He's asks for a reward.

With great effort, Magi put on the French maid uniform that Evans had given her for "cleaning"; it creaked with every movement. The absurdly short skirt chafed against her thighs, and the lace apron felt like a cruel mockery. She walked to knock on the door of 3B with her knuckles, feeling the shame burn her cheeks.

Evans opened the door almost immediately, as if he had been waiting right behind it. His eyes, behind thick lenses, scanned her from head to toe with a silent approval that made her shiver.

"You're late," he said, without preamble. "You didn't come last night, Magi. That has a cost."

She lowered her gaze, fixing on the wood grain of the floor.

"I'm sorry, I… I couldn't…"

"Excuses stain more than dust," he interrupted her with his soft yet firm voice. "For skipping, today's cleaning will be… more exhaustive. Hand over your underwear."

Magi blinked, confused.

"I'm sorry?"

"You heard correctly. Go to the bathroom. Take it off. And bring it to me," his tone left no room for doubt. "The cleaning must be total. No barriers. No hiding places."

Magi, her face on fire, nodded mechanically. She walked to the small bathroom, closed the door, and with trembling fingers, removed her panties. She looked at herself in the mirror, seeing the reflection of a stranger in a grotesque uniform and empty eyes. She came out and offered the garment to Evans. He took it delicately, almost reverently, and put it in the pocket of his robe.

"Now," he said, pointing to the feather duster and a rag. "You may begin."

Magi began to clean. Every movement was agony. The lack of underwear beneath the absurdly short skirt made her feel terribly exposed, **** in a new and awful way. And Evans didn't move. He sat in his armchair, crossed his legs, and simply… observed her, slightly adjusting his lenses, the thick glass magnifying every detail like a microscope over a rare, living sample. His breathing was calm, measured. For him, every inch of skin his gaze traveled over was a piece of data, a conquered territory achieved through observation.

But in the center of that field of study, Magi felt every one of those imaginary eyes like hot needles on her skin. Her lower abdomen, where Evans saw a mole and contracted muscles, she felt an internal fire of shame, as if that small mark had become a luminous target. Every time her abdomen tensed as she stretched.

When Evans' gaze descended to the Mons Venus, molded by the obscene fabric, Magi felt an icy nausea. There, where he analyzed shapes and shadows, she experienced **** multiplied tenfold. It wasn't the simple fact of being exposed; it was the sensation that those eyes were dismembering her intimacy, studying every detail with a coldness that stripped her even of her humanity. The slight tremor that Evans registered with interest was not just cold or nerves, it was the tremor of every fiber of her being pleading for it to end.

In the folds of her groin, where the skin was most sensitive, Magi felt the weight of that gaze like a physical burden. Every time the fabric rubbed that already reddened skin, it was not just discomfort, it was a reminder that even her most intimate bodily reactions were being scrutinized, noted, and archived. When she instinctively squeezed her thighs, it was not data of residual resistance, it was a last, pathetic attempt to create a barrier she already knew was nonexistent.

The physiological reactions that Evans documented with scientific precision were, for Magi, signs of a silent agony. The blush that rose from her abdomen was not a cutaneous phenomenon, it was the abrasive heat of total humiliation. The drops of sweat running down her thighs were not climate data, they were tears of her body betraying her, exhibiting her torment. And the dance of her hands, those fingers that wanted to cover her, represented the lost battle between her residual dignity and the imposed submission.

Every second under that gaze was a whip lash that left no mark on the skin, but did on the soul. She felt she was being stripped away in layers; that beyond the skin, Evans was mapping her shame, her fear, her defeat. The ridiculous uniform, or the lack of underwear, no longer mattered; the only real thing was that gaze which turned her into an object of study, a specimen of submission under the cold glass of unblinking spectacles.

And in the silence of the room, broken only by the slight creak of Evans' armchair, Magi was cleaning, but in reality, she was only waiting, waiting for that gaze to be sated, or for her own skin, finally, to become insensitive to the heat of shame.