Carry Torres walked briskly down the sidewalk, her worn-out canvas bag slung over her shoulder. Her hair was one of her most striking features—thick, black, and wild, framing her face in a way that drew attention. Her olive skin glowed faintly under the fading light, and her figure, though hidden beneath loose, shabby clothes, still hinted at the natural beauty she possessed. She wore an oversized grey hoodie that had seen better days, its fabric thinning at the elbows, and a pair of faded jeans that hung loosely on her hips. Her sneakers were scuffed, and her soles were worn thin from years of use. Despite her dishevelled appearance, there was an undeniable allure about her—a quiet strength that made people, especially men, glance her way as she passed.

But Carry wasn't in the mood for attention. The sun was beginning to set, casting a golden hue over the bustling streets, but Carry paid little attention to the beauty around her. Her mind was elsewhere, her dark, curly hair bouncing with each hurried step. Her dark brown eyes darted nervously from side to side, scanning the faces of strangers and the shadows of alleyways. She was on edge, her heart pounding in her chest. It had only been a week since she had escaped the suffocating grip of her violent relationship with Chris, her childhood sweetheart turned tormentor. Chris had started charming, but over time, his possessiveness had turned into control, and his control into violence. The last straw had been a horrible night when he had cornered her in their tiny apartment, his fists raining down on her until she managed to flee. She had left everything behind—her home, few belongings, and the life she had known. Her alcoholic parents were no help; they had never been. She was on her own, and now Chris was stalking her, determined to drag her back into his twisted world.

As she approached the intersection, her breath caught in her throat. There he was. Chris stood across the street, his cold eyes locked onto her. He was leaning against a lamppost, his arms crossed, a sinister smirk playing on his lips. Panic surged through Carry’s veins, and without thinking, she darted into the nearest building—a sprawling shopping mall filled with bright lights and bustling crowds. She didn’t look back, but she could feel his gaze burning into her as she disappeared through the automatic doors. Chris wouldn’t follow her here, she told herself. There were too many people, too many witnesses, and too many security guards. He wouldn’t risk it.

Inside the mall, Carry tried to steady her breathing. She made her way to the supermarket, her hands trembling as she grabbed a small basket. She needed to focus. She needed to get her groceries and get out. But her mind was a whirlwind of fear and anxiety, and she could barely concentrate on the items she was picking up. A loaf of bread, a carton of milk, a can of soup—her hands moved mechanically, her eyes constantly flicking toward the entrance, half-expecting Chris to appear at any moment.

As she wandered the aisles, she vaguely noticed the posters plastered on the walls. They were bright and bold, with the words "Three Strikes and You're In" emblazoned across them. Carry had no idea what they meant. She hadn't been keeping up with the news, too consumed by her struggles to pay attention to the world outside. She barely glanced at the posters,

When she finally made it to the self-checkout, her nerves were frayed. Her hands shook as she scanned her items, her thoughts racing. In her distraction, she forgot to scan a small tube of toothpaste, slipping it into her bag without realizing it. As she tried to leave, an alarm blared, and a security guard appeared at her side. "Ma'am, come with me," he said sternly, his voice leaving no room for argument.

Carry's heart sank as she was led to a small office in the back of the store. The manager, a middle-aged man with a stern expression, sat behind a desk and asked for her ID. She handed it over, her hands trembling. He typed her information into his computer, his face more serious as he read the screen. "You have a record," he said, "Two prior shoplifting charges. They were eight years ago, but that doesn't matter. This is your third strike. You're one of the first to fall under the new system."

Carry’s stomach churned. “But that was so long ago,” she protested, her voice barely above a whisper. “I was young, and I was desperate. I haven’t done anything since—”

The manager cut her off with a wave of his hand. He picked up the phone and dialled a number, speaking in low tones.

Within minutes, a man in a suit arrived, introducing himself as a representative from the prosecutor’s office. He sat across from Carry, his expression unreadable as he studied her ID. Without a word, he slid a stack of papers toward her. “Sign these,” he said, his voice devoid of emotion.

Carry stared at the papers. She was too shocked, too overwhelmed to refuse. As the pen left the paper, she felt a sense of dread. She stared at the man from the prosecutor's office. Her voice trembled as she finally managed to speak. "What… what did I just sign?"

The man leaned back in his chair, folding his hands neatly on the desk in front of him. "You haven't been following the news, have you?" he said. "Didn't you see the posters? 'Three Strikes and You're In.' As of last week, we've implemented a new law to address prison overcrowding. What you've just signed is a declaration of civil death."

Carry’s breath hitched. “Civil death?” she repeated, the words feeling foreign and heavy on her tongue. “What does that mean?”

The man sighed. "It means that, in the eyes of the law, you no longer exist. Your insurance policies, your bank accounts, your subscriptions, your memberships, your presence on social media —they'll all be cancelled. If you were married, your marriage would be officially dissolved, and your children would be assigned to your nearest relatives. Since you're not, that part doesn't apply to you. But your possessions? They'll be inherited by your next of kin. That's what civil death entails. It's an old concept from the Napoleonic Code, but I'm sure you're not interested in a legal history class,¨

Carry's mind raced, her thoughts spiralling out of control. She felt as though the ground had been ripped out from under her. "But… but that's not fair," she stammered, her voice breaking. "Those shoplifting charges were from years ago. I was young, I was desperate—I haven't done anything since! You can't just… erase me!"

The man’s expression remained impassive. “The law is the law,” he said simply. “You had two prior strikes, and this is your third. The system is designed to be unforgiving.”

Carry's heart pounded in her chest, her thoughts swirling in a chaotic storm. And then, like a lightning bolt, it hit her—Chris. Her stalker. Her abuser. If she no longer existed in the eyes of the law, what would stop him from coming after her? The realization sent a cold wave of terror through her veins.

The man from the prosecutor’s office seemed to sense her distress, but his tone remained clinical, almost detached. “You should know,” he continued, “that the government advises families of those sentenced to civil death to mourn them as if they’ve gone missing and will never return. It’s recommended to hold a farewell ceremony, to say goodbye and learn to live with the loss. That’s already happened a few times this week. It’s… part of the process.”

Carry stared at him, her eyes wide with disbelief. “A farewell ceremony?” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “You’re telling my family to… to mourn me? To act like I’m dead?”

The man nodded, his expression unchanging. “It’s for the best,” he said. “It helps them move on. And it helps society function more efficiently.”

Carry felt a wave of nausea in her throat. This couldn't be real. It couldn't be happening. She looked up at the man from the prosecutor's office, her eyes brimming with tears. "It's not fair," she cried out, her voice trembling with anger and despair. "If you have rich parents, they can just buy you for themselves. They can save you. But people like me… we have nothing. No one."

The man grinned, "You haven't been keeping up with the news, have you?" he said again, his tone now almost mocking. "The government has thought of that. It's strictly forbidden to bid on family members. You may lose your personality and freedom, but your old name and family ties are kept on our list. If anyone tries to bid on a relative, they'll be picked up immediately by one of us. They'll face civil death themselves. Then again, the government wants to prevent people from starting some kind of crowdfunding campaign with a weeping mother begging to get her child back. We don't want sentimentality. We have no time for mercy. Sure, one or two might slip through the cracks, but the system is airtight. And trust me, if someone like you suddenly shows up at a family Christmas dinner, we'll know. We'll act immediately. Do you understand?"

Carry opened her mouth to respond, but the man cut her off sharply, not giving her a chance to speak. "This is going to be huge," he continued, his voice rising. "Just you wait. One of the main goals is to reduce CO2 emissions. The government wants to replace as many machines as possible with human labour. If someone replaces a mechanical process with manual labour and buys the necessary… uh, let's not use that word… the necessary workforce, they'll receive a substantial purchase subsidy. Yes, girl, you're good for the environment. Think of it as your contribution to saving the planet."

The man straightened his tie and glanced at his watch as if this conversation were nothing more than a minor inconvenience in his busy schedule. "You'll get used to it," he said, his tone final. "Everyone does. Now, let's move along. There's work to be done."

The man stood up, gathering the signed papers from the desk. “I’ll need to take these,” he said, his tone final. He then turned to Carry, his expression cold and unyielding. “I must ask you to remove those clothes. Everything, including your undergarments. They belong to the inheritance. They will go to your last remaining relatives. And your body now belongs to the state. Do it now.”

Carry was too shocked to refuse. Tears streamed down her face as she began to sob, her hands trembling as she slowly undressed. The man from the prosecutor’s office watched her with a detached gaze, his lips curling into a faint sneer as she stood there, exposed and vulnerable.

“Well, that’s not worth much, those rags,” he remarked dismissively. Carry’s sobs grew louder, but the man seemed unmoved, his duty to the state overriding any sense of compassion. He gathered the clothes she had shed, folding them neatly as if they were mere objects, devoid of any personal significance.

Carry’s humiliation reached its peak as the man from the prosecutor’s office studied her naked body with a cold, calculating gaze. His eyes lingered on her curves—her well-proportioned, youthful breasts, the firmness of her thighs, her narrow waist, and the smooth, olive-toned skin that marked her Latina heritage. For a moment, he seemed almost impressed, though his expression remained clinical. “Without those rags, you’re quite something,” he muttered under his breath, more to himself than to her. But his tone quickly shifted back to its bureaucratic detachment as he reached into a bag and pulled out a leather collar with a leash attached.

“Put this on," he ordered, handing her the collar. Carry's hands trembled as she fastened it around her neck, the cold leather pressing against her skin. The man clipped the leash to the collar and gave it a sharp tug. "Come," he commanded. "And keep quiet. You're allowed to cry, though. The law encourages it. People need to see what happens to thieves."

With that, he led her out of the office, naked except for the collar and leash, into the brightly lit supermarket. The fluorescent lights felt harsh against her skin, and the air conditioning sent a chill through her body. Carry kept her eyes downcast, her cheeks burning with shame as they walked past aisles filled with shoppers. The reactions were immediate and varied. Some people gasped, their hands flying to their mouths in shock. Others turned away, unable or unwilling to look. One woman even snapped a photo with her phone before the man from the prosecutor’s office barked at her to stop.

“This is what happens when you steal," he announced loudly, his voice carrying through the store. "Three strikes and you're no longer a person. Remember that."

Carry's tears flowed freely now as she was paraded through the supermarket like an animal. She wanted to scream, to run, to disappear, but the leash around her neck kept her tethered to the man's side. She could feel the weight of countless eyes on her, their stares piercing her skin like needles.

When they reached the doors of the supermarket, the man led her into the shopping mall itself. The space was even more crowded. A group of teenagers pointed and laughed, their cruel amusement cutting through the air. An older man shook his head in disapproval, muttering something about "the state of the world."

Through it all, the sobbing Carry kept her head down, her body trembling with every step. She felt like a spectacle, a cautionary tale for the world to digest. The man from the prosecutor's office walked with purpose, his grip on the leash firm and unyielding. He seemed almost proud of the scene they were causing,

As they neared the mall's main entrance, Carry saw someone familiar standing across the street. Her heart sank. It was Chris. For a moment, their eyes met, and Carry saw a flicker of something in his expression—anger, yes, but also something darker, more possessive. He took a step forward as if to cross the street and confront her, but before he could, a police officer appeared at Carry's side.

“I’ll take it from here,” the officer said, his tone firm but not unkind. He took the leash from the man from the prosecutor’s office and guided Carry toward a waiting police van. She was too broken to care. As the van doors closed behind her, she caught one last glimpse of Chris through the window. He was still standing there, his fists clenched, his eyes burning with rage.

The van pulled away, leaving the shopping mall—and Chris—behind. Carry sat in silence, her body still trembling, She had no idea where they were taking her or what would happen next. All she knew was that her life, as she had known it, was over. She was no longer a person. She was property. And the state would decide her fate.

Carry sat alone in the back of the large police van, the engine rumbling as it sped through the streets.

She tugged absently at the collar, her fingers tracing the edge of the leather where it pressed against her skin. It felt like a symbol of everything she had lost— her freedom and her very identity. Her mind wandered, drifting back through the jagged fragments of her life. She thought of her father, a hard man with roughened hands and a temper that flared as quickly as a match struck in the dark. He had never been kind, not really, but it was the drinking that had made him unbearable. She remembered the sound of bottles clinking, the slurred shouts, the way her mother would cry softly in the kitchen, her shoulders shaking as she tried to muffle her sobs. Carry had learned early on to stay out of the way, to make herself small and invisible.

And then there was Chris. At first, he had seemed like her salvation. He was older, confident, and charming in a way that made her feel special. He had promised her a better life, a way out of the poverty and chaos that had defined her childhood. But the charm had faded quickly, replaced by control, jealousy, and violence. The man who had once made her feel safe had become her greatest threat. She had tried to leave him, again and again, but he'd always found her. And now, even as she sat in the back of this van, stripped of everything, she couldn’t shake the fear that he was still out there, waiting, watching.

The van hit a pothole, jolting Carry out of her thoughts. She wrapped her arms around herself, trying to ward off the chill that seemed to seep into her bones. The reality of her situation was sinking in, heavy and suffocating. She had been caught stealing a tube of toothpaste—a desperate, nervous mistake—and now she was property. The new law, she hadn't even known existed, had erased her. She was no longer a person. She was a non-entity, a resource owned by the state. The thought made her stomach churn.

She let the tears come again, her body shaking with silent sobs. She did not cry for the life she had lost, but for the dreams she had once dared to have, for the little girl she had been who had believed that someday, things would get better. She cried for the injustice of it all, for the fact that no one had cared enough to help her before it was too late.

As the van continued its journey, Carry's tears eventually subsided, leaving her feeling hollow and drained. She thought about what the man from the prosecutor's office had said— that her body and her life now belonged to the state. What did that even mean? What would they do with her? The uncertainty was almost worse than the shame, the fear of the unknown gnawing at her like a hungry animal.

The van slowed down and then came to a stop. Carry heard the sound of heavy gates opening, and the crunch of gravel under the tyres as they pulled forward. Her heart began to race again, her breath coming in short, shallow gasps. She had no idea where they were, but she knew one thing for certain: her old life was gone.

The heavy doors of the police van swung open with a metallic creak, flooding the dim interior with harsh, artificial light. Carry blinked, her eyes struggling to adjust after the long, dark ride. A rough voice barked at her from outside, sharp and impatient. “Out! Now! On the double!”

Carry hesitated, her body stiff and uncooperative after hours of sitting in the cold, cramped van. But the command left no room for defiance. She slid off the bench, her bare feet hitting the gravel ground with a sharp sting. The leash still dangled from the collar around her neck, and she instinctively reached up to touch it, as if to reassure herself that it was real.

She stepped out of the van, her arms crossed over her chest in a feeble attempt to shield herself from the eyes she knew would be watching. The gravel crunched beneath her bare feet as she walked, each sharp stone digging into her skin, making her wince. The pain in her feet was nothing compared to the sting in her eyes as the sunlight hit her, blinding her momentarily. She blinked rapidly, trying to adjust to the harsh light.

When her vision cleared, she realized, that she was standing before a large, old building. It was a former animal feed factory, its weathered walls and rusted metal beams standing as a relic of its industrial past. Part of the structure stood empty, its windows broken and its doors hanging ajar, while another section had been hastily converted—either into an office or some sort of prison. It wasn't clear which. The building loomed over her, its imposing presence casting a long shadow that seemed to swallow her whole. She shivered, though the sun was warm on her skin, and took a hesitant step forward, her heart pounding in her chest.

Two figures waited for her—a man and a woman, both dressed in plain, utilitarian clothing. The man was tall and broad-shouldered. The woman was shorter, with sharp features and a clipboard clutched tightly in her hands. They looked at Carry with a detached professionalism, as if she were nothing more than a piece of inventory to be processed.

The police officer who had driven the van climbed out of the driver’s seat and walked around to join them. He carried a bundle of papers, which he handed to the man with a curt nod. “Here’s the paperwork,” he said, his tone brisk. “She’s all yours.”

The man took the papers without a word, flipping through them quickly before scribbling his signature on the bottom of one of the pages. The officer gave a quick salute, then turned on his heel and climbed back into the van. The engine roared to life, and within moments, the van was speeding away, leaving Carry standing there, exposed and vulnerable, in front of the two strangers.

The man glanced at Carry, his eyes scanning her from head to toe. He didn’t say anything, but his expression made it clear that he saw her as nothing more than a commodity. She noticed the woman watching her closely, her eyes sharp and calculating.

“Follow me,” the man said abruptly, turning on his heel. The woman fell into step behind him, and Carry had no choice but to follow, her bare feet stumbling over the gravel.

A heavy metal door stood at the entrance of the building and the man pushed it open with a grunt, holding it for the woman and Carry to pass through. Inside, the air was cool and smelled faintly of disinfectant. The walls were painted a dull beige, and the fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting a harsh glow over everything.

Carry’s heart pounded as she followed the man and woman down a long hallway, her footsteps echoing on the tiled floor. She had no idea where they were taking her, but the sense of dread that had been building inside her since the van ride was now overwhelming. She felt like a prisoner being led to her execution.

They reached a door at the end of the hallway, and the man pushed it open, revealing a small, sparsely furnished room. A single chair sat in the centre, and a camera was mounted on the wall, its red light blinking ominously. "Sit," the man commanded, gesturing to the chair.

Carry obeyed. The woman stepped forward, holding the clipboard, and began to read from it in a monotone voice. "Carry Torres," she said, "you have been declared a non-person under the Three Strikes Law. Your assets have been liquidated, your legal identity has been erased, and your body and life now belong to the state. You will be monetized based on the needs of society and in the interest of the taxpayers. Do you understand?"

Carry stared at her, her mouth dry, her mind reeling. She wanted to demand answers, but the words wouldn't come. All she could do was nod weakly, her hands clutching the edge of the chair for support.

The woman made a note on her clipboard, then stepped back. The man moved forward, his expression still unreadable. “Welcome to your new life,” he said, his voice devoid of emotion. “You’ll find it’s not so bad, as long as you do what you’re told.”

With that, he turned and walked out of the room, the woman following close behind. The door clicked shut, leaving Carry alone with the blinking camera and the crushing weight of her new reality. She sat there, her body trembling, her mind racing, as the truth sank in: she was no longer a person. She was property. And her life, as she had known it, was over. Carry looked around the room more closely. In the corner was a mattress with a small pillow and a duvet. There was also a plastic box from a catering company on the floor. Carry opened the box and found cold boiled rice with vegetables. She ate the box empty with both hands. Then she lay down on the mattress and pulled the duvet over her and despite her shocking experiences of the day, she fell asleep.

Carry woke the next morning to the sound of the door slamming open. The woman from the day before stood in the doorway, her expression as stern and unyielding as ever. She held the leash in her hand, the leather coiled like a snake ready to strike. “Up,” she barked, her voice sharp and commanding. “Now.”

Carry scrambled to her feet, her body stiff and aching from the hard floor. She had slept fitfully, her mind plagued by nightmares and her body curled tightly on the thin mattress. The duvet had provided little warmth and the cold, tasteless meal she had eaten. Had little nutritional value. She glanced at the plastic box in the corner, now empty, and felt a pang of hunger. But there was no time to dwell on it.

The woman yanked on the leash, pulling Carry forward. “Move,” she ordered, dragging her out of the room and down the hallway. Carry stumbled, her bare feet slapping against the cold tile floor. They reached a small, tiled room with a single showerhead protruding from the wall. The woman unhooked the leash and pointed to the shower. “Clean yourself,” she said. “Thoroughly.”

Carry hesitated, but the woman's glare left no room for argument. She stepped under the showerhead, flinching as the cold water hit her skin. There was no soap, no shampoo, just the icy stream of water. She scrubbed at her skin with her hands, trying to remove the grime and sweat of the past days. The woman watched her the entire time, her arms crossed,

As Carry dried herself with a thin, scratchy towel, she took the opportunity to study the woman more closely. She was in her fifties, with a stocky build and strong, calloused hands. Her hair was jet black, likely dyed, and pulled back into a tight bun. Her face was lined with age and stress, and her eyes were hard. Carry couldn't help but wonder who this woman was, and which role she played in this place.

“Who… who are you?” Carry asked hesitantly, her voice barely above a whisper.

The woman's response was immediate and brutal. She stepped forward and slapped Carry across the face, the sound echoing off the tiled walls. Carry stumbled back, her hand flying to her stinging cheek. "You don't ask questions here," the woman snarled. "You'll be told what you need to know when it's time. Understand?"

Carry nodded quickly, her eyes downcast. The woman grabbed the leash and clipped it back onto Carry's collar. "Come," she said, pulling her out of the shower room and down another hallway.

They entered a larger room, this one filled with medical equipment. A man in a white coat stood in the centre, his expression calm and professional. He took the leash from the woman without a word and gestured for Carry to sit on the examination table. She obeyed, her heart pounding as the doctor began his work.

The examination was thorough and invasive. The doctor checked her reflexes, her vision, and her hearing. He took blood samples, measured her height and weight, and even examined her teeth. Throughout it all, he asked endless questions about her medical history, her diet, her lifestyle, and her family. Carry answered as best she could, though some questions made her uncomfortable. Did she have any allergies or chronic illnesses? What about venereal diseases? Had she ever been pregnant? Did she use drugs or alcohol?

When he was finally done, he stepped back and made a few notes on his clipboard. “Nothing wrong with her,” he said to the woman, who had been standing in the corner, watching silently. “She’s healthy. Strong. She’ll do.”

The woman nodded, her expression unchanging. She took the leash from the doctor and pulled Carry off the table. “Come,” she said again, leading her out of the room.

Carry followed, her mind racing. What did the doctor mean, she’d do? She didn’t dare ask. The sting of the woman’s slap was still fresh on her cheek, a painful reminder that curiosity was not tolerated here.

The woman tugged sharply on the leash, pulling Carry out of the doctor's room and into a dimly lit hallway. Carry stumbled forward, her bare feet scraping against the cold, rough floor. The woman led her down the corridor, past rows of closed doors until they reached a set of double doors. Standing there, waiting, was the man from the previous day. His expression was stern, his arms crossed over his chest as he watched them approach.

“Listen carefully," he said, his voice low and commanding. "I am Mister Dunbar, and this is Madam Dombrovski. We are your trainers. Our job is to prepare you to be monetized. You will obey us promptly and without question. You will address us as Master and Mistress. And now," he said, his tone leaving no room for hesitation, "your training begins."

Carry's heart raced as she stood there, naked, exposed and vulnerable, the weight of his words settling over her like a heavy chain. She glanced between them, their cold, unyielding gazes leaving no doubt that resistance was futile.

Mrs Dombrovski and Mr Dunbar led Carry into a brightly lit gym. The space was vast, filled with various pieces of workout equipment that Carry had never seen before. Her heart pounded in her chest as she took in her new surroundings.

Mr. Dunbar stepped closer, his eyes narrowing as he studied Carry with an unsettling intensity. "What is your name?" he asked, his voice calm but carrying an edge of authority that demanded an immediate response. Carry hesitated, her throat dry, before forcing herself to answer.

"Carry," she whispered, her voice barely audible.

“Louder," Mr. Dunbar commanded, his tone sharp. "You will speak clearly when addressing me. This is your first lesson."

"Carry," she repeated, louder this time, though her voice trembled.

"Good," he said, a faint smile playing on his lips, though it offered no comfort. You will learn to respond promptly and respectfully. Every word, every action, must be precise. Do you understand?"

She nodded quickly, her heart pounding in her chest.

"Verbal confirmation, Carry," he pressed, his patience thin.

"Yes, Master," she stammered, the title feeling foreign and heavy on her tongue. Mr Dunbar's smile widened, but it was devoid of warmth, more like the baring of teeth than an expression of kindness. "From now on," he said, his voice slow and deliberate, "you will no longer be called Carry. Your name is Nothing. Do you know why?" He paused, not waiting for an answer. Because that is what you are—nothing. A shell, a resource, a vessel to be shaped and utilized. You have no identity, no purpose, beyond what we assign to you. Do you understand, Nothing?"

Carry—now Nothing—felt the weight of his words on her already fragile spirit. Her lips parted, but no sound came out. She wanted to protest, to scream, to deny the erasure of her very self, but the cold, unyielding gaze of Mr. Dunbar silenced her before she could even begin.

"Answer me," he demanded, his voice sharp as a whip crack.

"Yes, Master," she whispered, her voice breaking.

"Louder," he barked, his patience wearing thin.

"Yes, Master," she repeated, louder this time, though the words tasted like ash in her mouth.

"Good," Mr. Dunbar said, his tone softening slightly, though it was no less menacing. "Remember this moment, Nothing. You are not a person. You are property. And property does not have a name—only a purpose. Now, let us continue."

Mrs Dombrovski, who had been standing silently nearby, stepped forward. "Dunbar," she said, her voice smooth but laced with authority, "shall we begin her physical conditioning?"

Mr. Dunbar nodded. "Yes. Let’s ensure Nothing understands the value of obedience."

Carry's breath hitched as she realized what was coming next. She was Nothing. And Nothing had no choice but to obey.

"Better," he said, stepping back slightly. "Now, let us proceed."

Mr. Dunbar walked over to a table where two braided whips lay waiting. He picked up both of them and handed one to Mrs Dombrovski. "This is our primary pedagogical tool," he explained to Carry, his tone matter-of-fact. "There are more modern things, like collars that deliver electric shocks or prods that do the same. Call us old-fashioned, but we prefer this material. These whips will ensure that you give your best effort and that the training doesn’t take too long. Time is money, as the taxpayer keeps reminding us."

He led her to a pole in the centre of the room, and Carry felt a fresh wave of dread wash over her as she realized what it was for. "Embrace it," Mrs. Dombrovski instructed, her voice cold and unwavering. "You're going to need to get familiar with this if you want to keep those curves in tip-top shape for us."

Carry tentatively approached the pole, her legs trembling. As she wrapped her arms around it, the cool metal sent a chill through her body. Mrs Dombrovski stepped back, and Mr Dunbar took a moment to appreciate the sight of Carry's firm breasts pressing against the pole, her curly black hair cascading down her back.

"Perfect," he murmured, his eyes roving over her delectable buttocks. "Now, let's see what you're made of,"

With a flick of his wrist, Mr. Dunbar brought the lash down on her back. Carry's cry was loud and clear, her eyes widening in shock and pain.

"You're going to learn to obey, Nothing," he said, his voice low and menacing. "Everything we say, everything we do, you will take it without complaint. Do you understand?"

Carry nodded, her eyes brimming with tears.

"Good," Mrs Dombrovski said, her voice devoid of warmth. "Now, let's begin your training."

The next two hours were a blur of pain and humiliation. Mr. Dunbar made her perform a series of exercises, each more demanding than the last. He pushed her to her limits, all the while making lewd comments about her body. "Look at those tits bonce," he'd say, or "That ass is going to look amazing when it's red and bruised."

Every time Carry stumbled or hesitated, the lash would come down, leaving a stinging trail of fire across her skin. She felt the bite of the leather against her thighs, her stomach, her back. Each strike brought a new wave of pain, and she had to fight to keep from screaming out.

Through it all, she remained silent, save for the occasional whimper or gasp. She knew better than to speak unless spoken to. To do so would only invite more punishment. To her surprise, this led to a compliment from Mr. Dunbar. "Well done, sweet animal," he said, "You accept everything you hear. Without complaint. From now on, it must also be done with a smile." He gave her a slap on her bottom, which he called her delicious ass. "Smile. Show gratitude. Otherwise, the whip will follow. Do you understand?"

Carry forced a smile. "Yes, master," she said, her eyes downcast.

"That smile looks artificial," Mr. Dunbar responded, "But for the first time, I will accept it."

Finally, Mrs. Dombrovski announced. "Your training session is over," she announced. "You've done well for your first morning, Nothing."

Carry was allowed to collapse to the floor, her body trembling with exhaustion. Mrs Dombrovski handed her a bottle of water, which she gratefully accepted, her mouth dry from the exertion.

Mr. Dunbar leaned down, his breath hot on her neck. "You're going to learn to love this," he whispered, his voice thick with desire. "You're going to crave the pain, the control. And when you do, you'll be ready for the real work."

Carry took a shaky breath, trying to ignore the way her body responded to his words. She knew better than to let them see her fear. With a final swipe of the lash across her backside, Mr Dunbar left her to recover.

Mrs Dombrovski returned a few minutes later with a tray of food. "Eat up," she said, her voice softer now. "You're going to need your strength."

Carry looked down at the vegan lunch, her stomach growling despite her apprehension. It was plain, but it was sustenance, and she knew she had to keep up her energy for whatever came next.

As she ate, Mrs Dombrovski spoke to her in a tone that almost sounded gentle. "You will learn to serve, Nothing. To please, to obey. And when you do, you will find your place in this world."

"Now, Nothing," she began, "it's time for your first lesson in pole dancing. It's a shame I'm not a lesbian, I would love to enjoy the view." She chuckled to herself, her eyes raking over Carry's body.

She nodded meekly, her eyes downcast.

"Good girl," Mrs. Dombrovski purred, her voice thick with patronizing sweetness. "Now, let's get started."

Mrs Dombrovski e gripped the leash tightly and yanked Carry forward, her voice sharp and unyielding. "Follow me, Nothing. No dawdling. Move!" she barked, her tone leaving no room for hesitation. Cary stumbled after her, her bare feet scraping against the cold floor as she was dragged back into another gym next to that of Mr. Dunbar.

This gym was a stark, sterile space, its walls lined with mirrors and its centre dominated by a polished metal pole. Mrs. Dombrovski released the leash and walked over to the pole, running her hand along it with a smirk. "This," she said, turning to face Carry, "is where you'll learn your new trade. I'm going to teach you pole dancing, Nothing.

Carry stood frozen, her arms wrapped around herself in a futile attempt to shield her body from Mrs. Dombrovski’s leering gaze. “Stand up straight!” Mrs. Dombrovski snapped. “Shoulders back, chest out. You’re not a shrinking violet anymore, Nothing. You’re a performer. Act like it.”

The lesson began with the basics: grip, posture, and spins. Mrs. Dombrovski demonstrated each move with a grace that seemed almost unnatural, given her harsh demeanour. Carry tried to mimic her movements, her muscles protesting after the intense workout she'd just endured.

She forced herself to straighten, though every fibre of her being screamed to curl up and disappear. Mrs. Dombrovski circled her like a predator sizing up its prey. "First lesson," she began, her voice dripping with mock sweetness. "You'll learn the basic grip and spin. Approach the pole."

Carry hesitated, her legs trembling as she took a step forward. "Faster!" Mrs Dombrovski shouted, clapping her hands sharply. "You move like a corpse. Put some life into it, or I'll give you a reason to limp."

Carry hurried to the pole, her breath coming in shallow gasps. Mrs Dombrovski stepped behind her, her voice close to Nothing's ear. "Place your dominant hand on the pole. Higher. No, higher! Good. Now, wrap your legs around it. Tighter! You're not hugging a teddy bear, Nothing.."

Carry obeyed, her muscles straining as she tried to mimic the movements Mrs Dombrovski demonstrated. The pole was cold and unyielding against her skin, and the position felt unnatural and humiliating. Mrs. Dombrovski watched with a critical eye, her lips curled in a sneer. "Pathetic," she muttered. "You'll need to do better than that if you want to please your owners. Let's try again."

As Carry attempted the spin again, Mrs Dombrovski made a series of lewd remarks, her tone dripping with disdain. "Oh, look at you, trying so hard. Pity you're not more flexible—clients like a good show. Maybe we'll have to stretch you out a bit more. Or maybe," she added with a smirk, "you'll just have to fake it. Heaven knows you're not much to look at."

Carry's cheeks burned with shame, but she kept her eyes fixed on the pole, determined not to give Mrs Dombrovski the satisfaction of seeing her break. But when Mrs Dombrovski made a particularly crude comment about her body, her resolve faltered. She glanced up, her eyes flashing with anger for the briefest of moments.

It was enough. Mrs Dombrovski's hand shot out, grabbing Carry by the hair and yanking her away from the pole. "How dare you look at me like that?" she snarled. "You're nothing, remember? Nothing! And Nothing does not glare at its superiors." She shoved Carry to the ground and reached for the whip that now hung at her side. "Five lashes," she declared coldly. "Count them."

The first strike landed across Carry´s back, the pain searing through her like fire. She bit down on her lip to keep from crying out. “One,” she whispered, her voice trembling.

The second lash came harder, drawing a sharp gasp from her. “Two,” she choked out.

By the third strike, tears streamed down her face, but she forced herself to count. “Three.”

The fourth and fifth lashes came in quick succession, each one leaving a fresh welt on her skin. “Four… five,” Carry finally managed, her voice barely audible.

Mrs Dombrovski stepped back, her breathing slightly laboured from the exertion. "Let that be a lesson to you," she said, her voice icy. "You are nothing. You obey. You perform. And you do not look at me with anything but respect. Understood?"

“Yes, Mistress,” Carry whispered, her body shaking with pain and humiliation.

"Now," Mrs. Dombrovski said, her voice clipped, "let's try that again. And remember, Nothing, your anger only fuels my desire to see you suffer."

With renewed determination, Carry pushed herself back into the lesson, her movements more fluid despite the pain. She focused on the rhythm of her breathing, the way the pole felt under her hands. Anything to keep from letting them see how much they were breaking her.

Hour after hour, Mrs Dombrovski taught her the art of pole dancing, her lewd comments and the occasional punishing lash serving as a constant reminder of her place. Carry's body grew sore, her skin bruised and tender, but she never once allowed herself to break.

When the lesson was finally over, she was led back to her cell, her mind reeling with everything she'd learned.

As she sat in her sparse, cold cell, the thin mattress beneath her offering little comfort, Carry allowed herself to think about what might come next. She knew she would eventually be put up for auction, her fate decided by the highest bidder. The thought filled her with dread, but she also knew she had no power to change it. And her life was no longer her own.

In the days that followed, Carry's training intensified. She was taught to dance, to serve, to pleasure. Every moment of her existence was controlled, every action scrutinized and corrected. The lash became a constant companion, a reminder of her failure to meet their expectations.

Her body grew stronger with every workout, every dance routine. She learned to move with grace and precision, to manipulate the pole in ways that would make any audience beg for more.

One night Carry had a nightmare. She was led naked into a grand room filled with wealthy bidders, their eyes raking over her with a hunger that made her skin crawl.

Mr. Dunbar held the leash, his grip tight. "Remember, Nothing," he said, his voice low in her ear, "you belong to whoever buys you. You will obey without question, or the consequences will be severe."

Carry awoke with a start, her body drenched in sweat, her heart racing as the remnants of a nightmare clung to her mind. Before she could fully gather her thoughts, she felt a firm hand shaking her shoulder. It was Mrs Dombrovski, her usual stern expression softened by an unfamiliar kindness. "Get up," Mrs. Dombrovski said, her voice surprisingly gentle. "Today is your big day."

Carry blinked but obeyed without hesitation. She sat up, the leash tightening slightly as Mrs Dombrovski gave it a light tug. She led Carry to the bathroom, where the familiar routine began. Under Mrs Dombrovski's watchful eye, Carry stepped into the shower, the cold water cascading over her body. She washed her hair methodically, her movements practised and precise. She knew better than to speak unless spoken to; Mrs. Dombrovski now always carried her lash, and Carry had no desire to feel its sting.

Once she was clean and dry, Mrs Dombrovski led her down the hallway, the leash held loosely but firmly in her hand. Carry followed obediently, her mind racing with questions. Where were they going? What did Mrs Dombrovski mean by "your big day"? She didn't dare ask. Instead, she focused on keeping her steps quiet and her posture submissive.

They arrived at the doctor's room, where Mr. Dunbar was waiting, accompanied by a strange man Carry had never seen before. The man was tall and impeccably dressed, his sharp features giving him an air of authority. He looked at Carry with curiosity and amusement, for in his eyes he was an object to be examined rather than a person.

“Today is your big day,” Mrs. Dombrovski repeated, her tone now carrying a hint of excitement. “Today, you graduate.”

Carry’s eyes widened in surprise, and her mouth fell open. “Permission to speak,” she said cautiously, her voice barely above a whisper. “Do I get a diploma, Mistress?”

The strange man burst into laughter, and a loud, booming sound filled the room. Mrs Dombrovski's lips curled into a smirk. "No, you fool," she said, "You're getting chipped. That way, your future owners can always track you on their app. There's no escape for the likes of you."

Mr. Dunbar stepped forward, his expression calm and businesslike. "This is a standard procedure," he said, gesturing toward the examination table in the centre of the room. "It's quick and relatively painless. You'll be back on your feet in no time."

Carry's legs felt like lead as she approached the table, her heart pounding in her chest. The strange man watched her with a detached curiosity, while Mrs Dombrovski stood nearby, her lash now visibly in hand, to remind Carry of the consequences of disobedience.

Then he gestured for Carry to lie down. “This will only take a few minutes,” he said, her tone clinical. “Just relax.”

Carry obeyed, her body trembling as she lay back on the cold, hard surface of the table. The strange gentleman cleaned the area at the base of her neck with an antiseptic wipe, the cold liquid sent a shiver down her spine. Then, he picked up a small, handheld device with a needle at its tip. Carry's breath quickened, her eyes darting to Mrs Dombrovski, who gave her a sharp look.

“Stay still," Mrs Dombrovski snapped. "This is for your own good."

The man positioned the device against Carry's skin, and with a quick, practised motion, he pressed the trigger. There was a sharp pinch, followed by a brief, burning sensation as the microchip was implanted just beneath the surface. Carry clenched her teeth, refusing to cry out, but a small whimper escaped her lips.

“There,” the man said, stepping back. “All done.”

Carry sat up slowly, her hand instinctively going to the back of her neck. She could feel a small bump where the chip had been inserted,. The strange man chuckled again, clearly amused by her discomfort.

“Congratulations,” he said, “You’re now officially merchandise. Your future owners will be able to track your every move. No more running, no more hiding. You belong to them.”

Carry understood that her life was no longer her own, but this—this was something else entirely. The chip was more than just a tracking device; it was a symbol of her complete and utter subjugation.

The gentleman said. "I'm sure I'll be back for another one soon," he said, his gaze lingering on Carry's trembling naked form. “The bill will go to the office as usual”’

Then he left the room, and Carry was left with the harsh reality of her new existence. She felt the cold metal of the chip beneath her skin, a constant reminder of her slavery.

"You may speak," Mrs. Dombrovski said, her voice still cold.

"Please, master, mistress, what happens now?" Carry asked, her voice shaking.

"Now, you will be sold," Mr. Dunbar said, his tone final. "And then you will begin your life as someone's property."

Carry's heart sank. "Will I be sold in a slave market?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Mrs Dombrovski's laugh was brittle. "Silly girl," she said. "This is not the eighteenth century. We are much more civilized now. You will be shown on a special channel of the Tell Sell network."

Mr. Dunbar nodded, his eyes gleaming. "And we're expected in the studio now," he said, "Time to show off your talents."

They led her out of the facility, her legs wobbly from the recent chip implantation. A limousine waited, its back doors open like the mouth of a monster ready to swallow her whole. Mrs. Dombrovski pushed her into the back seat, in a surprisingly gentle way.

The drive into the city was surreal, the passing scenery a blur as Carry tried to process what was happening. They were so friendly now, so kind. It was as if the cruelty had been a game, a mask they'd worn for their amusement.

"You're an eager learner," Mrs. Dombrovski said, her voice almost affectionate. "I'm sure you'll do well on television."

Mr. Dunbar leaned back, his hand stroking the leather of the seat. "You're quite the beauty," he said, his eyes lingering on Carry's body. "You'll bring a hefty price."

"Our fee is ten percent of that," Mrs Dombrovski added, "So you see, we're quite invested in your success."

The car pulled up to the entrance of the TV studio, the placard above the door reading "Merchandise Network."

Mr Dunbar opened the door for her, his grip on the leash firm. "Let's go in," he said, his voice filled with excitement. "It's showtime."

He and Ms. Dombrovski guided Carry through the nondescript doors of the Merchandise Network building. The girl behind the desk looked up with a bored expression, which quickly changed to one of intrigue when she saw Carry's trembling form.

"Merchandise to be delivered," Mr Dunbar declared,

The receptionist's gaze swept over Carry, noting the stark nakedness that had become her new reality. "Okay, delivered naked, I see," she said with a smirk, her eyes lingering on Carry's exposed flesh. "Please sign this, and I'll call someone to fetch her."

As Mr Dunbar scribbled his signature on the document, Mrs Dombrovski offered a final, smile. "This is goodbye then," she said

Then another girl emerged from the shadows, her eyes gleaming with an unsettling mix of excitement and malice. She took the leash from Ms. Dombrovski and began leading Carry deeper into the building. Carry would see her nor mr Dunbar ever again in her life.

Finally, they arrived at an office with a heavy oak door. The girl pushed it open, revealing a space that was a stark contrast to the utilitarian corridors they had just traversed. The room was plush, with velvet curtains and a rich mahogany desk that dominated the space. Behind it stood a figure that could only be described as breathtakingly beautiful. On the desk was a sign with her name: Veronica Pontefract.

Miss Veronica Pontefract was a towering six feet five inches, her ash blonde hair cascading around a face that looked as though it had been chiselled by the hands of a master sculptor. Her black silk blouse clung to her like a second skin, emphasizing every curve and contour of her body, while her designer jeans painted a picture of power and sensuality. From her belt, a prod dangled menacingly, a symbol of the control she wielded within these walls.

"You must be the new merchandise," Miss Pontefract purred, her voice a symphony of seduction and danger. "Welcome to the Merchandise Network. Now, let us see what you are capable of."

The girl with the leash gave it a sharp tug, urging Carry to step forward. She obeyed, her bare feet sinking into the plush carpet. Miss Pontefract's eyes raked over her, appraising her like a piece of meat at a butcher's shop. The prod in her hand crackled to life, sending a jolt of electricity through the air.

Miss Pontefract nodded in approval as Carry stood before her, naked and vulnerable. "Good," she said, her eyes gleaming. "Now, let us begin your evaluation."

Carry noticed that a series of contraptions and devices lined the walls. Some were obviously for restraint, while others had more sinister purposes that Carry could only guess at.

"You will be tested in three areas," Miss Pontefract continued, her eyes never leaving Carry's. "Obedience, endurance, and pleasure. Your performance in each will determine the way we market you."

To be continued