I made it halfway to Nine's quarters before I was stopped.
Two guards stood at the door, their arms crossed, eyes forward like statues. My steps slowed.
"I need to see him," I said, keeping my voice neutral.
One of them shook his head. "He's in training."
"I'm his handler," I said quickly. "Can't I sit in?"
"You're not cleared to interrupt," the other replied. "You can observe. Control room's down the hall."
I hesitated, but they weren't moving. With a clenched jaw, I turned to the narrow door marked Observation Only. The panel blinked red, then green as it recognized my ID tag.
The room beyond was dim and cold, lined with controls and monitors. A thick sheet of one-way glass looked out over the training chamber.
I stepped closer.
Nine was kneeling on the padded platform in the middle of the room.
His shirt had been removed entirely this time. Pale skin bare. Arms at his sides. Head slightly bowed.
Across from him stood a man I hadn't seen before—tall, broad, predatory. The instructor.
"Back straight," the instructor snapped. "Chest out. You're meant to look inviting, not pathetic."
Nine obeyed immediately, spine elongating, shoulders rolling back like he was a doll being posed.
The instructor circled him slowly, like a buyer inspecting merchandise. He reached out without hesitation, brushing his fingers along Nine's collarbone, down his side, then across his stomach.
Nine didn't flinch.
The instructor's hand slipped lower, fingers trailing over his hip, then gripping his thigh. Tight - almost enough to leave bruises .
"Still," the man said sharply when Nine tensed just slightly.
Then he slapped him.
A hard, open-palmed strike to the side of Nine's face. The sound cracked through the speakers.
I gasped.
Nine didn't move. Didn't speak. His face turned with the blow, his mouth parting just slightly. A faint flush spread across his cheek.
"You moved. You know you'll be punished every time you move when you're not told to."
He crouched beside Nine now, eyes level with his.
"Do you want to be good?" he asked, almost softly.
Nine nodded.
"Say it."
"I want to be good," Nine said, voice breathy, unsure.
"Then do as you're told."
He stood again, this time taking Nine's hand and placing it directly over his own groin. "Now. Practice."
Nine obeyed. His hand moved slowly, awkwardly. The instructor corrected his grip, then slapped him when he hesitated.
"That's not how a client wants to be touched. You're supposed to enjoy this. Smile."
Nine's lips curved into a practiced, shallow mimicry of joy. Empty. Trained.
The instructor moved behind him and ran both hands down Nine's arms, then up under his arms to press against his chest. His mouth was too close to Nine's ear.
"You're prettier when you pretend to like it," he said, one hand sliding down the curve of Nine's back before gripping him roughly—fingers digging in, possessive, claiming. Nine - of course -didn't flinch, didn't tense. He stayed exactly as he'd been trained to: still, silent, vacant-eyed and compliant.
I couldn't look away. My stomach twisted. Bile crept up my throat.
A tech operator beside me adjusted a dial. "Training's almost done," he said, not unkindly. "They all go through it. You get used to it."
I turned on him, voice raw. "Why is this normal?"
He looked at me, shrugged. "Because it works."
I backed away from the glass, hands trembling.
The session ended with Nine kneeling again, his chest rising and falling slightly faster, eyes glassy. The instructor ruffled his hair like he was a pet.
"Good boy," he said.
Nine blinked slowly. Like he believed it.