You step through the archway and she flinches, wrists raw above her head, chest heaving beneath the white marks. Her voice cracks on the word please, and she means it, every syllable soaked in fear. She will not fight you. She was told not to scream, and she has been so, so obedient.

What she asks of you, in that thin and shaking voice, is mercy. What she offers, without knowing it, is everything: her terror, her trembling surrender, the faint salt of fear on her skin. You could take her slowly, and she would let you, weeping. You could take her gently, and she would weep harder, not understanding. She only knows one thing, that she is yours, and she is waiting.