Magi convinces Sofia to return.

The morning after the disaster in her apartment, Magi woke up with the taste of cheap wine and guilt clinging to her palate.

But guilt, she soon discovered, was a luxury she could not afford. Evans had left a message on her phone, a silent but unmistakable reminder: "I hope your friend has recovered from her fright. My apartment is particularly dusty this week." The demand was there. And Magi knew that Evans was not a man who liked to wait. If she didn’t comply, if she didn’t deliver Sofia, what little borrowed power she held over the others would crumble. Evans had recordings. Evans could talk to May. Evans could destroy her.

Fear drowned out the guilt. And from fear, a twisted logic was born—the same logic she had watched May operate with for months: the practice of turning victims into accomplices to ensure survival.

She summoned Sofia to the office. It was not a request.

Sofia entered with her head bowed, arms crossed. There was no longer any curiosity, or weariness, or even hate. Only a resigned void.

"Sit down," Magi said from behind May’s desk. Her voice sounded firmer than she felt.

Sofia obeyed in silence.

Magi took a deep breath. She couldn't ask her. She had to **** her. She had to make the choice so horrific that obedience seemed like the only option.

"This afternoon, at five, we are going to Mr. Evans’s apartment," she began, looking at the tablet, not at Sofia. "He needs help with the cleaning."

Sofia did not respond. The tension in the room thickened.

"You will accompany me," Magi added, forcing herself to look up.

Sofia’s eyes met hers. There was no surprise. Only a deep, tired understanding.

"No," she said—a single, flat word.

Magi had expected that. She had rehearsed the next part. May’s part.

"This afternoon," she continued, as if she hadn't heard her, "the maintenance session for the main circular tank is scheduled. For the visitors. The task of cleaning the internal filters is particularly… complicated. It requires agility. And the uniform for that task is the mermaid one. The white one."

She let the words hang in the air. Sofia turned pale. The "white uniform" was a shared nightmare. It became transparent upon contact with water and came off easily. Cleaning the internal filters, with one's body half-naked and clumsy in the water, in front of the gallery of visitors, was one of the most public and feared humiliations.

"If you aren't available to help me with Evans," Magi concluded, finally locking her gaze onto her, "I will have to assign you that task. You would be the center of attention for at least an hour. Everyone could see you. They could see you."

She didn't mention Vance or Valence. She didn't have to. Sofia understood perfectly. The choice wasn't between going to Evans’s house or not going. The choice was between the private, fetishistic humiliation of one man, or the public, massive humiliation for the enjoyment of many.

Sofia lowered her head. An almost imperceptible tremor ran through her shoulders. She didn't cry. She didn't beg. She took a deep breath—a sigh that seemed to pull all the air out of her lungs. When she looked up again, her expression was of such absolute defeat that it was painful to look at.

"What time?" she asked, her voice a thread of sound.

"At five," Magi repeated, feeling a surge of something that wasn't victory, but an even deeper emptiness.

Sofia nodded slowly. She stood up and left the office without another word.

Magi was left alone, trembling. She had done it. She had used May’s system. She had found the exact pressure point and squeezed. She had won.

But as she looked at her reflection in the black screen of the tablet, she didn't see a leader. She saw a terrified jailer, pointing a gun at another inmate to save herself. The jailer’s logic was simple: either you or me. And she had chosen "me." There was no turning back. Every time she used May’s tools, she became a little more like him. And the worst part was that, in that moment, with her heart hammering in her chest from pure panic, being May seemed infinitely preferable to being the next Sofia in the circular tank.