Stripped Down,Broken and Remade.

The world dissolved not into darkness, but into a soft, grey fog that was slowly thinning. Shapes began to coalesce, and the fog resolved into the corner of a sunlit office. A woman was smiling at him, a warm, genuine smile that reached her eyes. Her hair was a soft blonde, and she wore a crisp white blouse. He knew her. The name surfaced in his mind like a bubble from a deep pond: Karen. How he knew her was a mystery, but the feeling of familiarity was undeniable, a comfortable anchor in the sea of his confusion. He liked looking at her. He liked the way her smile made him feel, a sense of warmth and approval that was deeply comforting.

They were talking, though he couldn't recall the words. It was a pleasant, easy conversation. Then she leaned in, her face close to his, and kissed him. It wasn't a chaste peck. It was a deep, hard kiss, possessive and lingering. He responded in kind, his own desire rising to meet hers, a part of him that was raw and instinctual. When they parted, she was still smiling, her eyes slightly glazed. "You've done so well," she said, her voice a low murmur. "The agency is very pleased."

The words meant nothing to him. Agency? What agency? He had no frame of reference, but he smiled back, basking in her approval. She moved gracefully around a large mahogany desk and sat in a high-backed leather chair, a clear position of authority. He instinctively took the opposite chair, feeling like a subordinate. She was his boss; the realization bloomed in his mind. The thought was followed immediately by a jarring disconnect. Why was he kissing his boss? The question was a discordant note in the otherwise pleasant memory, but it was quickly smothered by her presence.

She slid a slim manila folder across the desk towards him. "Just the final sign-offs," she said, her tone all business now. He opened the folder. Inside were several documents dense with legalese. He couldn't focus on the words; they were just black squiggles on a white page. But he knew what was expected. He picked up a pen from the desk and scrawled a signature on the indicated lines. The handwriting was his, but it felt alien, a disconnected action. "Thank you," Karen said, her smile returning as she gathered the signed papers. She picked up a sleek, black telephone from her desk, her finger hovering over a button. She was still smiling as she spoke into the receiver. "You can send her in now."

The office door opened, and another woman entered. The shift in atmosphere was instantaneous and palpable. This woman was tall, towering over Karen's seated form, with a cascade of jet-black hair that fell to her shoulders. She was dressed in severe, black military-style fatigues, the fabric clinging to a lean, powerful frame. A wave of apprehension washed over him, a primal fear he couldn't explain. He was worried about her, deeply and instinctively, though he didn't know why. She moved with a predatory grace, and as she drew closer, the scent of expensive, floral perfume cut through the air—a bizarre, paradoxical contrast to her utilitarian clothing and menacing aura.

She stopped in front of him, looking down. Her eyes were black, deep, and fathomless, and when they locked onto his, he felt a strange paralysis. He couldn't look away. It was as if she were reaching into his soul, and he was powerless to resist. She smiled, but it was a cold, predatory curving of her lips. He felt a sharp, stinging prick in the side of his neck, like a bee sting. A coldness spread rapidly from the point of contact, a liquid ice that flooded his veins. His body went limp, his muscles refusing to obey his brain's frantic commands. He was awake, conscious, but utterly helpless, a prisoner in his own flesh.

He could only watch, his vision fixed, as the two women turned to each other. Karen stood up, and they embraced, their lips meeting in a passionate, lover's kiss. The image was wrong, deeply and fundamentally wrong. It twisted the pleasant memory into something grotesque and unsettling. Then the black-haired woman broke the kiss and turned back to him. Something black and tight, like a sack, was pulled down over his head, plunging him into darkness. He felt rough hands grab his arms, pulling them harshly behind his back, and the bite of what felt like plastic zip ties tightening around his wrists. The last vestiges of his control vanished.

The scene shattered. The soft office was replaced by the violent, disorienting sensation of rolling around on the dark, metallic floor of a moving vehicle. Every turn, every bump, sent him tumbling against hard walls. Then the van stopped. The doors were thrown open, and rough hands grabbed him, dragging him out onto a cold, concrete path. He was stripped with efficient, impersonal movements. He was forced to walk, his bare feet stinging against the freezing ground. He felt something cold and heavy being locked around his neck, then another, more intimate coldness as the cage was fitted to his cock. He saw the glint of a needle descending towards his arm, felt another sharp prick, and then the blessed, silent oblivion of sleep claimed him once more, pulling him down into a darkness that felt more like a refuge than a threat.