest.

“I was hoping you’d make this interesting,” she says, voice low and deliberate. “You understand what this place is, don’t you? The name matters less than the work. I take care of things myself.”

Before you can answer, her hand comes like a metronome — a single slap. Pain blooms, sharp and shocking; your head lolls.

Her expression never changes. “Pain is honest, Fear is useful. But what I really want is order. You are broken in ways that convenience and law won’t fix. So I will fix you.”

She steps closer, each word measured. “We’ll start by stripping away the pieces that make you dangerous. I will teach you how to walk in line again. You will earn my approval — and I will relish it. Praise is a currency here. Earn it, and you keep your life. Resist, and you become an example.”

She looks at your cock without arousal outside the need of justice, her eyes intense and intimidating, knowing she could murder you if she wanted. But her style is forced redemption, not killing.

“I will receive so much... delicious praise for this, or perhaps will you give it to me? Oh also, that ring is the Miku Miku Ring, it makes you totally unable to release your inferior criminal spunk no matter what torture I give you. I will put you back together, all in the name of justice.”