The room was too bright- The table too long -And the voices—too loud.
I sat near the edge of the conference table, hands folded in my lap, trying not to flinch at every vulgar word tossed between the instructors.
They laughed openly. Carelessly.
As if Nine was just a well-made toy. A beautiful little tool whose only function was to please.
"Did you see his mouth today?" one of them said, a young instructor with a scar across his chin. "The way he wrapped around it—gods, I nearly lost it watching."
"Those eyes," another chuckled. "Big and wet. Makes him look so grateful. Like he's lucky to be used."
"Better than some of the older models," the third added. "Doesn't bite. Doesn't whimper too loud. But he still looks pretty when he cries."
I kept my gaze fixed on the far wall.
There were cameras here too.
Always cameras.
"He's starting to act clingy, though," someone muttered. "Saw him all but climb into Rhea's lap earlier."
The laughter that followed that comment felt colder. Tighter.
"And why not?" another instructor added. "She's his handler. Soft hands. Soothing voice. Of course he thinks she cares."
"Or maybe he's smart," the one with the scar said. "Knows how to play favorites. Learns who'll pet him after he's used."
My jaw tightened. My nails dug into my palm beneath the table.
Don't react.
You can't afford to react.
They already watch you too closely.
"He's a blank slate," another mused. "Which is what makes him so useful. No ego. No fight. Just a warm body and a soft smile."
"Hard to believe he wasn't grown with scent triggers already installed," someone else said. "Feels like a waste."
That made a few nod.
"You know, we could probably petition for upgrades. Emotional reinforcement's working, but imagine what we could do with sensory implants."
"Scent glands," one said, snapping his fingers. "Mimic the natural omega response. We've already coded him to be docile. Let's make him addictive."
More laughter.
"I want to see how he reacts when he really goes into heat," another added, half-laughing. "Bet we could get better responses out of clients too."
"Hell, once they've got a proper heat cycle running through him, we could simulate breeding routines in-house."
I wanted to throw up.
Then the door opened—and silence fell.
The boss walked in.
Calm. Unhurried. Impeccably dressed, as always. His presence bent the energy of the room like gravity.
He gave a faint nod as he stepped forward, gloves tucked neatly into the pocket of his coat. "I see we've started without me."
No one answered. We all sat straighter.
"I trust today's session went as anticipated?" he asked.
One of the senior instructors answered first. "Exceptionally, sir. Subject Nine responded well to handler commands. Demonstrated high adaptability and minimal resistance. Emotional reinforcement appears to be taking root."
"Excellent," the boss murmured. He looked directly at me. "You've done well, Rhea."
I didn't speak.
He didn't seem to mind.
"I do, however, have some proposed modifications," he continued. "Enhancements. As you've all observed, Nine has been performing well—but there's room to refine him further."
He paced slowly behind the table. The silence was thick now. No more laughter. Just the quiet, reverent attention of people who knew exactly what kind of man they served.
"We've begun integrating more complex stimuli," he said. "But true submission is rooted in instinct. That's where our current model falters. Emotion can be taught. But instinct must be… installed."
His eyes slid to me again.
"You're a werewolf, aren't you?"
The question hit like a slap.
I blinked. "Yes… sir."
He tilted his head. "Then you understand the importance of scent."
I said nothing.
Because he didn't really want an answer.
"I want Nine modified," he said simply. "I want scent glands implanted. Matched to omega profiles. I want him to be… irresistible to the right audience."
A murmur passed through the room—excited, hungry.
"And since we're already preparing him for full receptive function," the boss continued, "I see no reason not to complete the set. Uterus. Vulva. Sensory nerve clustering."
"Sir," one of the instructors said, clearly pleased, "we can schedule surgical updates within the week. Preliminary scans already confirm anatomical compatibility."
"Excellent," the boss said. "And while you're at it, recalibrate his reward centers. I want stronger pain-pleasure pairing. He's still flinching too often. We need cleaner transitions."
More nods.
More notes.
Cold professionalism laid over something deeply cruel.
The boss turned back to me one last time.
"You'll continue guiding him emotionally, of course," he said. "We want his dependence on you to deepen. Makes it easier to reshape him."
I nodded slowly.
I didn't trust my voice to stay steady.
"Dismissed," he said.
They began standing, talking in low voices as they filed out. I sat still for a moment longer.
The room was suddenly too quiet.
Too full of ghosts.
When I finally stood, my legs felt numb.
I passed a pair of instructors near the doorway.
"Think she's imprinting on him a little too much," one whispered.
"She's just getting the best results," the other shrugged. "Let her play the good cop. The kid loves her. Makes everything smoother."
They didn't lower their voices much. Didn't care if I heard.
To them, I wasn't a person either.
Just another tool doing her part.