Riley doesn’t question the next instruction when it comes. Dr. Venn delivers it the same way as the others—brief, precise, already moving on before Riley has fully processed it.

“Third floor,” she says, eyes on the tablet. “Staff lounge. There’s a lighter on the table by the window. Bring it back to me.”

Riley nods. “Yes.”

“Don’t take too long.”

“I won’t.”

Dr. Venn doesn’t dismiss her directly this time. She simply stops speaking, her attention returning fully to the tablet, leaving Riley to understand the moment has ended.

Riley turns and leaves.

The stairs feel longer on the way up, each level marked more by silence than sound, the building shifting subtly the higher she goes. By the time she reaches the third floor, the air feels different again—quieter, more contained, like fewer people are meant to pass through it.

She steps out into the corridor and slows.

The sign is impossible to miss.

NO ANIMALS BEYOND THIS POINT.

The letters are clean, permanent, not something temporary or easily ignored. They sit at eye level, placed exactly where they need to be to stop someone before they go any further.

Riley stops a few steps short of the door.

The instruction settles in her head again.

Third floor. Staff lounge. Bring it back.

Her eyes flick between the sign and the door, the space beyond it hidden, inaccessible. The corridor around her feels too quiet, like the decision itself is louder than anything else.

If she goes in, she breaks a rule that doesn’t sound optional.

If she doesn’t, she fails the instruction she was given.

Her weight shifts slightly.

Then the door opens.

The man steps out, the yellow watch catching the overhead light as he moves into the corridor. He notices her immediately, his gaze dropping briefly to the red on her wrist before returning to her face.

“You again,” he says.

Riley straightens slightly without meaning to. “I was sent to get something.”

He glances back at the door, then at the sign, then at her. “You’re on the wrong side of that.”

“I know,” Riley says. “Dr. Venn told me to come up here. There’s a lighter in the staff lounge. She wants me to bring it back.”

The man’s expression flattens slightly.

“And you were going to go in there?” he asks.

Riley hesitates. “I wasn’t sure.”

His gaze sharpens just a fraction. “Read the sign.”

Riley’s eyes flick back to it automatically.

NO ANIMALS BEYOND THIS POINT.

“I saw it,” she says quietly.

“Then you already know the answer.”

There’s a pause.

Riley looks between him and the door again, the instruction still pressing quietly at the back of her mind.

“I don’t have to go in,” she says carefully. “You could just get it for me.”

The shift in him is immediate.

“Could I?” he asks.

Riley’s shoulders tighten slightly. “If you’re already there—”

He steps closer, not rushing, not abrupt, just closing the space between them like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“Animals don’t ask Humans to do things for them up here,” he says, his voice low, controlled. “You don’t make requests. You don’t decide how things work.”

Riley’s mouth closes.

He watches her for a second, then his tone shifts, easing slightly, something almost conversational settling into it.

“You’re new,” he says. “Still figuring it out.”

His hand touches her ass again, gently feeling the impression his hand had made earlier. Riley dislikes this man, she wants to push him away. But she can’t, she’s an Animal and he’s a Human. Touching her is his right.

“You don’t need to make it harder for yourself,” he continues, like he’s explaining something simple. “People respond better when you don’t push.”

“And if your this desperate for a little Human contact, I’m happy to help a Meatgirl in need.”

The hand on her ass snakes between her legs, gently teasing her clit. Riley gasps at the sudden contact. Shocked at how gentle it is.

“See?” he adds after a moment. “That’s easier, isn’t it?”

Riley doesn’t answer.

In this moment something comes over her. A realisation. She likes being treated like this. Her hand move to her nipples but his free hand slaps it away. “No,” he says, like he’s rebuking a badly behaved pet dog, “You don’t touch yourself right now, Meatgirl.”

Riley opens her mouth to retaliate but a soft moan escapes instead. He smiles.

“Make more noises like that kid,” he demands, “You little Animals are just like the rest, hungry for affection.”

She squeaks and maons as his fingers go deeper. Then he curls them and her hips begin to buck forward. “Good girl,” he says, “Cum for me you little cunt.”

“Cunt?” Riley tastes the word out loud. It’s a horrible thing to call anyone but, right now, it pushes her over the edge. Her twelve year old body convulses as his calloused hand brings her to orgasm. He holds her up, refusing to let her collapse, so he can watch as her childish face twists in pleasure before a look of relaxation spreads over her.

He studies her face for a second longer, then steps back, the space opening again as if nothing had happened.

“You’re not going in there,” he says, the earlier firmness returning without effort. “And you’re not sending me in either.”

A beat.

“Leave the third floor.”

The instruction lands as clearly as the others had. Riley pulls herself back from post-orgasmic bliss. She glances once more at the door, at the sign, at the space beyond it that she isn’t allowed to enter.

Then she nods.

“Okay.”

She turns and walks back toward the stairs, her pace steady, not rushed, not slow, the absence of the lighter sitting quietly with her as she descends.

When she returns to the office, Dr. Venn looks up almost immediately.

“You took longer,” she says.

Riley stops just inside the room. “…I didn’t bring it.”

Dr. Venn’s gaze settles on her. “Why?”

Riley hesitates briefly. “There’s a sign. No Animals beyond that point.”

A pause.

“And?”

“A staff member came out,” Riley says. “He told me to leave.”

Dr. Venn’s expression doesn’t change, but her attention sharpens slightly.

“And you did.”

Riley nods. “I wasn’t allowed to be there.”

The silence that follows is brief.

Then Dr. Venn turns back to the tablet, tapping something into it with the same steady rhythm as before.

“If you can’t complete an instruction,” she says, her tone even, “you report it immediately.”

Riley nods. “Yes.”

“That will be all for now.”

The moment closes without emphasis, leaving the decision behind her—and whatever it meant already recorded somewhere she can’t see.

Dr. Venn doesn’t comment on Riley’s return beyond the brief instruction already given, the moment folding away as cleanly as the others have. There’s no indication that anything about it lingered, no shift in tone to suggest it mattered more or less than anything else that morning. She scrolls once across the tablet, pauses, then sets it down.

“You failed to complete a direct instruction,” she says.

Riley straightens slightly. “Yes.”

Dr. Venn studies her for a second, not weighing the answer, just noting it.

“Then we correct it.”

She gestures toward the open space in the centre of the room. “Kneel.”

Riley moves without hesitation, lowering herself to the floor.

“Arms out.”

She lifts them immediately, extending them forward at shoulder height, palms angled slightly downward as she settles into the position.

“Hold it,” Dr. Venn says. “Until I say otherwise.”

Riley nods once. “Yes.”

Dr. Venn doesn’t leave the room this time. She returns to the desk, picks up the tablet again, and resumes whatever she had been doing before, her attention split in a way that doesn’t feel divided so much as layered. Riley is part of the room now. Not the focus. Not ignored.

Just present.

The first few minutes pass easily.

The position isn’t difficult at first. Riley’s balance settles quickly, her arms steady, her breathing even as she fixes her gaze somewhere just ahead of her, not focusing on anything in particular. The silence stretches, broken only by the faint, consistent sound of the stylus moving across the tablet.

Ten minutes.

The first strain settles into her shoulders, a dull pull that spreads slowly outward. Riley adjusts her fingers slightly, then stills them again, correcting the movement before it becomes noticeable.

Dr. Venn doesn’t look up.

Twenty minutes.

The ache deepens, her arms beginning to feel heavier than they should, the effort required to hold them steady increasing in small, steady increments. Riley swallows once, then again, her posture tightening slightly as she keeps the position exact.

Thirty minutes.

The tremor begins.

Subtle at first, a faint shake running through her arms that she tries to control, forcing the muscles to hold firm despite the strain building underneath. Her breathing shifts, still controlled, but more deliberate now.

Dr. Venn scrolls once.

Forty minutes.

The strain becomes something sharper, the muscles in her shoulders and upper arms burning steadily now, her control slipping in small, barely visible increments. Riley’s arms dip for a fraction of a second before she forces them back into place, correcting immediately.

Fifty minutes.

The tremor is visible now.

Her arms shake openly, the effort to hold them steady costing more with each passing second. Her focus narrows, the rest of the room fading slightly as the position demands more of her attention.

An hour.

Her arms dip again.

This time the correction is slower.

Riley inhales, steadying herself, trying to hold the position, but the strain has settled too deeply now, the pain no longer something she can push aside without consequence.

A few seconds pass.

Then—

“…Dr. Venn.”

The stylus pauses.

Riley swallows, her voice tight but controlled. “I can’t hold this much longer.”

A brief silence follows.

“How?” Dr. Venn asks.

“My shoulders,” Riley says. “They’re starting to give.”

Another pause.

Dr. Venn sets the tablet down and looks at her properly, her gaze moving over the tremor in Riley’s arms, the tension in her posture, the point where endurance is shifting into failure.

“Lower them,” she says.

Riley does immediately, her arms dropping to her sides, the sudden release sending a sharp rush of sensation through them that makes her wince before she can stop herself. She flexes her fingers slightly, trying to bring them back under control.

Dr. Venn watches the recovery rather than the strain.

“If a position causes damage,” she says, her tone even, procedural, “you report it before it fails.”

Riley nods, still catching her breath. “Yes.”

Dr. Venn picks the tablet back up.

“That will be all.”

The moment closes without emphasis, leaving nothing behind except the instruction—and the quiet expectation that it will be understood next time.

Dr. Venn doesn’t frame the next instruction any differently from the others, her tone unchanged, her attention already half-elsewhere as she sets a small folder on the edge of the desk. “Reception,” she says. “Leave this with the front desk and come straight back.”

Riley nods, stepping forward to take it. “Yes.”

“Don’t linger.”

“I won’t.”

Dr. Venn doesn’t look up again.

Riley turns and leaves.

The corridor outside feels busier now, not crowded but active in a way it hadn’t been earlier, staff moving between rooms, conversations low and unhurried, the space carrying a steady rhythm that Riley has started to recognise without fully understanding it. She keeps her pace even, the folder held flat against her side, her focus fixed on the instruction.

Reception. Leave it. Come straight back.

The first contact is light.

A hand brushes her arm as someone passes too close, the touch brief but deliberate enough to register. Riley’s shoulder tightens instinctively before she steadies it, her pace unbroken as she continues forward.

She doesn’t look back.

A few steps later someone else moves past her on the other side, their hand trailing across her shoulder, fingers dragging slightly longer than necessary before slipping away. Riley’s posture shifts under it, a small adjustment rather than a reaction, her grip tightening momentarily on the folder before settling again.

She keeps walking.

The corridor opens slightly as she nears reception, the space wider, more visible. A man standing near the wall glances at her as she approaches, then steps just enough into her path to slow her without fully stopping her.

“One of Venn’s girls?” he asks casually.

Riley pauses. “Yes.”

He nods, his attention already drifting, but his hand settles against her upper arm, thumb brushing once in a slow, absent motion as if the contact doesn’t require thought.

Then he begeins to idly run his thumb over her small nipple. Not enough to excite her but enough to let her know he’s touching her. She blushes in his touch, he smiles at her.

“You’ll get used to it,” he says.

Riley doesn’t pull away.

She holds still just long enough for the contact to pass naturally, then steps around him when the space opens, continuing toward the desk without rushing.

She hands over the folder at reception as instructed, the exchange quick, efficient, unremarkable.

Then she turns and heads back.

The return is quieter.

Not empty, but less concentrated.

Halfway down the corridor, someone passes close behind her, a hand slipping briefly across her side, the contact light but unmistakable before it’s gone again.

A few steps later a woman Handler idly slaps her butt in passing. Riley can’t help smiling at the woman’s cheeky giggles as she walks away.

Riley’s step falters for a fraction of a second before she corrects it, her pace evening out almost immediately.

Further along, another slows as they pass her, their attention lingering just long enough to justify stopping.

“You’re Venn’s for the morning, aren’t you?” she asks.

Riley nods. “Yes.”

“Mm.”

“Let’s have a look at you then, arms up kiddo,” she tells her. Riley obeys, it isn’t interfering with her current task after all. The woman kneels in front of Riley and her hands roam her little body freely. Grabbing at her butt, her hips, rubbing her back and waist, lingering on her flat chest.

“Little Meatgirls are always so soft,” the woman claims, “And you smell divine, did you get a treatment?” Riley nods and the woman smiles, “Very good, Meatgirls who take this as seriously as you aren’t so common.”

Riley keeps her posture steady.

Her breathing stays even.

When the woman’s hand cups her cheek she leans into it without thinking. The woman giggles playfully, pressing a small kiss to Riley’s lips. “I do wish more Meatgirls were as affectionate as you.”

“But I better get back to work. If you’re still around later, come find me?”

Riley bites her bottom lip before nodding and the woman leaves.

Riley continues.

By the time she reaches Dr. Venn’s office, the individual moments have blended together into something harder to separate, not one interaction but a series of them, each brief, each treated as unremarkable by everyone except her.

She steps inside.

Dr. Venn doesn’t look up immediately.

“You took the direct route,” she says.

“Yes.”

“You weren’t delayed.”

“I was a little.”

A pause.

Dr. Venn’s gaze lifts then, moving over Riley briefly, not searching for anything obvious, just noting the way she stands, the small adjustments in posture, the absence of disruption.

“Stand there,” she says.

Riley does.

The tablet shifts slightly in Dr. Venn’s hand as she resumes her work, the stylus moving in quiet, steady strokes.

The room settles again.

Like nothing unusual happened at all.

Dr. Venn doesn’t speak immediately when Riley settles back into place, the quiet stretching just long enough to feel deliberate rather than incidental. The tablet rests in her hand, the stylus hovering just above the screen as if whatever she had been recording has reached a natural pause. Her gaze lifts slowly, not sharp, not sudden, just… present in a way it hadn’t been before.

Something about her expression shifts.

It’s small.

But it’s there.

The corner of her mouth lifts slightly—not warmth, not softness, just the suggestion of something that hadn’t appeared at any point earlier that morning.

Riley notices it without understanding why.

Dr. Venn turns the tablet, angling it outward.

“Come here,” she says.

Riley steps forward.

The screen is filled with a structured list, cleanly arranged, each line marked with short labels and brief notes that read more like observations than conclusions.

Compliance speed.
Response clarity.
Instruction retention.
Boundary recognition.
Escalation control.
Environmental stability.

Riley’s eyes move down the list, taking in the marks beside each one, some simple ticks, others annotated with short, precise comments written in the same steady hand she’s watched all morning.

She frowns slightly. “…What is this?”

Dr. Venn watches her for a moment, then taps the stylus once against the screen.

“That,” she says, “is what I’ve been doing.”

Riley looks up.

Before she can ask anything else, the door opens behind her.

She turns.

The man steps inside.

The same one from the stairwell. The corridor. The third floor.

He doesn’t carry the same edge now. The tension that had defined each of their earlier interactions is gone, replaced with something more neutral, more aligned with the room he’s entered. He closes the door behind him without speaking, moving to stand off to the side like he belongs there.

Riley’s gaze flicks between them.

Dr. Venn leans back slightly against the desk, folding her arms loosely.

“He assists me when I need variables that don’t feel controlled,” she says, as if clarifying something routine. “It produces more reliable behaviour.”

The man gives a small nod, acknowledging the explanation without adding to it.

Riley’s attention shifts back to Dr. Venn.

“…Variables?”

Dr. Venn tilts her head slightly.

“You didn’t think I was assigning random tasks,” she says.

It isn’t quite a question.

Riley doesn’t answer.

Dr. Venn’s expression doesn’t change, but that faint trace of a smile returns, just briefly.

“You were being observed,” she continues. “Every instruction. Every hesitation. Every time something didn’t align cleanly.”

Her gaze sharpens slightly.

“You didn’t default to blind obedience.”

A beat.

“You didn’t escalate under pressure.”

Another.

“And you didn’t cross a boundary you understood to be enforced.”

Riley’s shoulders shift slightly, the morning rearranging itself in her mind, each moment settling into place with a clarity it hadn’t had before.

Dr. Venn lowers the tablet.

“That combination is uncommon.”

The words are quiet. Measured.

The man glances at Riley again, this time without the earlier pressure, something closer to assessment still lingering, but without interference.

Dr. Venn steps forward slightly.

“You passed,” she says.

There’s no emphasis on it. No attempt to make it sound like praise. It’s delivered the same way everything else has been—calm, certain, procedural.

Riley blinks. “…Passed?”

“For my purposes,” Dr. Venn clarifies. “Which is the only standard that applies here.”

She sets the tablet down.

“I don’t control your final classification,” she continues. “That decision is made at the Processing Centre you report to.”

Riley’s attention sharpens.

“But I do influence it.”

A small pause.

“I’ll be submitting a recommendation ahead of your intake.”

The words settle heavier than anything else she’s said.

“With my name attached,” she adds, “your likelihood of Companion placement increases.”

Riley doesn’t move.

Dr. Venn watches her for a second longer, then straightens slightly, the moment closing as cleanly as it opened.

“That will be all.”

No ceremony.

No dismissal beyond the words themselves.

Just the end of the morning.

The man moves first, stepping toward the door, pausing just long enough to glance back at Riley, something unreadable but no longer antagonistic in his expression.

Then he leaves.

And the room settles again, like it had been waiting for that exact moment to end.

The shift outside feels almost abrupt, like stepping into a different part of the same world that shouldn’t quite fit together. The air is warmer, carrying the smell of charcoal and cooked food, the low murmur of conversation drifting across the open space where people stand in loose groups with plates in their hands. Nothing about it feels tense. Nothing about it feels hidden.

“Since you’re still under my claim for the morning,” Dr. Venn says as she steps out beside her, “you may as well make use of it.”

Riley glances at her.

Dr. Venn gestures toward the spread ahead. “Lunch.”

There’s no further explanation. None needed.

Riley steps forward slowly, her attention drawn toward the long table set beneath a shaded awning. Trays of food are arranged in neat rows, steam rising from some, others already plated and waiting. It looks… good. Carefully prepared. Ordered. Like everything else here.

People take what they want without hesitation.

No one questions it.

Riley moves closer.

The smell reaches her properly now—rich, savoury, layered in a way that makes her stomach tighten despite everything else still sitting in her chest. Someone passes her with a plate already filled, nodding once in quiet acknowledgement before moving on.

She stops at the edge of the table.

The dishes are labelled.

Small tags placed neatly beside each tray, printed in the same clean format she’s seen throughout the facility. Most of them don’t mean anything at first glance, just numbers, codes, identifiers that feel administrative rather than personal.

Until one of them doesn’t.

Her gaze lingers.

The numbers don’t make sense immediately.

But something about the way they’re arranged—

The spacing.

The rhythm—

It catches.

Familiar.

Riley frowns slightly, looking at it again, her attention narrowing as the recognition forms not as a thought but as something quieter, something that settles before it’s fully understood.

And then—

Rosey.

The name comes without effort.

Bright.

Immediate.

She can hear her voice as clearly as if she’s standing beside her again, the way she had spoken those numbers with that same strange pride, like they meant something more than just identification, like they were worth remembering.

Riley’s fingers shift slightly at her side.

The sound of conversation continues around her, unchanged, people moving, eating, talking like this is just another part of the day.

Nearby, a grill turns slowly over the heat, a spit rotating with steady rhythm. What rests on it no longer resembles anything she could recognise as a person. It’s just form now. Texture. Surface. Cooked down into something that fits the space it occupies.

A slab of meat.

Nothing more.

Riley watches it for a moment longer than she realises.

Then she looks back to the table.

The tag doesn’t change.

It doesn’t need to.

The understanding settles deeper.

Not spoken.

Not confirmed.

Just… there.

A plate is placed into her hands.

She doesn’t see who gives it to her.

Grilled corn sits neatly to one side, the kernels charred just enough to catch the light, and beside it a portion of meat, cut cleanly, still warm, the scent rising from it rich enough to make her stomach tighten again.

It smells good.

Really good.

Riley looks down at it for a second.

Around her, nothing changes.

People continue eating.

Talking.

Moving through the space like this is normal. Expected.

Her grip steadies on the plate.

To refuse would be wrong.

Disrespectful.

Rosey had been proud.

That thought settles quietly beneath everything else.

Riley lifts the fork.

And begins to eat.