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I let my hands run through the rest of the report, reassembling the facts until they almost glow with utility. I bury the evidence of the trial’s deviation, masking the protocol breach in a thicket of performance metrics and biomarker readouts. I reference his willingness to submit to medical discipline, his ability to withstand pain, his absence of remorse for acts required of him.

My own name appears on the oversight line.

I pause, then add the phrase: “Subject displays emergent psychological resilience and strategic compliance. Recommend direct supervision under Brooks, B. for specialized training, beginning November 1st.”

The words linger on the screen, too honest and too calculated at the same time.

I run the simulation in my head: what happens if the Ministry sees through it? They’ll audit my other cases, scrub every line for evidence of corruption or bias. I’ll be demoted, reassigned, possibly erased.

But if the transfer goes through, Samuel will belong to me.

No one else gets to touch him. No one else gets to try to break him.

I don’t bother to justify it. This isn’t about optimization. This is about possession. I want the proof of him. I want to see how much of his soul can survive inside the machinery of the Ministry.

I need to see if the monster who took control of mine will survive a domesticated life, next to me, until one of us kills the other.

I run the spellcheck, correct two minor grammar errors, then push the form into the main queue. The terminal pings twice, then wipes itself.

That’s it. The world is realigned.

I close the terminal and sit for a moment, listening to the sound of my own blood in my ears. It’s louder than the cooling fans, louder than the backup power cycling in the walls.

I can still feel his teeth at my throat.

If anyone asks, this was the only way.

If anyone sees the lie, I’ll burn the whole place down.

I watch the clock as it ticks, make a coffee, black, and sit in the silence. Plan my words. I imagine the next phase, the way he will look at me when I explain how the world will change now.

He is mine.

There’s nothing left to do but enjoy the anticipation.

I clean the blood from my thumb, and smile at the taste.

The security cam plays in the corner of my vision, but mostly I stare at the reflection in my coffee. The surface is black and unbroken, except for the faint shimmer when I flex my hand. My knuckles are bruised. There’s a bite mark just above my wrist, still raw. I touch it, press until it hurts, and feel the echo in my cock.

I think about how it felt to be inside him.

No, that’s a lie. I think about how it felt when he bit me, when he fought so hard I had to pin him with my whole weight, when his body went from resistance to hunger in a single, perfect moment. I think about how it felt when he flipped me, slammed me against the concrete, drove himself into me with the kind of violence that makes priests weep and sinners pray for more.

About wanting it again. About wanting it every day.

This is not what the Ministry wants.

The ritual of the Crown was supposed to break him. To bring out the animal, then kill or tame it, and send the pieces down the line to serve as warning for others. I have run this trial more times than I can count, and every outcome has followed the script: submission, surrender, occasionally suicide. Never this.

I replay it in my mind, slow-motion. The way he took the punishment, never flinching, never giving in until it became a game. The way he made me laugh, even when I tried to hold my composure.

The way he refused to be less than I am, and made me want to be more.

He is the opposite of my design, and yet the only proof it works.

I take a sip, burn my tongue, and let the pain bring me back to the present. My body is spent, but my mind is hyperalert, still drafting contingencies, new ways to shape the future. I make a list in my head:

- Monitor his integration into Enforcement.