Protest that you got the answer right and this isn't fair.

"Hold on a fucking second," you snap, the leather corset creaking as you lean forward against your restraints. "I got the answer right. Safe, sane, and consensual - that's exactly what I said. You can't punish someone for getting the right answer just because they admitted they weren't sure first."

Derek turns to face you fully, and the temperature in the studio seems to drop several degrees. His smile remains fixed, but there's genuine ice in his eyes now. "Oh, but I can, Lexi. You see, you signed a contract - a very detailed contract that you clearly didn't read carefully enough. Section seven, subsection C states that contestants who display 'insufficient confidence' in their answers are subject to corrective measures at the host's discretion." He takes two steps toward your podium, close enough that you can smell his expensive cologne. "This show isn't just about knowing the answers, sweetheart. It's about owning them."

The audience murmurs with a mix of sympathy and excitement. A few scattered voices call out in your defense, but they're drowned out by others shouting "Read the contract!" and "Play by the rules!"

"Besides," Derek continues, his voice dropping to something almost intimate despite the microphone catching every word, "you're twenty thousand dollars richer than you were ten minutes ago. The transformation? Think of it as... an investment in your education." He reaches out and taps the padlock on your collar with one manicured finger. "Each wrong answer adds another lock, another change. But you got that one right, so technically you're ahead of where you could be."

Rita bounces over on her heels, tablet clutched to her augmented chest. "The contracts are super clear," she adds helpfully, her voice breathy and vacant. "Like, I totally should have read mine more carefully? But it all works out in the end!" She giggles at some private joke only she understands.

Derek straightens his tie, his professional mask sliding back into place. "Now then. Shall we move on to question three, or would you like to continue complaining? Because I should warn you - the longer we delay, the more... creative I get with my hosting style."

The cameras are all focused on you now, red lights blinking hungrily.

You swallow your pride, feeling the collar's weight against your throat as you do. The fight drains out of your posture and you give a single, curt nod. "Fine. Whatever. Let's just get on with question three."

Derek's expression transforms into something approaching genuine pleasure, like a cat that's successfully cornered a mouse. "There we go," he says, his voice smooth as aged whiskey. "That's the spirit. See how much easier things are when you work with us instead of against us?" He pivots on his heel to face the audience, arms spread wide. "Ladies and gentlemen, our contestant is learning! This is what we love to see on Bound to Win—personal growth through adversity."

The audience applauds, though the sound feels hollow in your ears. You catch sight of yourself in one of the camera monitors—the corset has transformed your silhouette into something you barely recognize, and those fuller lips don't belong on your face. Your hair cascades past your shoulders in waves you didn't style, didn't ask for.

Derek produces the third question card with a magician's flourish. "Question three, Lexi. Answer correctly and you'll have forty thousand dollars in your account." He pauses, studying the card with theatrical interest before his eyes find yours. "In rope bondage, what Japanese term refers to the art of decorative rope tying, often translated as 'tight binding'?"

The studio lights seem brighter somehow, or maybe it's just that the corset is making it harder to breathe. You hear Rita giggle from her position by the transformation booth, that vacant sound that makes your skin crawl. She's adjusting something on her control panel, pink acrylic nails clicking against buttons you can't see.

"Take your time," Derek offers, though his smile suggests anything but patience. "Though I'd recommend projecting confidence this time. Unless you'd like Rita to get more... creative with her work." He glances meaningfully at the transformation booth, where mechanical arms hang dormant like sleeping serpents.

The shackles feel heavier against your wrists. The padlock on your collar catches the light every time you move your head.