Ashe Tran jolted awake on a floor that felt slick—neither warm nor cold, more like a skinless membrane stretched beneath him. His bare feet stuck on vinyl seams, and the oversized sleep-shirt drooped over his damp thighs, stark against the sourceless yellow glow that bleached everything in sight. Duck-print panties, which back home would have been goofy, now felt like a target painted on his hips.

  A sharper version of the faint electrical buzz he had heard before bed drilled the air—now unmistakably close, as though it had crawled out of his dream and built the room around him. A subtle flutter ran up his fingertips, and a prick behind his eyes told him the wiring itself was alive.

  Cool air brushed his bare thighs; soft cotton clung where the oversized sleep-shirt stuck to sweat. Same clothes he had fallen asleep in—duck-print panties and all—so whatever this was, it had reached in and taken him whole.

  “Okay,” he muttered as if in a dream, voice hoarse. “This is… new.”

  The first thing he spotted was a rge gssy panel about the size of a door, followed by a faint outline in the wall itself about the size of a small TV, or a rge tablet.

  For a moment Ashe just sat there, dazed and confused. The walls pressed in—white and pulsing in his mind—

  He pinched himself hard enough to sting.“Ow—”He didn’t wake. This was real.

  He faltered to his knees, heart jackhammering. Fingers slick, he dragged himself upright with some difficulty. Once on his feet, he heard a small chime, and the tablet glowed to life.

  Welcome, Participant #A-23.Please remain calm. Orientation will begin shortly.

  “Yeah, sure,” he said under his breath. “That’s comforting.”

  The message faded, repced by neat white text:

  Basic Needs Module: Active.Nutrition / Sanitation / Rest cycles enabled.

  After one st chime, the tablet cycled to a series of buttons.

  Shop / Jobs / Weather / Help / -Improvement-

  The improvement button was grayed out. He instinctively reached for the help button. Two columns greeted his eyes: an incoming and outgoing request. Not exactly what he was looking for, but it looked like he could request help—or maybe help someone, or something else.

  He backed up and tried Weather instead.

  Today 80° F?|?Clear

  Tomorrow 40 °F?|?Light Snow

  Ashe couldn’t quite understand. Sure, it had been chilly in his hometown of Merriton, but not that cold. Or was it saying it was going to snow inside this enclosed space? It felt around 80° F right now.

  He pressed onward, exploring all his options—Shop.

  It was a menu of sorts, broken down into subcategories like: Food & Drink; Hygiene & Cleaning; Clothing & Personal Care; Furnishings & Room Basics; Comfort & Entertainment; Instaltions & Upgrades; Daily Luxury Item.

  Some proper clothing would go a long way. Looking down at himself, he saw smooth, bare legs, delicate yet thick thighs, with a petite bulge pitching a tent in his duck-print panties. I suppose I did just wake up, his thought trailed off. He felt, and looked, completely exposed.

  Scrolling through all his limited options in the clothing section, he found: a replica of his Duck-Print Panties; a replica of his Oversized T-Shirt; Simple Dress; Basic Bra & Panty Set; sweater; Slippers (foam).

  The closest thing to pants was a pair of Lounge Shorts, but the icon it showed was short, like way too short to be menswear. With his build, something was gonna be falling out of them—maybe not his front bits, but definitely his rear end.

  Yet all these items cost Credits, and looking at the corner of the tablet, it dispyed that Ashe had none yet. Putting a pin in the horrors that awaited him in the clothing shop, Ashe couldn’t help but berate himself out loud.

  “Of course the one time I wore something weird, I got kidnapped...”

  He crouched down, trying to gather himself with a breathing exercise he often used when he got overwhelmed on a busy day at the coffee shop. He tried not to think about the fact that the air felt used, that every breath seemed recycled. After a moment, he redoubled his focus on what he could control, and he pressed the final button: Jobs.

  Work Cycle: 4 hours

  Jobs avaible: Sanitation (Medium Credits); Farmhand (Medium Credits); ??? (Random Job)

  The term medium meant nothing, but the phrasing 4 hours stuck with him. Whoever built this wanted structure—work, reward, punishment.

  Ashe rubbed his temples. “Guess I’m clocking in, then.” He selected Sanitation and braced himself. The gssy pane beside him dinged before sliding open. It looked like it had been some sort of elevator all along.

  The light hit him first. Not bright—sterile.

  He blinked against the sudden change, realizing he was standing in what looked like an endless industrial hall. White walls again, but streaked with grime. The hum followed him here too, louder now, buried under the constant whir of a conveyor belt crawling past waist height.

  On it: trash.

  If you could call it that.

  Some of it was normal—crumpled packaging, twisted pstic forks, half-dissolved cups. But mixed in were things that made no sense: a melted wristwatch pulsing faintly, a wad of wires that bled a slow, amber fluid, and something that looked too much like a hand until he saw the joint seams.

  Ashe’s throat went dry. “Okay,” he muttered, voice shaky. “Just… pretend it’s your first day at a recycling pnt. Totally normal.”

  A row of color-coded bins lined the belt beside him, each marked in neat text:

  Recycbles — Landfill — Metallic — Purple

  He blinked at the st one. “Purple isn’t a category.”

  No one answered. Of course no one answered.

  A countdown blinked on the nearest wall: Shift Start — 00:10

  He barely had time to flex his hands before the conveyor sped up with a low mechanical groan. The next piece of trash came tumbling toward him—a cracked pstic bottle with faint mold inside.

  “Recycble,” he said aloud, tossing it in the blue bin. It chimed once, like the sound of a cash register.

  Then a crushed aluminum can—Metallic? A wad of paper—Recycble.

  He tried to fall into rhythm. Pick up, assess, toss, repeat. The bins chimed every time he got one right. The pattern was hypnotic, almost soothing.

  Until the first piece he couldn’t identify rolled by.

  It was a small cube, humming faintly, the same texture as the cube he had woken up in. When he reached for it, his fingertips tingled.

  “What category is this?” Ashe asked, exasperated.

  It didn’t feel like it belonged in any of the regur categories. It was white in color, but maybe this was purple?

  He hesitated. The “Purple” bin didn’t hum when he dropped it in. It just made a soft click, followed by a faint exhale—like the sound of something breathing out.

  By the end of the first hour, his hands were shaking. Not from fear exactly—just the repetition. The hum. The fshes of impossible things.He started humming to himself just to break the monotony. A tune without a name. Something his sister used to whistle when she cleaned her room.By the third hour, he’d almost forgotten he was supposed to be afraid. The system rewarded him with the same neutral chime every few minutes, no matter what he threw where.By the fourth hour, he didn’t trust the bins anymore.

  The hum was still there when he returned back to the cube—like it had been waiting for him.The air felt cooler than before, or maybe he was just sweating. His terminal screen glowed pale blue, text already waiting for him:

  Job Summary — SanitationBase Reward — 30 creditsFirst-Time Bonus — +40 creditsCredit Bance: 70 CR

  “Seventy credits,” Ashe murmured. “Guess I’m officially employed.”

  The sarcasm didn’t help the ache in his back or the smell on his hands. He sat down cross-legged on the too-warm floor, catching his breath—and then realized what had been gnawing at him since hour one.

  He needed to go to the bathroom.

  The cube was spotless, sterile, featureless.

  “Right,” he said aloud. “That’s a problem.”

  He tapped the terminal. The SHOP menu unfolded in sterile, glowing text. Rows upon rows of items scrolled by—bedding, rations—until one listing caught his eye:

  Comfort Model 02 Bucket Toilet | 15 CRFor all your basic biological needs.Comes equipped with a repceable deodorizing gel liner.

  The description made it sound dignified. The image—a white bucket with a padded lid—did not.

  He sighed. “Fifteen credits for a glorified Home Depot special. Sure. Why not.”

  He tapped Buy and watched his bance tick down from 70 to 55.

  For a few seconds, nothing happened. Then the wall to his left shimmered, its surface bending inward like soft gss. A hidden panel slid open, and a narrow track extended outward, presenting his “purchase” like a prize.The bucket gleamed faintly under the cube’s cold light. Ashe peered into the hole, but it was pitch bck; who knew how far back it went?

  When he lifted it free, the panel sealed itself again, restoring the wall to its fwless state. He leaned close, running a hand along it—still smooth, still whole, only the faintest hint of seams if he looked hard enough.

  He stepped back, staring at the pce where the wall had opened.

  So the cube did have moving parts, hidden parts.

  Which meant it could change.

  Which meant someone—or something—could be watching.

  A chill crawled up his spine.

  He spun in a slow circle, scanning the seamless white. No camera. No vent. No corner dark enough to hide anything. Just light. Endless, sterile light.

  Still, the sense of being watched pressed in.

  Ashe backed up until his shoulders hit the wall, his arms crossing instinctively over his crotch. “Okay,” he muttered, voice cracking. “If you’re out there, great job. Top-notch show. Hope you’re enjoying it.”

  Oh God, they were going to think I was a total pervert. he thought to himself.

  “…Wait. You’re not actually gonna watch me use this thing, right?”

  The cube didn’t answer.

  “Right,” he said again, quieter this time. “If someone’s watching—don’t.” His voice cracked.

  If someone was watching, they were probably already writing notes about his performance—subject dispys moderate anxiety, possible perversion, poor aim.

  He stepped forward, lifted the lid, and settled onto the cold pstic—duck-print panties clinging uncomfortably at mid-thigh, the oversized T-shirt pstered to his back with sweat. He did what he had to.

  Afterward, he just… stared. A hot rush of shame burned from colrbone to ears.

  He snapped the lid shut, wiped his hands on the T-shirt hem—pointless dignity—and muttered, “No one’s supposed to see me like this.” The idea that someone did twisted his stomach.

  He sank down in the corner of the cube, knees pulled close to his chest. Every buried fear reignited: that he looked wrong—too soft, too feminine. An empty ache settled where pride should have lived.

  Time passed in thick, airless silence.

  Ashe sat slumped in the corner, trying to slow his breathing. The heat of the cube pressed in from every angle, sticking his shirt to his skin. His heart still hadn’t fully slowed since the thought of being watched, but another discomfort was taking over—thirst.

  He hadn’t noticed how dry his mouth was until now. His tongue felt like paper.

  He looked around again—no sink, no water dispenser, no anything. Just the bucket in the corner and the faint hum of machinery somewhere behind the walls.

  He dragged himself upright and thumbed open the SHOP tab again. The sterile interface glowed back at him:

  Sterile Water Bottle | 3 CR

  He hesitated a moment, as if clicking Buy might trigger another surprise, then tapped it.

  A moment ter, the wall shimmered again. A compartment slid open and a perfectly clear bottle eased forward on a thin track. No bel. No condensation. Just water.

  Ashe crouched, plucked it from the slot, and sank back down onto the floor. His back hit the wall with a dull thud. The oversized T-shirt he wore pooled like a skirt around his waist, damp with sweat.

  He didn’t even savor it—just twisted the cap off and drank the whole thing in one go. The liquid was room temperature, ft, and tasted faintly metallic, but it was enough to make him sigh.

  The cube’s heat didn’t fade, but his panic dulled into exhaustion.

  He decided to rest—just a bit longer.

  When he finally stood again, his head throbbed dully. The terminal’s glow drew him back like gravity. He flicked it awake, scrolling through menus he’d already seen—until one thought stopped him cold.

  When he first arrived, the screen had called him Participant #A-23.

  If there was an A-23, then there had to be an A-1. A-2. Maybe more.

  He tapped HELP.

  This time, something new appeared in the request queue. A single line of text pulsed softly:

  Chloe | FreezingBnket ×5 — 8 6 CR eachTotal | 30 CR(20% discount applied to all purchases through the help shop)

  Two realizations hit him at once.One: there was someone else here—a girl.Two: the cube’s warning about possible weather conditions wasn’t just a fvor of madness.

  He stared at his credit total: 52 CR.

  “I guess I’m lucky mine’s just hot,” he muttered. “Better than freezing to death.”

  He swallowed hard, thumb hovering over the Confirm Purchase button. “Hang in there, Chloe,” he whispered. “I’ll get you warm.”

  He tapped Buy.

  His bance plummeted from 52 to 22.

  A new alert blinked at the top of the screen:

  Influence Tokens (Chloe) +5

  He frowned. “A new currency?”

  He backed out to the main menu. Sure enough, a fresh tab had appeared—small, almost easy to miss—simply beled Influence.

  Curiosity overrode caution. He tapped it.

  Inside was just one option: Chloe.

  He pressed again, and the screen shifted into a new interface—monochrome, clinical, more like a control panel than a store.

  Influence Shop — Chloe(Actions avaible vary by retionship or behavioral context)

  Below it, a list of options unfolded:

  Cost | Option | Description

  1 Token | Status Report (with Snapshot) | View subject vitals and real-time image.3 Tokens | Inventory View | Reveal subject possessions and terminal interface.2 Tokens | Nudge: Trust / Fear / Compliance / Empathy / Paranoia / Obsession / Lust / Strength | Subtly influence subject behavior or emotions.

  Ashe stared at the screen, a chill crawling down his neck.

  The phrasing was… clinical, but the implication was obvious. This wasn’t a store—it was leverage.

  “Influence,” he whispered. “They actually wanted me to mess with her?”

  The implications hit hard. If he could see her, then someone could probably see him. Maybe they already were.His mind snagged on the st option—Nudge. The description didn’t even try to sound humane: “Manipute subject behavior or feelings.”

  How was that supposed to work? Hypnosis? Drugs? Something psychological?

  Morbid curiosity won out over fear.He told himself it was just to make sure she was okay. Right?

  He spent one token.The terminal blinked.

  A grainy still image bloomed across the screen, overid with faint text:

  STATUS REPORT — SUBJECT: CHLOELive feed connection establishedCondition: Cold — vitals stable.Heart Rate: 71 BPMRespiration: Shallow, consistent.Core Temp: 96.8°FCognitive State: Dormant / Unresponsive

  The camera angle was from high in a corner—diagonal, slightly distorted, like a cheap security feed. The room was identical to his own: small, sterile, a white box stripped of warmth.

  And in it… Chloe.

  Curled on her side atop a thin mat, cocooned beneath yers of gray bnkets. Her face was turned toward the lens, shoulder bare where the fabric had slipped down. A glint of gold traced her colrbone—a neckce, maybe—and strands of chestnut hair spilled across the pillow in tangled waves.

  One silk ribbon y beside her, near a half-empty cup of water.

  The rest of the cube was spotless. No clutter. No color. Just her.

  Even through the haze of compression, the image felt too intimate. Like he was intruding on something private.

  She was alive, yes—but small. Folded into herself. Tucked away like a kept thing. Watched without knowing.

  Ashe’s hand hovered over the screen, uncertain whether to close it or reach out.

  One thing was certain—he needed to cover up. Not just to keep from whatever prying eyes might be watching, but to keep from freezing when tomorrow came.Second priority: food and water.He sighed, gncing at his dwindling credit count.

  “Looks like it’s time to clock in again,” he muttered.

  The job selection screen glowed softly in the dim light.-Sanitation — (Completed)-Greyed out.

  The next option pulsed faintly beneath it:Farmhand — Medium Credits.

  He hovered over the Random Job button for a moment, then dismissed the thought. No more surprises that day.He selected Farmhand.

  The elevator hummed to life.

  When the doors slid open, for half a heartbeat Ashe thought he was outside.A vast field of wheat unfurled before him, golden stalks bending in a soft, rhythmic sway. Warm air brushed his face, carrying the faint scent of grain and earth. Overhead, an artificial sun hung motionless in a pale blue sky.

  Then he noticed the edges.

  The walls—impossibly distant—weren’t walls at all, but projections. Painted horizons looped seamlessly into one another. The breeze came from hidden vents. The illusion was perfect enough to fool his eyes, but not his gut.

  A dispy panel beside the elevator blinked to life:

  TASK BRIEF — FARMHANDHarvest mature wheat stalks.Bind and bundle.Deliver to central crates.Remove and discard Purple Weeds when found for a bonus.All required tools provided.Complimentary hydration included.

  Ashe squinted at the st line. “Purple weeds?”For a second, his stomach tightened.

  Did it mean color, or that weird sensation he’d felt during the sanitation job—the pulse that had crawled up his arm when he’d handled that cube?

  He brushed the thought aside when he spotted a few violet-tinted pnts scattered through the wheat. Just weeds. Just color.

  He let out a quiet ugh, equal parts relief and exhaustion. “Guess this counts as farming.”

  He picked up the sickle.

  The work became rhythm. Swing, cut, gather. His muscles ached in a dull, steady way that almost felt good—a sign he was still alive. Sweat rolled down his back, soaking through his clothes and making the thin fabric opaque as it clung uncomfortably to him.

  He crouched low. Dirt clung to his knees and forearms as he combed through the soil in search of the odd purple weeds.

  Up close, they looked wrong. Not diseased or wilted—just off. Their color was too even, their stems faintly slick, almost like pstic. When he tugged one free, it came loose with an unnatural snap. The wheat around it felt different—coarse, warm, alive in a way the weeds weren’t.

  He tried not to think about what that meant.

  By the midpoint of the shift, he colpsed onto his back beside a bundled stack of wheat, drained. The air shimmered faintly with recycled heat from the vents above. He drained the water bottle in greedy gulps, chest rising and falling.

  For a moment, he didn’t care about dignity or posture. He y sprawled in the artificial sun, too tired to do anything but breathe. His body felt heavy, worn down by the heat and bor. His condition had always been a sore spot for him, just another thing he felt self-conscious about.

  Oblivious to everything, he fanned his shirt away from his chest, chasing what little air moved through the stifling heat. One clear thought managed to bubble to the surface: a bath—or at least a wipe-down—would be necessary before bed.

  Eventually, he dragged himself up, muscles heavy but steady. The rest of the shift passed in a blur of motion—cutting, bundling, moving on autopilot. When the elevator light finally blinked green, he felt more relief than pride. With a quick brush-off, he stepped inside. Time to go home—whatever that meant now.

  When he stepped back into his cube, the terminal lit up with his results.

  Job Summary — FarmhandBase Pay: 20 CRPenalty (Slow Performance): -8 CRBonus (Weed Removal): +12 CRTotal Earned: 24 CR

  Current Bance: 46 Credits

  Ashe stared at the numbers for a long moment. The word penalty stung more than it should have. He hadn’t realized how slow he’d been—his muscles just weren’t built for that kind of bor.

  “Guess I’m not exactly farmhand material,” he muttered, voice hoarse.

  Too tired and hungry to take on another job, Ashe opened the shop tab. The icons flickered to life in neat rows, each one feeling like a tiny lifeline.

  He started with the essentials:

  Ration Pack — 10 cr.Self-heating entrée + biscuit — came with a Sterile Water Bottle (16 oz) for another 2 cr.

  Next stop: hygiene. He scrolled past the expensive bathing kits and settled for Sanitary Wipes — 4 cr — and a “Thin” Roll of Toilet Paper — 3 cr. Functional, if not exactly luxurious.

  Finally, he opened the clothing tab. Most items were far beyond his budget, but one caught his eye: Gray Heather Sweater — 25 cr. It looked soft. Warm. Human.

  He tapped Buy without thinking twice.

  The total hit him all at once. He gnced at his terminal.

  Remaining Credits: 2.

  Ashe exhaled through his nose, a tired half-ugh escaping. “Guess I’m rich in warmth, at least.”

  The first thing he did was test out his newest purchases.

  It wasn’t exactly gmorous. The bucket toilet lived up to its name—barely. By the time he was done, he’d already burned through half of the toilet paper roll, and using one of his few precious cleaning wipes on his backside felt like a luxury. He used another on his hands, more for peace of mind than necessity.

  Next came food. He followed the printed instructions on the ration pack, pulling a tab along the bottom seam. The heating strip hissed faintly, and moments ter, warm, savory steam filled the cube. The smell alone almost made him dizzy.

  He sat cross-legged, shirt still pstered to him uncomfortably, and tore into the pin entrée and biscuit. The taste was simple—chicken and rice—but after a day like this, it might as well have been a feast. He ate slowly at first, then faster, until the pouch was empty. The sterile water bottle followed in one long swallow.

  Now that hunger and thirst were handled, hygiene came next. Ashe peeled off his oversized shirt and wiped down his body with the remaining three wipes, methodically—neck, arms, chest, legs, and under the waistband of his panties. His boy bits twitched with pleasure as he stroked it with a wipe. He felt a little pent up, but cked the privacy to manhandle that issue. He left the shirt draped open to dry; no sense dirtying his new sweater just yet. The cube felt cooler already, a hint of chill seeping into the air.

  He pulled on the gray fleece pullover. It smelled synthetic and faintly citrus-clean, the sleeves swallowing his hands. It wasn’t much, but it felt like safety.

  Still, one sweater wouldn’t be enough if temperatures dropped below freezing. He tapped the Help icon—not to respond this time, but to make his own request. After all, if they were all stuck in this together, maybe someone else would pay it forward.

  He requested:

  Sterile Water Bottle (16 oz)

  Protein Paste (Single-Use)

  Thin Bnket × 2

  He double-checked the total, hit Send, and leaned back.

  A soft chime confirmed the request, followed by a brief flicker on his terminal:

  “Help request posted — pending fulfillment.”

  “Reward: Influence Tokens will be granted upon completion.”

  Ashe barely noticed the second line. His focus drifted somewhere between the low hum of the cube’s walls and the lingering warmth of the ration still in his stomach. The light above dimmed to a softer white — maybe the system’s way of simuting night.

  He stretched out across the floor, sweater bunched around his chin, and let his eyes slip shut.

  Somewhere, he hoped, a stranger would see his message and answer it.

  sUWUly

  ?? Worn Clothing

  Oversized white T-shirtReplica duck-print pantiesGray hoodie — added te in the day

  ?? On-hand (sleep / backup):Thin bnket × 2

  ?? Room & Gear InventoryBucket Toilet (Tier 1) — gel liner ≈ 10% usedToilet Paper — 1 roll, half used

  Credits: 2Influence Tokens: 4 (Chloe)

  ?? Physical Condition:Hunger: SatisfiedThirst: HydratedFatigue: Falling asleep from exhaustionCleanliness: Slightly dirtyBdder/Bowel: Low urge / NormalBody Temp Needs: Unstable—cold forecast incomingLust: Moderate / High — skipped nightly routine two days in a row

  System Log — End of Day 1