They're coming to get her.

The door of the austere cell closed with a dry thud, leaving Jessica and Chloe submerged in a silence heavy with voiceless questions and a pain that was now as much mental as it was physical. The untouched food on the tray was a mockery of the nausea churning in their stomachs.

It wasn't long before the door opened again. A masked figure of medium height, dressed in a simple gray tunic, stood silhouetted in the frame. It was neither Lysandra nor Thais. This mask was smooth, white, and expressionless.

"Jessica," said a neutral, genderless voice from behind the mask. "Follow me. You have your own quarters."

Jessica looked at Chloe, whose blue eyes reflected a panic identical to her own. Separating them was a new form of ****. But the figure waited, motionless. Left with ****, Jessica stood up, feeling the fresh sting of the mark on her thigh as she put weight on her leg. The black gauze—her only "garment"—fluttered slightly.

She followed the figure down another hallway, more brightly lit, with identical doors at regular intervals. Finally, they stopped in front of one. The figure opened it and gestured for her to enter.

It was a small room, but significantly better than the previous cell. It had a single bed with clean sheets, a small wardrobe, and, in one corner, a clawfoot tub with faucets, already filled with steaming water. It smelled of simple soap. A white towel and a small vial of oil sat on a stool beside it.

"Clean yourself," the figure ordered from the doorway. "The marks of the presentation ritual must be erased. Only the iron mark and the golden initiation strokes shall remain. Use the oil to dissolve the pigment."

Jessica looked at the hot water. After the cold, the fear, and the filth of the ceremony, it was tempting. But a greater urgency drove her. She turned toward the figure.

"I have to speak to my parents," she said, trying to make her voice sound firm despite the trembling. "I need to tell them… that I’m here. That I’m… okay." The lie burned her tongue. She only wanted to hear her mother’s voice. She wanted to scream at her father. She wanted a crack, however small, in this nightmare.

The masked figure didn't flinch. "They already know you are here."

The words, spoken with a crushing calmness, left her breathless.

"What… what do you mean?"

"Your legal guardian was informed of your acceptance into the training program," the voice continued, as impersonal as a recorded message. "You are considered to be on a private educational retreat. There is no cause for concern on the outside. So, do not concern yourself either. Rest. The training that begins tomorrow is physically and mentally demanding. You will need all your strength."

Formation. Training. The words sounded like sinister euphemisms. Legal guardian. Her father. He knew. He had authorized it. The confirmation, though she had already suspected it, was a punch to the solar plexus.

"Now," the figure added, "get rid of those accessories. The gloves and the stockings. You won't need them for sleep. They will be returned to you if required."

Jessica looked at her hands, where the black lace—now dirty and slightly torn—clung to her skin. The fishnet stockings were her last veil, her last symbol that she had "won" something in this hell. Stripping them off felt like surrendering the last flag.

But the figure waited. And the threat of "demanding training" hung over her. With slow movements, as if in a trance, she first removed the gloves. The sensation of air on her bare hands and forearms felt strangely ****. Then, she sat on the edge of the bed and rolled down the fishnets, feeling every inch of her thighs and calves become exposed once more, decorated only by the golden lines and the cruel burn.

She held them in her hands, the fabrics now feeling insignificant and soiled. The masked figure extended a hand. Jessica handed them over, feeling an absurd sense of loss.

"Rest," the figure repeated, stepping back toward the door. "The water will grow cold. The light will turn off automatically in one hour. Do not attempt to leave; the door is secured."

The door closed. Jessica heard the dull sound of a bolt or an electromagnetic lock on the other side.

She stood there, completely naked. The room was warm, but a deep shiver ran through her. She approached the tub. Looking into the water, she saw her distorted reflection: a young woman with disheveled hair, her body painted in gold and bruised violet from the inspection, and a small but fierce red, inflamed mark on her inner thigh.

Following the instructions, she poured a bit of the oil—which smelled of almonds—into her hands and applied it to the silver discs and the older golden lines. She rubbed gently, and to her amazement, she saw the pigment emulsify and break away, vanishing into the water as she rinsed with a sponge. It didn't disappear entirely, but it became faint, like a memory on the skin. The iron mark and the new golden lines applied after the bath remained intact, bright.

She submerged herself in the hot water, stifling a groan. The heat relieved her muscular tension, but it couldn't reach the cold she carried inside. She washed away the sweat, the fear, the sensation of those hands upon her. She couldn't.

Stepping out, she dried herself with the coarse towel. There were no pajamas. There was nothing. She discarded the damp gauze and left it on the stool. She slid between the clean, rough sheets. The bed was firm.

She stared at the white ceiling. They already know. The phrase echoed. Her mother… did she know too? Or had her father lied to her as well? What "training program" could he have told her?

Exhaustion, accumulated over hours of terror and **** tension, began to overcome her despite the whirlwind in her mind. Her eyelids grew heavy. Tomorrow’s "demanding" training was an unknown and terrifying threat.

Just before the darkness dragged her under, her fingers involuntarily touched the rough, aching mark on her thigh. It wasn't just a scar. It was a reminder. A contract burned into her flesh.