Scandinavian Institute

The Copenhagen terminal was a sea of gray suits and rushed businessmen. John adjusted his glasses, trying to keep his footing as he clutched his duffel bag. When he bumped into the man, the resulting scramble for dropped papers felt like a slapstick comedy routine—until he looked up and saw two women standing over him.

They looked like they had stepped off a runway, not a flight. One, Freja, was a statuesque platinum blonde with bluish eyes that could freeze water; the other, Helena, was a shorter, striking redhead with a sneer of practiced indifference. They didn't help him up. They looked at him as if he were a smudge on their expensive leather boots.

"The model is a disaster," Freja drawled, her voice dripping with disdain. She snatched the ticket from his hand, her long, manicured nails brushing his skin like talons. "But he’ll have to do. The Council doesn't tolerate tardiness, and we’re already behind schedule."

Before he could argue, they signaled to two men in suits nearby. John was flanked, hoisted, and effectively marched to a waiting vehicle. It wasn't until the tinted glass sealed them in that the true weight of the situation hit him. They treated him like a piece of luggage—something to be moved, labeled, and discarded.

The walk from the arrival gate to the black limousine felt like a blur. John was still reeling from the embarrassment of the airport encounter—the way the redhead, Helena, had sneered at him, and the cold, dismissive command of the tall blonde, Freja. He had tried to protest, to explain that he was just here for a simple tour, but the two women moved with a synchronized, terrifying efficiency that cut him off at every turn.

"You're lucky the Council is in a good mood," Freja had said, her voice like silk over razors. "Anything else, and we’d have left you on the tarmac."

Inside the limousine, the silence was suffocating. John was wedged between them, his backpack clutched to his chest. Every time he tried to speak, a sharp look from Helena silenced him. He hadn't slept in nearly twenty hours, and the adrenaline of the flight began to crater. The interior of the car was climate-controlled to an unnatural, bone-chilling degree. As the engine purred and the city lights of Copenhagen began to streak by in a blur of neon and shadow, his head grew heavy.

He didn't mean to fall asleep. He wanted to stay alert, to see where they were taking him. But the sheer weight of his exhaustion, combined with the rhythmic sway of the car, pulled him under. He didn't even notice when the limousine turned off the main road and onto a gravel path, or when the air grew thick with the scent of damp stone and ozone.

He didn't wake up until the freezing air of the vault hit his skin.

The room where he woke was freezing. The walls were jagged, unpolished stone, and he was stripped naked, his wrists and ankles secured with heavy-duty zip-ties to a clinical, inclined metal frame. The air smelled of ozone and expensive perfume. He was trying to struggle but it seems no use.

The door creaked open, and the temperature in the room seemed to drop further. Dasha and Sylvia stepped inside. Dasha was tall, poised, and radiated the kind of authority that commanded silence in a room, while Sylvia was sharper, her eyes scanning John with a clinical, predatory hunger.

John’s breath hitched. Dasha. He remembered her from his mother’s old sorority photos, the woman his step-mother had always spoken of with a mix of reverence and fear.

Dasha’s gaze landed on him, and for a fraction of a second, her composure faltered. Her eyes widened, a flicker of genuine shock crossing her face. She knew exactly who he was.

But then, the heavy steel door clicked shut behind her, and her expression hardened into a mask of cold professionalism. She caught Sylvia’s eye—a silent warning—and then turned her attention to the digital tablet in her hand.

"The students are waiting for the presentation," Dasha said, her voice completely devoid of warmth. She walked over to the bed, her heels clicking rhythmically against the stone. She leaned down, her face inches from his, and wants to say something but does not. She had strong resemblance of his step mother, but his mother was a brunette and she was a platinum blonde. They could be cousins.

Sylvia stepped in, trailing a hand down his arm. "He’s shaking," she murmured, an agitated, predatory smile touching her lips. "Poor thing. He thinks he still has a choice."

John’s body betrayed him. Under the mounting stress and the clinical, invasive touch of the staff, he felt the humiliating loss of control, a physical reaction that had nothing to do with desire and everything to do with his body’s terrified response to the environment. Freja near touch, squeezing his nipples and moving her thin finger along his ass is enough for him to explode.

Helena, the redhead, let out a sharp, disgusted sound. "He's pathetic. He’s already ruined himself."

He is still struggling but Freja removes his glasses and he can feel cold hands against him nut sac, he hear with a Danish accent, "You need to stop struggling if you want protect your ass, Mr. Porn star."

The heavy steel doors swung open again. A woman walked in—the silence that followed her entrance was absolute. She was a dark blonde, carrying herself with an air of absolute, terrifying command. As the Sorority President, her word was law. She took in the scene: the zip-ties, the prone position, and the obvious, humiliating mistake.

She stepped toward Dasha and Sylvia, her voice like ice. "Because he’s not, you airheads. The actual male model missed his flight. You’ve brought me a prospective student with out him being evaluated." She gestured sharply toward the door. "Release him. Now."

Freja and Helena scrambled, their snobbish confidence vanishing instantly in the face of her authority. As they moved to cut the zip-ties, the President turned her gaze to Dasha. Her expression softened, though it remained entirely devoid of warmth.

"I apologize for the incompetence, Dasha. I will forgo some of the standard entrance tests for him to make up for the time wasted, but since he is already here..." She glanced at the shivering boy on the table. "Why don’t we finish his intake now? I’m sure you have a few words for your nephew."

The sorority president comes near you and puts glasses back on and whispers in your ear, "After you pass the entrance test, we expect male students to perform duties. May we may desire to be a model in one of art classes or be a guess at one of our paties since we no longer play with males from the adult school."

The President exited, the door hissing shut behind her. The power dynamic in the room shifted instantly. Dasha stepped forward, her face a mask of conflicting emotions—fear for his safety, but a cold, hard resolve to keep him alive by making him comply. She leaned over him, her voice a low, dangerous whisper.

"Are you ready to be a student, John? Or perhaps something more?"

She knew, as he did, that "choice" was a word that didn't exist inside these stone walls. He was either their student, their project, or he was nothing.

Sylvia stepped back into his personal space, her smile thin and predatory. She smoothed a stray hair from his forehead, her touch lingering. "Don't look so frightened, darling. I’m quite sure we can change your mind about your future here."