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The undercity's gonna eat you alive	By : RFsych101 Category: +G through L > League of Legends Views: 1303 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own the fandom and do not make any money off the fiction

Chapter List
- 7
- 8
(Scenario where Pim wins at the auction...)
The first thing she noticed was smell of perfume. As she opened her eyes, she looked around, and saw that she was on a dark purple ottoman. It had to be an expensive furniture item, not just because of its softness and sturdiness, but because of the intricate tone on tone patterns of flowers that ran across its surface. She wiped at her eyes and looked down at the floor, seeing an elegant marble pattern on the floor. White, with black patterns that looked like cracks, and as she looked around to where the walls ended, she saw purple toned velvet walls, with similar patters to that on the ottoman. There were lavender and gold curtains that hung from 12 foot ceilings, but no windows, indicating that they were more for aesthetic purposes, rather than for function. There also seemed to be paintings along the walls as well. The ceilings were a pure white, with intricate carvings of nude female figures in suggestive poses. Caitlyn turned her attention back to the rest of the room, both drawn to, and unsettled, by the imagery on the ceiling. She then looked down at herself as she sat up to inspect herself.
She was still dressed — she adjusted the arm sleeves and buckles on her boots that came up past her knees on her Enforcer uniform. She then reached for her choker to adjust it, and then felt a cold sensation as she felt the unfamiliar shape of the collar, the shock collar, that the brothel owner said would be put on her after… after she’d been gassed. After a moment of self inspection, she realized she was not alone in the large room, and looking forward, saw a shape that she recognized from the ‘auction’. Wearing a teal blue blazer a high collar and a reddish purple inseam. The outfit was clearly posh, with gold trimmings and dark pants. And a mask that seemed comical when she saw him in the hallway earlier that night, but now took on a more eerie feel. A white mask that covers the face, with two black eye lets, two red circles on either cheek, and the mouth carved in the shape of a permanent grin, with a smaller red dot on the centre of the mouth. Like… lipstick? And his name. What was it?
Pim.
That was it. The one she’d tried to have that awkward conversation with. He just stood there, hands clasped in front, holding something she couldn’t see. He then took a step closer and tilted his head to one side, an odd gesture that somehow caused Caitlyn to stiffen as she slowly stood, looking around, as if trying to see if there was an escape route. Pim wasn’t an imposing figure physically. In fact, he was probably a few inches shorter, and had a slighter frame than most men she knew. Taking a breath, she decided to forgo any small talk or niceties, and stood upright, boots scraping the tiled floor, ignoring her heart pounding in her chest as she said in a stern voice that echoed in the room.
“Where am I?” she barked, voice sharp, eyes scanning for exits. None. Just warm light, velvet-lined walls, and the eerie presence of the masked man watching her.
He took a step closer.
She took a step back, trying to keep her voice calm as she spoke again.
“I asked you a question—” as she spoke, she saw Pim press something in his hands.
The collar flared. A sharp jolt tore through her spine and she dropped to her knees with a gasp, clutching her throat as she gritted her teeth through the pain. As she tried to take a breath, Pim’s soft voice broke the silence.
“Please,” Pim said, his voice calm. “Let’s not begin this with pain.”
“Take this thing off me,” she growled, pushing herself upright.
Instead, the man reached up — and removed the mask.
Underneath: an older man, thin and composed, his eyes soft with something that might’ve been warmth if it weren’t so deeply unsettling.
“I apologize for the collar. It's only to help you adjust,” he said. “My name is Pim.”
“I don’t care,” Caitlyn hissed. “You’ve made a mistake.”
“No,” Pim said gently. “I’ve made an acquisition. One I am deeply proud of. And one that I hope you will be proud of as well.”
He walked slowly toward her — not threatening, not rushed.
“You see, your uniform may have been your shield. But it was also a sin. Because it hid your beauty. Your value.”
“You’re insane.” Caitlyn spat out, not sure what bothered her more, Pim’s reference to her beauty, or her ‘value’. She hated being objectified, but the comment about ‘value’ only added to her anger. What did he mean?
“You see, Matilda, I’m an artist. And a collector,” he said. “And you are the most precious item I have ever come across.”
Caitlyn seethed, both at the comment about being a collector, meaning he had to be some kind of human trafficker, or at him using the ridiculous pseudo name she’d been using. Her anger overtaking her emotional, she blurted out:
“My name is Caitlyn! And I’m a member of —“
“Caitlyn” Pim interrupted, startling Caitlyn.
“Yes.” Caitlyn said, trying to compose herself. Pim nodded, as if in understanding as he spoke.
“Excellent. That makes sense. It is a much more beautiful name than Matilda. It suits you.”
Caitlyn could feel her face flush, but said nothing, trying to control her emotions.
He stepped closer, and stopped in front of her and gestured lightly toward her body.
“For your first showing, you’ll need to be bathed and cleaned before being presented.”
Caitlyn felt a coldness wash over her while simultaneously feel as if her face was on fire. Presented? Like some object to be looked at?
“Presented? I will not!” She said, summoning as much indignity and anger as she could. But she was met with a shock that caused her to double over again, grasping in vain at the collar on her neck. As she tried to compose herself after a few moments, she looked up at Pim, who just stared impassively behind that mask, saying in an almost sympathetic but firm voice.
“You must,” Pim replied. “And I would prefer that it be your choice.”
“Then I choose no.” Pim tilted his head back, his shoulders sagging slightly, as if disappointed, but before Caitlyn could think of what to say next, she saw him press the button of the device in his hands once more.
The collar flared again — sharper this time. Her knees buckled. She gritted her teeth against the pain, tears springing to her eyes from the sting.
By the time the current stopped, she was on all fours, breathing hard.
Pim crouched beside her. His voice was still kind.
“I’ll be gentle,” he said. “I promise. But you will have to behave. Please.”
She didn’t move for a moment, but took a breath and stood. She stared daggers at him, but looked down as she gave a short nod. Wordlessly, he motioned for her to follow him towards a door at the far corner of the room. She stepped inside, and found she was in an immaculate bath room. One with a dark red and purpled tiled floor, mirrors on the walls, and at the centre, a white porcelain tub. There was already soapy water in it, with a sponge on a side table, indicating Pim had planned to take her there, which added to her anger and sense of helplessness. Closing the door behind them, Pim motioned for her to sit on the mahogany bench next to the porcelain tub. Caitlyn looked around, as if looking for some way out, but she couldn’t take another shock, and she didn’t see any other options. Clenching her jaw, she sat and relaxed her shoulders as Pim took a step closer towards her.
His hand reached forward — not with force, but slow purpose. He slowly unfastened the top button of her uniform, then the next. She didn’t stop him. She didn’t know what was more unsettling. Him undressing her, piece by piece, or that he was so meticulous and gentle in how he went about doing it.
She wanted to resist, but she was still fighting to keep from spasming from the earlier shocks, her body still agitated by the earlier ordeal. So she took a silent breath and kept her eyes down. Whether from pain or despair, she didn’t know.
The straps for the shoulder pads came off next, making a rattling sound as they were dropped against the tiled floor. She already felt so exposed by just having the shoulder pads removed. But Pim wasn’t done yet.
Next, he undid the buckles on her waist, then he undid her uniform, making her raise and move her arms so he could pull them off.
She was down to her undergarments, her boots and long gloves. Pim started with her arm sleeves, gently taking them off, his silence unsettling her even more. He then removed her boots, and took an agonizingly long time to pull off her stockings. He then reached around to undo her bra, letting her breasts be free and move up and down as she tried to take calming breaths. Her panties were last, as he hooked his thumbs under the strap on each side, and motioned for her to raise herself up so he could pull them off. She could feel the back of her eyes burn as she saw Pim toss the last of her uniform into a pile on the floor.
The only thing on her now, was the collar.
By the time the last piece slipped to the floor, Caitlyn was no longer looking at him.
She stared at the opposite wall, trying to avoid catching site of her in a mirror, her jaw tight.
Pim then guided her to get into the tub. She did so slowly, still trying to process what was happening.
The water was warm. Steam curled around the edges of the porcelain tub. Pim rolled his sleeves.
Caitlyn sat stiffly inside, arms crossed over her chest, but moved them when Pim motioned for her to keep them at her sides. She wanted to protest, but sighed instead and complied.
Pim dipped a soft sponge into the water and began gently cleaning her shoulders.
“You have remarkable skin,” he said. “Soft. Even.” The gentlest of his words felt like bile.
She flinched when he moved to her arm, but didn’t protest.
“You may not believe me,” he continued, “but this is an act of reverence. Every piece of you deserves attention. Celebration.”
“Stop talking,” she muttered as she stared down, not caring if another shock came, but instead, Pim said calmly:
“I know it’s difficult. But in time, you’ll understand. You’ll adjust.”
He moved lower — her back, her sides, his hand always methodical, detached, like a craftsman at work. He then reached down under the water, to gently take her ankle, raising one leg at a time to wash them.
Pim finished rinsing her legs, his hands delicate as he guided the sponge along her calves, her feet. When he lifted her arm to wash behind it, she went limp, still glaring forward, her eyes locked on nothing.
The water sloshed gently as he reached for a towel, wrapping it around her and patting her dry, inch by inch.
“You’re perfect,” he said softly. “Every inch. It was a privilege to wash you.”
Caitlyn didn’t respond. Or look up. She just felt the heat behind her eyes as she tried shut herself off from his words.
She didn’t flinch when he dried her breasts, her stomach, her thighs. She just clenched her jaw harder and stared down, as if staring down hard enough could make her ignore everything that was happening to her. But it didn’t. It continued for what seemed like several minutes.
Once he finished, he helped her step out of the tub. She took a breath, as though she might speak — scream, protest, anything — but no words came. Pim’s words about her ‘beauty’ and soft skin only amplified her inner anger. She felt that anger lessen when Pim said he had something for her to wear for her when she’s ‘presented’. Caitlyn figured it was likely some extravagant dress, the kind of prissy outfit she hated. Her eyes followed Pim as he walked to a side table in the room and opened a small drawer, causing her to narrow her eyes and frown. Maybe he was searching for a key to open a larger cabinet that held a dress or some other outfit?
Instead, he took something out, and returned with something white and delicate. Caitlyn stared down at it, wondering what she was looking at.
It was a porcelain half-mask. Smooth. Expressionless. Elegant. Similar to what the brothel workers wore, this one, with blue accents and designs near the eye lets. It only covered the top half of the face.
Just like the ones worn by the brothel guests.
“This,” Pim said gently, “is yours. For some measure of privacy.”
He held it out to her.
Caitlyn stared at it. She didn’t reach for it. Instead she said in a cautious voice:
“But what am I supposed to wear? To cover me?”
But Pim shook his head, almost apologetically, as he stepped closer, raising it slowly toward her face.
“Your body is not meant to be covered. It’s meant to be seen, in all its beauty.”
Caitlyn’s eyes widened in horror at the implication that she wouldn’t be wearing anything. And who was it that was supposed to see her body in ‘all its beauty’? It felt like a bucket of cold water had been thrown on her face and body. She could feel her heartbeat quicken, and a panic attack threaten to come. She clenched her jaw and closed her eyes for a moment as if to calm herself as Pim continued:
“… in all it’s beauty. That’s what they’ve come to see.”
The mask hovered before her.
“But your face,” he added quietly, “is not for them to see. At least, for now, but later, when you’re more comfortable.”
The words weren’t spoken with cruelty, but with an almost paternal kindness.
That made them worse.
Caitlyn’s throat tightened. She wanted to shove the mask away. To spit in his face. But her legs were shaking. Her wrists still ached from how tightly she’d clenched her fists in the bath.
And the collar’s weight pressed cold against her neck.
She didn’t move as Pim gently placed the mask over her face and fastened it behind her head with a silken tie. She heard the knot cinch — firm, snug.
Then Pim stepped back.
He clasped his hands together as he looked at her, has if admiring his choice of mask for her.
“Now,” he said. “You’re ready for your first display.”
Caitlyn slowly stood in silence as he took her hand and gently pulled her up, her eye behind her mask burning with helpless fury.
Her collar hummed softly. No shock, but just a silent reminder from Pim. His way of reminding her to ‘behave’ for the display.
The porcelain cooled against her skin.
She followed him out of the room, the floor suddenly feeling icy cold to her bare feet, the slightest breeze causing her to feel goosebumps. As she followed him, she saw she was being led into a large gallery with other art pieces against purple and dark red walls, the room lit by yellow lamps spread out across the walls, with some large chandeliers hanging from 30 foot ceilings. As she looked around, her arms trying to cover her breasts as much as keep her warm, she heard Pim speak:
“You’ll be a beautiful centerpiece,” he whispered. “And when the gallery opens... they will adore you.”
Caitlyn could feel another sensation of cold creep across her body. Gallery? How many people were going to show? And who were they? Her fists clenched and her cheeks burned with silent rage.
But she didn’t say anything. Because she knew it would’t make a difference to Pim. On reflex, she looked back the way she came, as if wanting to make a mental note of where her uniform was, and wondering how long it would be before she could put it back on. She then turned and followed Pim to keep up, all the while, being self conscious of her nudity, and seeing the various artworks throughout the large hall they were walking through in silence, the only sound being that of Pim’s dress shoes, and Caitlyn’s bare feet on the marble floor.
After what seemed like several minutes, they reached a large double set of doors, pristine wood with gold trimmed accents and brass handles. Pim grasped both handles and pushed them before turning back to motion Caitlyn to follow, which she hesitatingly did, looking around, as if worried someone would see her.
The room he brought her into was dark. She could barely see the floor beneath her feet. But she could see well enough to see Pim point at a spot a few feet away, apparently at the centre of the room. As Caitlyn walked, she could sense the room was about 30–35 feet in size, large, but not very large. And while she could’t see anything, she could sense that she and Pim were not the only people in the room. She went to where Pim told her to stand, and then, saw him motion for her to stay there as he stepped back further near what looked like a curtain that descended from the 12-14 foot ceiling of the room. She could hear a button being pressed and then closed her eyes to brace from a flash of light.
A spotlight behind a sheer curtain lit her from behind, causing her to flinch and look away to see her silhouette cast onto the far wall for whoever sat on the other side.
She then heard hushed voices.
Caitlyn couldn’t see them.
But she could hear them.
All around her, like she was at the centre of a lecture hall.
She began to hear and discern different sounds.
The creak of a chair.
A breath.
A whisper.
A hushed gasp.
Her face red, her body covered in goose bumps, she stepped forward, mask on, arms across her chest, wanting to make a dash for the door, but unable to see clearly where that was. But before she could do anything, she heard Pim’s voice.
“Pose, my dear,” Pim whispered in her ear. “They’re waiting for you.” His normally gentle voice carrying just the hint of urgency and edge.
Caitlyn could literally feel her blood boil as she could feel the burning at the back of her eyes which were partially covered by the half mask. This had gone on too far. She spoke back in a harsh whisper, not sure why she felt the need to whisper back, rather than shout, as she said:
“I will not—”
He stepped to the wall. She could see him in the darkness, reaching for something on the wall. Squinting, she realized by its design, what it was that he’d placed his hand over.
A light switch.
“If you won’t, I’ll show them everything.”
Her heart raced. She felt her shoulders sag at the futility of her situation.

Taking a slow, measured, breath, she slowly dropped her arms to her sides. As she looked back at Pim with hateful eyes, she saw him in the dark, gesturing what he wanted her to do.
Shaking, trembling, she turned, stretching out her left leg, and lifting her right arm the way he instructed. And as she did that, she could feel eyes on her without even needing to see their faces.
And then she heard it.
Clapping. All around her. Soft. Respectful.
And somehow, that made it worse.
Making her realize what was happening in that moment.
She was on display.

Not as an Enforcer.

Not even as a person.

As an item.
She had to look back periodically in the darkened room, to see Pim motioning her with new gestures and poses, and her reluctantly complying with his instructions. It seem to go on for several minutes. And she could even feel sweat start to form on her body, and feel it on her face under her mask. It was surreal in a horrifying way. Normally, people wear clothing and let their faces be seen. But she was being made to do the reverse. To conceal her face, while letting her bare be seen by everyone. And as much as she didn’t want to, her eyes began to adjust to the poor lighting in the room, and she could make out shapes. People sitting in seats like at an auction house. She could make out the formal clothing, and the glint of porcelain masks of different shapes, the slighting bit of ambient light making them visible, if only barely.
After it was over, she felt her face redden to the sound of soft and polite applause as Pim walked to her and bowed before motioning her to follow her as he walked out of the room. She followed him back across the hall of the large exhibit, thankful that there was no one else there, as he led her to the area where he bathed her and gave her the mask.
Complimenting her on her ‘performance’, Pim gently reached for her mask as she stood by the bath tub, and took her mask, making her feel even more exposed. He then motioned her to get back into the tub, which had apparently been redrawn with fresh warm soapy water. She felt her stomach sink, but didn’t feel the energy to refuse or try to resist. So she quietly stepped into the tub and sat down, letting the warm water come up just below her shoulders.
Pim then gently and meticulously washed her again, careful not to miss any areas.
As he washed her, he spoke softly, almost reverently.
“You did wonderfully,” he said. “Your feelings of fear... it added to your performance. Don’t hide it. It’s part of the art. It’s part of you. You should be very proud of yourself.”
She stayed silent as he finished and began to towel her dry. She was shivering, but it wasn’t due to a draft. In truth, she was trying to suppress her trembling. Her helpless rage at his soft words.
He poke so softly and politely, as if he’d given her a gift.
He took her to what seemed like a guest room, and had her lie down in a bed in a room the was adorned in shades of purple, red and gold accents. The bed was soft, and despite her desire to stay awake, she found herself falling asleep as Pim left the room. She thought about trying to escape, but realized she didn’t even know where she was, and she was still without any clothes. Trying not to think about what she’d just been made to do, she went to sleep, hoping it was some dream she’d wake from, but she knew it wasn’t.
The next day, she woke to the sight of Pim standing over her. Holding the same mask. He motioned for her to sit up, which she reluctantly did, and stayed still as he placed it over her face.
“You’ll walk for them this time, my dear,” Pim said softly, adjusting the silver mask on Caitlyn’s face. “No speaking. No covering yourself. Just walk. Slowly. Elegantly. You’ll do great.”
The mask felt heavier now.
Not because of its weight — but because of what it meant.
Caitlyn found herself standing in the corridor between two velvet curtains in a different room. One that was larger. She was completely nude. Pim had bathed her again before walking them to the room — scents of lavender, rosewater, and something else. Something faintly metallic. She looked down at herself, and could see the faint traces of gold and blue glitter.
The guests were already inside. She could hear their voices, hushed and inquisitive, behind the curtain.
Caitlyn’s stomach turned.
She looked down at herself.
She had once worn a uniform — authority, law, steel buttons, the crisp collar of an Enforcer.
And in the matter of one night, she’d lost all of that.
Now all she was wearing was a half mask and glitter.
Behind her, Pim stood in his familiar suit, hands clasped in front of him like a conductor waiting for music.
“You’re not an officer anymore,” he said softly, as if reading her thoughts. “You're a vision. A portrait. A beautiful portrait. I want them to see how lovely you are when you move.”
She turned her head, barely, trying to summon some vestige of resistance.
“I’m not walking out there.” She said, trying to sound defiant, but knowing it came across as weak and almost pleading.
He didn’t respond. Instead, he stepped closer before speaking.
“Then I suppose I’ll need to remove your mask… and let them admire everything.”
She tensed and brought a hand up to her face as if to touch the mask to ensure it was still there.
The mask was her last barrier. Her last illusion of dignity. A wall, however thin.
But without it?
She’d just be another naked girl walking in circles for men who never looked her in the eye.
“Please…” she whispered.
But Pim only brushed his fingers over the mask’s lace edge, motioning her to go out, and reminding her what he wanted her to do once she stepped out there.
Taking a breath, she stepped forward.
The curtain opened and the lights slowly brightened. Not completely, but just enough to make the dimensions of the room visible.
It was a circular room — soft white walls and diffused lighting from above. Silent. Pristine. Half a dozen guests in clothing from high society stood in an arc, their faces shadowed, sipping from crystal glasses. Some were tall, some were short, some heavy set, some thin. Male and female, their faces covered by half masks or full masks, making their identities impossible to decipher.
But Caitlyn could feel every gaze landing on her.
The floor beneath her feet was warm and slowly turning — making Caitlyn realize she was on what could be called a lazy Susan; a platform that rotated in gentle silence, giving the guests a full view of her body.
Caitlyn’s arms itched to cover herself, but she knew what could happen if she defied Pim.

So she resisted the urge to cover herself.
And began to walk.
One slow step at a time.
The floor turned, and she turned with it, like a dancer trapped in a jewelry box.

She tried to control her breathing.
She had trained to face danger.

She had not trained for this.
At one point, one of the guests leaned forward, whispering something to Pim.
He gave a small nod.
Caitlyn didn’t hear what was said — but she saw Pim reach for a small remote and press a button.
The lights dimmed further, and for a moment, Caitlyn felt her inner tensions, feeling the ‘exhibit’, was ending.
But then, a single spotlight illuminated her body from below — casting her silhouette onto the wall, towering and enormous.
The room gasped quietly.
Caitlyn’s breath caught as she stiffened.
She could see her own shape projected. Her legs. Her breasts. Her stance. Exaggerated. Warped. Fetishized.
‘This is what I’ve been reduced to’, she thought.
She had joined the Enforcers to be seen as more than just her body.

Now… her body was the only thing being seen.
And worst of all, a voice inside her whispered:
‘They’re not even touching you.’

‘They don’t need to, and still, they’re taking everything.’
Every soft applause was like a sensation of cold water being thrown on her.
Later, after the exit had ended, Pim closed the curtain behind her.
She was shivering.
He didn’t speak at first — he just led her back to the bath, his hand at her lower back like a guide.
One back in the bathroom, she stepped into the warm water on command.
He knelt near her, and began to wash her again. With soft words. Gentle hands.
“You did beautifully,” he said, rinsing her arms. “They said you looked like a marble sculpture come to life.”
She didn’t answer. Her throat felt tight and her stomach was churning.
“Your movements were shy. Delicate. Honest. They love that about you.”
When he began to wash between her legs, she flinched.
He paused. But not out of apology.
Out of appreciation.
“Still so modest,” he said with a small smile. “That’s what makes you such a work of art, my dear. If you were shameless, it wouldn’t be worth showing.”
The baselessness of the comment, said in such a gentle tone, caused her eyes to burn, but not with the same fire as before, which added to her impotent anger.

That night, he placed her on a low platform in his private lounge. A room with dark red velvet walls and soft yellow lamps.
It wasn’t a bed. It was a display table.
He gave her a silken blanket. The same colour scheme as the walls, as if it were all one piece.
He gently stroked her cheek — and then cupped her jaw, softly tilting her head up so she was facing his porcelain mask.
“You are not a prisoner,” he said softly. “You’re a centerpiece. An ideal. A standard of what beauty really is. I’ll polish you until they see nothing but your light.”
Then he walked away, lights dimming.
And Caitlyn stared at the ceiling, mask off now, the shame no longer hot.
Just cold.
And settling.
The blanket slid from her hips sometime in the night.
She woke to find him watching her.
Pim stood in the doorway, dressed immaculately in the same suit he wore at the exhibit and brothel. He was holding a white porcelain tray with a single glass of pomegranate juice and a delicate rice cake dusted with sugar.
“Good morning, my dear,” he said. “I didn’t want to wake you. You look… luminous.”
Caitlyn sat up slowly, instinctively trying to pull the blanket back around her, but stopped, feeling the act was pointless considering how much she’d been…exposed, in the last few days.
Pim said nothing — but the tilt of his head made her stop.
The motion made her drop the blanket. She stared down, startled, and then stared up, unsure if she should grab it and pull it up, or if Pim would object. She just stared at him, not moving, wondering what he was going to do.
She felt her nipples tighten in the cool air, but Pim only stepped forward, setting the tray beside her on the platform.
“You must be hungry.”
She wasn’t, but she took the glass.
Her body obeyed now, subconsciously, even when her mind didn’t want to.
As she drank, he knelt.
She froze.
He picked up a cloth from a silver basin she hadn’t noticed before — warm, wet — and, after pulling her blanket off her completely, began to wipe her legs. Slowly. Carefully. As if they were made of porcelain.
“We’ll bathe you again after breakfast,” he said, almost conversationally, dabbing her thighs.

“But I like to begin the day with a bit of devotion.”
His fingers were gentle, and yet his tone made it feel like a sermon.
Caitlyn clenched the glass in her hand.
“You don’t have to—”
“I do.” His voice was still kind. “And I want to.”
He lifted his mask slightly, his face still blocked by the mask form Caitlyn’s point of view. She felt the warmth of his breath, and then felt thin lips pressed to her knee as she felt him kiss her. She shuddered, but said nothing.
He moved up higher. Then higher.
She jolted slightly, her legs instinctively trying to close — but he held one ankle, firm but not rough, and said with his head still obscured by the mask.
“Let me praise you properly today.”
The next day, it was a different room.
The room was brighter this time. Candles. Spotlights. Some intricate oil paintings along the walls, partially covered by decorative lavender curtains.
Pim led her in, but didn’t speak. She didn’t need instructions now. She knew what he wanted.
She walked to the platform, stepped onto it, and stood still.
This time, there was no mask. Pim hadn’t given her one.
Just a thin silk ribbon in her hair — “a finishing touch,” he had called it, parting it neatly to one side, making it reminiscent of how she wore her hair when she wasn’t wearing her Enforcer hat.
She didn’t know what she hated more. Her not having that last residue of protection, or her not objecting to it as much as she thought she would have. She stepped up the platform.
She tried not to meet the guests’ eyes.
But one of them raised a camera.
She felt her heart race, but said nothing. Partly because, she knew her words wouldn’t have changed anything.
She blinked once.
Flash.
The room went quiet again.
She could still smell the rosewater he had used during her most recent bath. She could still feel where he had kissed her hip.
He hadn't violated her. Not fully.

But he had touched her more than he had before.
Hands that worshipped. Not claimed.
Somehow that was worse.
Back in the gallery’s private quarters, he waited until she was seated on the chaise before bringing out a small wooden box.
Inside were photographs.
Of her.
Different poses. Some from behind sheer curtains. Some full-on. Silhouettes. One, even — a blurred close-up of her face, her mouth parted in some unintentional moment. The gap in her teeth unmistakable.
“You look divine,” Pim whispered. “Do you know how lucky you’ve made me?”
He placed a photograph in her lap. She didn’t look.
“Hold still.”
He raised the camera.
She lowered her eyes. But then felt his fingers on her chin, making her look up at him with her blue eyes. He gently brushed away a loose strand of hair.
Flash.
He washed her again, this time without warning.
Without a word, he’d taken her by the hand, gently, and led her to a basin in the corner of the room.
He then undid her ribbon. Brushed her hair with long, slow strokes.
“You were meant for this,” he said softly. “No one understood what you could be. Not even you.”
His hands moved from her shoulders down her spine.
“But I saw it. Even under that outfit you wore in the brothel where we first met, I saw it.”
He kissed her back, just once.
She tensed, wanting to shrug free, but then, after a moment, let it happen.
When he finished drying her, he didn’t offer her the blanket this time.
He simply picked her up as if she were a bride — which was impressive, as he was of a slight frame — and carried her to a small circular alcove lit with low, golden light.
He sat.
And placed her on his lap.
Not like a woman. Like a doll.
She didn’t move.

“You’re forgetting,” he whispered, stroking her thigh softly. “Aren’t you? What you were. Or thought you were?”
She didn’t answer.
But inside her chest, something ached.
Because he was right.
The name Caitlyn no longer felt familiar to her.
It felt like a sound from someone else’s mouth. A sound she didn’t recognize the way she used to.
The next day.
The water was cooler. Fragrant, and with mint and milk.
Caitlyn sat in the tub, knees drawn slightly together, her arms limp at her sides. Her skin had grown pale under Pim’s constant cleansing. Always so gentle. Always so slow.
He knelt beside the marble edge, rolling warm oil between his fingers, pressing it into her shoulders. His hands made small circles over her collarbones, then down her arms.
“We have very special guests tonight,” he said in a soft voice, almost like a whisper. “Important people. Tastemakers. Patrons of the gallery.”
‘Tastemakers?’ ‘Patrons of the gallery?’ She wanted to ask what that meant. But for some reason, didn’t feel the urge. Or urgency.
So she said nothing. She rarely did anymore.
“They’ve been looking forward to seeing you.”
He said it as if she should be proud.
As if this were a debut, not a display.
Pim dipped a cloth into the basin and gently wiped the inside of her thighs.
“No mask tonight,” he added, almost offhandedly. “They should see everything. The purity of the whole design. Your beauty. Without inhibition.”
Her breath caught. Something deep inside of her wanted to say something. But it seemed so distant. So far away.
He seemed to notice her change in breath, but didn’t comment.
He rinsed her, dried her with a warm towel, then applied a thin sheen of floral-scented oil across her torso, her back, and her legs.
His hands brushed across her breasts as he oiled her chest, but it wasn’t accidental.
He took his time.
He cupped them, gently rubbing his thumbs over her areoles and nipples, pressing down softly and massaging them.
He praised them.
“So symmetrical. So natural. You don’t realize how rare that is.”
Caitlyn didn’t flinch. She had stopped flinching days ago. And she hated that she could still feel her cheeks warm.
When he was done, he stepped back to admire her.
Then, without ceremony, he held out his hand.
“Come.”
She rose, naked and gleaming.
She followed him once again down the hallways, barefoot, her blue hair still damp and curling slightly around her shoulders. The marble floors were cold beneath her feet, the sounds of them making soft pitter patter sounds on its surface.
The gallery door was different this time — taller, wider, trimmed in gold in intricate designs. When it opened, she walked into an almost completely darkened room, seeing only candlelight and hearing movement. But as her sharp eyes focused. She saw them.
Masks.
Every guest wore one. Elegant, delicate, opulent. Some full-faced, others just veils of lace across the eyes. Gold filigree. Velvet accents. One even had gold coloured feathers.
Not a single face to be seen.
Only hers.
A part of her wanted to turn and run. To scream. To cry. But she just… couldn’t. She wasn’t sure why.
Ahead of her, Pim, like the proud owner of a priceless piece they were exhibiting, guided her in.
She was utterly, inescapably naked. And alone.
Caitlyn was led to a low, circular divan, a low sofa without a back, almost like a bench, in the centre of the gallery floor. Velvet fabric in a dark crimson, accented with pale gold. She sat because Pim guided her hips down with a light touch — the way one might position a statue.
The guests stood in a slow-moving ring, glasses in hand, murmuring quietly behind their masks. Caitlyn could see them in front, and hear them walking and shuffling around as the walked behind her. Pim remained standing beside her, one hand resting absently on her shoulder, thumb stroking.
She kept her hands folded in her lap. She didn’t tremble.
Not visibly.
Pim gestured gently. The first guest stepped forward.
“May I?” came the voice — male, older, lilting with accent — addressed to Pim, not her.
“Of course,” Pim said softly. “She’s here to be appreciated.”
The words, as gently as they were spoken, felt like a harsh slap on her face, but she said nothing, staring ahead.
The man knelt.
Caitlyn stared forward, unblinking.
Fingers brushed her ankle. Light. Measured. She somehow fought the urge to react.
The man’s hand slid under her sole and lifted her foot to examine it. His thumb grazed the soft arch, and he let out a satisfied hum.
“Exquisite tension here,” he murmured. “Have you had to make adjustments?”
“No,” Pim replied. “She holds herself like this naturally.”
The man smiled behind his half-mask and nodded, as if impressed.
He rubbed her heel with deliberate care, as though appraising leather. Then, with one final slow caress of her foot, he set it back down and turned to bow slightly towards Pim.
“Thank you.”
He stepped back.
Another guest approached. This one — a woman — didn’t ask. She wore a dark green sleeveless dress, and had a wine glass in one hand. She had skin that was almost a green olive shade, and looked to be slightly shorter than Pim. Without a word, she simply reached out and cupped Caitlyn’s left breast, delicately weighing it in one palm, before letting go and doing the same to her right breast. Somehow, Caitlyn kept from flinching, but did lower her gaze, as if to hide her eyes from being seen by those around the room. She didn’t know what was worse, the touching, or the way people were talking about her as if she was not even there. As if she were not even a person. Caitlyn listened with a sense of detachment or dissonance as the woman touching her continued to speak.
“She’s breathtaking,” the woman said to Pim, not even glancing at Caitlyn’s face. “You were right — she has the proportions of a figure study.”
Pim’s thumb moved to Caitlyn’s nape, stroking.
“I’ve never had to correct her posture,” he said. “She holds herself beautifully, even under inspection.”
The guest’s fingers traced the edge of Caitlyn’s nipple.
It tightened slightly. Not enough to hurt, but enough for Caitlyn to sense the change in pressure.
Caitlyn stared ahead, the heat in her face rising — but she said nothing.
The guest smiled faintly, then took Caitlyn’s hand in hers, and kissed her fingers before bowing to Pim.
“You’ve curated perfection,” she said.
“Thank you,” Pim replied. “I’m lucky to have her in my exhibit.”
After speaking, a guest clapped softly.
Then another guest clapped.
Then another.
Those holding a glass simply held up a glass as if to offer a toast.
As if admiring the workmanship of a finely restored painting.
Inside, Caitlyn could feel her anger, but it seemed more distant. Almost complacent.
The next day.
“You’ll be doing something special tonight,” Pim said, his voice low and deliberate as he stood behind her in the shadowed hall outside the viewing chamber.
Caitlyn stood barefoot on the cold tile, already stripped, wearing nothing but the collar.
“A handstand,” he continued, as though describing a routine exhibit placement. “Legs tight together. Then split. Spread as far as you can, parallel to the floor. I know you can do it. I believe in you. And then, hold it as long as needed.”
She turned her head slightly. Her lips parted as if to object. Something inside her wanted to say something. The strange thing was, she knew she could do a handstand. Apart from her own rigorous training regimen, she maintained the flexibility and agility she had when she took gymnastics classes before she joined the Enforcers. She actually could do it, but… she couldn’t, she just… No, she thought to herself. That’s too—humiliating.
But her body stayed still. It was as if her body was telling her she would be lying if she said she wouldn’t, or couldn’t, do it.

Her breath slowed, controlled by habit.

She wanted to object, to say that this was the final line of indignity she wouldn’t cross. But… but she’d already been made to cross so many lines so far. Would it make any difference? And how would Pim react?
As she thought that, she reached up reflexively to the collar that she knew was still active.

And more than that—so was the fear. What if she slipped? Or fell?
“You’ll be perfect,” Pim said, placing a steady hand on the small of her back. “They’ve come to admire you.”
She wanted to say something, but couldn’t find the words. He guided her forward without force.

And without saying anyting, she signed and moved.
The room beyond was warm with light, cast in soft golden tones that outlined her body like a sculpture. Polished stone stretched out before her, surrounded by the low murmurs of masked guests. A soft hush fell as she entered. Like an audience patiently waiting for a performer to begin their work.
She stepped into the centre of the room, under the brightest spotlight.
She took a deep breath to prepare herself.
Or compose herself.
She bent forward slowly, reaching down, her palms flat to the floor, and then, taking a breath and flexing her arms and tightening her core, she slowly lifted one leg up straight. And then, gently pushing off her planted leg, lifted that up as well, tightening up her lower back and slowly letting out a soft exhale as she stared ahead at the upside down view of the room, her legs now up perfectly straight, her feet touching. She could hear some soft murmurs and then silence as she steadied herself. Her toes stretched skyward as her body rose into a sharp vertical line. And then, seeing Pim gesture from out of the corner of her eye, she took a calm, measured breath, and slowly drew her feet apart, extending her legs apart, further and further, until she held them into a perfect split so that they were parallel to the floor, the image almost looking like a letter ’T’ with how perfectly parallel to the floor they were. She took slow steadying breaths, glancing to see the figures in front of her.
For a moment, there seemed to be a pause.
Silence.
And then, she heard the murmurs.
And someone in the crowd spoke.
“Incredible control,” someone whispered.
“And balance.”
Pim stepped closer to the audience, hands clasped in front of him, like a gallery docent.
“Grace and strength,” he said softly. “And made—flawlessly—to be admired.”
Then, calmly, he added, stepping to one side and gesturing towards her.

“Please, don’t be afraid to touch her.”
Caitlyn felt her pulse quicken, feeling more exposed than normal in her compromised position. That, combined wth the increased blood flow to her head due to her handstand, added to her already heightened sense of ancient as she could see and hear the attendees approach her.
She stayed silent, and focused on her breathing as they came closer.
One guest stopped behind her and let his fingers rest on the inside of her knee, slowly dragging his fingers up her inner thigh—slow, intentional. They fingered lifted and passed just over her sex, hovering there for a moment, before touching her other inner thigh, and then slowly down her inner calf. When he reached her ankle, he softly grasped her foot with care, marveling at how she didn’t falter.
With reverence, he massaged the ball of her foot, kneading as though shaping something delicate. Then he used the back of his fingers to brush the soft centre of her sole, and grazing her arch.
“Even her feet,” he whispered, “are sculpted. Flawless,” he breathed behind his mask.
Another guest stepped up from behind, crouching, and reaching around Caitlyn with both hands, cupped and cradled her breasts gently, squeezing softly before letting go as the jiggled softly as they bounced, with the guests in front of her turning and nodding to one another, as if confirming its weight and texture.
“She barely moves,” a guest said with awe.
More soft applause.
Quiet admiration.
Internal humiliation.
Caitlyn’s arms burned throughout the entire exchange. Her shoulders screamed. She could feel her self begin to shake slightly. Not just because of the physical effort, but also the emotional one to keep her composure. But she kept still. Her body obeyed. Her face remained passive.
Don’t tremble. Don’t cry. She kept repeating that mantra to herself in her head.
One guest stroked the top of her foot. Another ran a finger along her spine.
But still, she held the pose.
Then, after what seemed like hours, despite it being minutes, Pim raised his hand, signalling her to stop. Letting out a deep breath, she slowly lowered her legs, one after the other, her arms shaking, her equilibrium taking a moment to adjust due to all the blood that had been rushing to her head. She raised her head slowly as she brought it up, knees folding beneath her. She used one hand to brush her matted blue hair, which was a disheveled mess. A few finger combs made it respectable, as it was parted to one side, tucking her locks behind her ear.
She then closed her eyes as she was still in her crouched kneeling position. For a moment, there was just silence, with the only sound being that of her trying to breath in measured, controlled breaths.
And then, it came.
Applause.
Polite.

Understated.

Respectful.

As if for a great work of art that had just been revealed.
A woman with brown skin and strange but familiar dark markings that Caitlyn couldn’t place, stepped forward. She had a shapely body, and wore a dark silver, sleeveless dress with what looked to be silver accents. She wore a silver half-mask, with teal features on its sides. It looked like she had dark brown hair that was tied in a bud. Without a word, she knelt down and cupped Caitlyn’s chin, and softly brushed away the sweat from Caitlyn’s brow with a silk teal-coloured cloth. Her other hand reached down and moved to Caitlyn’s rear—stroking, and then massaging slowly in circular motions, as though petting something tame. Caitlyn wanted to be angry, but wasn’t sure if it was a lack of energy or something else that was preventing her from doing so.
Another guest came across to her other side and took her arm gently, and helped her up. Caitlyn’s legs were still trembling. One more stepped closer from behind her, and gently stroked her back, as if trying to help her adjust her posture, before reaching to rest a palm against her hip.
Caitlyn nodded faintly to the guests who helped her.

A mechanical gesture.

Submissive? Or was it on reflex?

Or maybe she no longer knew the difference as she heard them continue to talk about her to Pim and one another.
“She’s exquisite,” the silver-masked woman said. “You’ve shaped her well,” Caitlyn felt the onset of indignity and irritation at the guests speaking to Pim about her as if she weren’t even there, until she realized when she looked up, that the silver masked woman was actually looking at HER while talking to Pim. For some reason, Caitlyn felt less anger, and felt her cheeks redden, although not out of anger, and she wasn’t sure why. Was it to do with her feeling the weight of everything that she’d had to do over the last several days, or the fact that the silver masked woman saw fit to look at her when talking about her to Pim. Or was it something else about the silver-masked woman? She wasn’t sure. But at the same time, she was also feeling exhausted. She searched the room amidst the gathered masked guests around her, and saw Pim standing off to the side. He nodded once, as if in approval of her performance. She could feel the familiar but dulled anger return, but didn’t have the energy to give in to it for the moment.
Later, when the audience began to drift toward the adjoining lounge, Pim came to her.
He didn’t speak right away. He wrapped a soft cloth around her shoulders and placed his hand firmly on her lower back. When she stumbled slightly, he steadied her by the hip.
“You were radiant tonight,” he said quietly. “Still. Poised. Touched by so many—and not once did you falter. You should be proud of yourself.”
She didn’t respond.

Didn’t need to.
She was still processing what she’d just done. What she’d been made to do.

She’d moved past anger. Past humiliation.
Now there was just… she wasn’t sure what there was left to feel.
‘I should be angry.’
‘I should be screaming.’
‘Or crying.
’Why am I not feeling… any of these things?’ She said to herself.
She couldn’t answer that, so all she did was walk, following Pim back to the bathroom.
Pim led her down the hall toward the bathing chamber. The air smelled of lavender and oils. He would wash her, like always.
As the water was drawn, he lifted his mask and pressed a kiss to her shoulder.
“You’ve never looked more beautiful,” he whispered. “This was your finest showing. You should be proud of what you’ve done. Proud of what you’ve become.”
As she lowered herself into the tub, she looked once at the mirror across the room and saw her naked form—trembling, coated in sweat, bare—she couldn’t remember what her Enforcer uniform felt like. Or even how it looked on her body.
After a moment of that silent contemplation, she looked away.

And let him begin.
The next day.
She had stopped blinking.
She realized it when her eyes began to sting.
Caitlyn sat motionless, one leg crossed over the other — just as Pim had arranged her — her fingers resting lightly against her thigh. It was a pose she hadn’t been told to hold it, but she did so, regardless.
Because movement would have made what she was doing, feel real.

And she couldn’t afford that. She didn’t want to believe that.
The soft conversation around her floated like perfume — detached and weightless. But present.
“Her musculature is natural. Not sculpted.”

“The symmetry of her thighs is exceptional.”

“Did you enhance any parts of her?”

“No — the is her in her natural form.”
As they spoke, Caitlyn could hear hushed whispers and soft gasps as Pim continued to talk about her.
They spoke of her the way one would speak of a rare wine or a canvas behind glass.
Then, at various times during the exhibit, or showing, they touched her again.
A new guest — a younger, male — walked up to her and slowly, almost tentatively, ran the back of his fingers along her cheek. She didn’t flinch. He turned to Pim and whispered something that made them both smile.
She didn’t want to know what it was.
She didn’t want to feel anything at all.
She began to think in fragments. In images.
Her Enforcer badge, lying cracked on a stone floor.

The scent of gunpowder. Of sweat. Of blood.

The sharp sting of stun cuffs.

The high screams of bids during the auction booth.

And then—
The bath.
The touch.
The hands.
The words:
“You’re an exquisite work of art.” He would tell her, time and again.
Her name — Caitlyn Kiramman — felt brittle, now. Foreign. Like it belonged to a picture of some random person of interest she was researching.
She wasn’t that woman anymore.
She wasn’t anything.
Just an exhibit in a room of people with hidden faces, while she sat naked and visible, and still.
And worst of all…

…she had stopped feeling the same visceral outrage and indignity she felt at the start.
As she wrestled with those thoughts, Pim leaned down and whispered into her ear.
“You’re doing beautifully.”
His hand caressed her lower back.
“Shall I take you somewhere quiet now?”
She didn’t answer. She almost shrugged, feeling her opinion or wants meant nothing anymore.
But her body didn’t resist when he gently picked her up and headed toward the door.
The gallery doors closed behind them with a whisper.
Caitlyn was carried through the corridor like sculpture in a crate — cradled in silk and silence.
Her head rested against Pim’s chest.

She didn’t lift it.
“They were awestruck,” he said gently. “You did so well. So still. So gracious.”
She hadn’t spoken since.
Her limbs had gone quiet long before that.
“Do you know what you’ve become?” he murmured.
He didn’t wait for her answer.
The private room was warm and dark — gold and candlelight, no windows. Velvet drapes cocooned the walls like a womb.
Pim lowered her onto a wide mattress layered with silk.
After lavishing more praise on her, he turned to dim the lights in the room and closed the door behind him. She tried to stay awake, but ultimately didn’t see the point, and let herself succumb to sleep. As she brought up her hands to her neck, she realized the collar was gone. She sat up with a start, wondering if it had fallen off, but then realized that, a few days ago, Pim had walked out of her room with it in his hands. He had taken it off, and she never realized it.
She slowly realized that the removal of the collar, which must have been removed one of those nights while she slept, didn’t bring her the feeling of liberation that she thought she’d feel. Maybe it would have, the first day or two of her at the exhibit. Maybe she would have felt like she could have formulated some plan of escape. That it would have emboldened her, or strengthened her defiance.
But now… after everything she’d been made to do.
Did it even matter anymore?
Was she still the same person?

As those thoughts came to her, the initial energy she felt when she first realized the collar was gone, dissipated almost entirely.
She realized then, why Pim had removed the collar.
Because he realized that he… no, she… didn’t need it anymore.

Not because she had earned her freedom.

But because she had stopped needing to be reminded that she was his.
That he’d bought her.
At the brothel.
While she was trapped, helpless, in that glass display.
That was what frightened her most.

She eventually rose and walked — nude, as always — down the hall to the bathing chamber. She washed herself in silence, her motions slow but automatic, as though following an unspoken rhythm laid into her bones.
There was no shame in her stride anymore. No looking around the halls self-consciously, afraid that someone would see her.
No effort to cover herself.
Because there was no one to cover up from. No one who hadn’t seen her already. No part of her body that hadn’t been named, praised, touched.
And if shame came, it was faint — like a smell that lingers after a storm. Like an ache someone feels for something, or someone, that’s become a distant memory.
The next day.
She lay on her back, legs slightly parted, arms resting loosely at her sides.
Pim had placed a crimson velvet cushion beneath her head and oiled her skin until it gleamed under the soft lanterns. The room was warmer than before — intentionally, no doubt, to coax out the sweat on her breasts and thighs.
The guests were quieter this time.
They didn’t need to whisper.
They already knew who she was.
What she was.
They simply politely, and quietly, took turns.
The first leaned over and gently traced her hipbone with two fingers, murmuring to Pim:
“Exquisite taper. There’s a softness here that one just doesn’t see any more in other subjects. You can see she was made for this.”
Pim nodded.
Another slid a hand under her knee and lifted her leg slowly, holding her calf as one might study a prized violin.
“Perfect tone. But the tension’s gone. She’s... more passive now. As if she’s more comfortable being touched.”
Caitlyn felt her face warm, but said nothing.
A third guest approached, leaning forward as they cupped one of her breasts, their thumb brushing across the areola. She flinched — barely — but didn’t resist.
“Even her reactions are elegant,” they murmured, turning to Pim. “A masterwork. Does she respond... intimately now?”
“Only when cherished,” Pim said, his voice light.
The guest chuckled and then, passing their glass to their companion, lifted their mask slightly as they leaned down to kiss her sternum — soft, brief, almost priestly — before moving away. Something within Caitlyn wanted to stir, to scream, or cry out, but her body prevailed, and remained calm.
Another set of hands — these colder — slipped beneath her sole, lifting her foot slightly, caressing the arch. A thumb ran along each toe.
“Her feet are so expressive,” someone commented before gently setting her foot down.
A nod of agreement from another guest.
Then another nod.
Then someone clapped, slowly.
They all spoke about her.
Around her.
But never to her.
Not one used her name.
Part of Caitlyn was relieved, but another part was indifferent, as she wasn’t sure what her name meant anymore. She hadn’t used or had it spoken to her in what felt like so long.
That night, the gallery lights were dimmed. The doors were sealed. The last of the masked guests had gone.
Caitlyn sat where she had been left — still on the platform, legs curled slightly to one side, gaze unfocused. Pim returned with a warm cloth and gently wiped the soles of her feet, her thighs, her lower back.
“You were remarkable,” he said, is tone one of admiration. “Truly transcendent.”
She didn’t reply.
She wasn’t sure if it was because she didn’t have the energy, or if it was because she wasn’t sure if it mattered any more.

The next showing was the most intimate yet.
Pim didn’t make her stand.
He laid her down again — only this time, her legs were parted gently and kept that way. Her wrists were set beside her, palms open. Her hair was brushed until it fanned like dark silk over the pillow.
There were no spotlights.
No frames.
Just her.
And hands.
So many hands.

They didn’t ask permission anymore. Not from Pim. Not from her.
One knelt between her legs and ran fingertips along her inner thighs. Another brushed her nipple with the back of his knuckles, smiling at Pim without speaking. Someone caressed her jaw, gently tilting her head. Another touched her instep.
They spoke in soft admiration:
“Even her skin reacts differently now. More supple.”

“She’s warmer. Her breathing changes.”

“Did she always flush like this when praised?”

“She belongs here. She’s the perfect centerpiece.”
They all nodded.
Pim only watched.
Smiling.
She lay still through it all.
The flinch never came, as much as she wanted it to.
Sleep came more easily that she wanted it to. A part of her wanted to stay awake, but she found it harder and harder to justify why. Escape just didn’t seem… she wasn’t sure what that even meant any more. The thoughts and questions still came to mind, but she let them go unanswered, as she drifted off the sleep.
The next day, Pim’s voice was unusually quiet as he took her by the hand.
“There’s something I want to show you.”
Caitlyn didn’t respond. Nor did she respond when he gently put the collar back on her. She wasn’t sure why he put it on, as it wasn’t like he needed it anymore, but Caitlyn just didn’t have the energy to ask, and followed him by the hand. She walked barefoot at his side, nude but collared, her mind drifting in and out of focus like it often did now. The hallway was long and unfamiliar. Was it a different wing of the exhibit? A door at the end opened with a soft click, and the lights inside flicked on with a slow dimmer.
It was a gallery.
But this one was different.
It was entirely hers.
Her body — framed, lit, and frozen in dozens of compositions. In some she was backlit and shadowed, her silhouette stretched long in elegant poses. In others, she was clear as day. Her face. Her breasts. The slope of her back. Her parted thighs.
Her image — on every wall.
She stood there, staring at them as Pim let go of her hand to step back, as if to let her take it all in. Her hands slowly curled into her palms without her realizing it.
Pim then stepped beside her, his voice calm, almost soothing.
“They’re one of a kind. Every piece was commissioned or purchased already. I thought you should know.”
She turned her head slightly, but said nothing.
“That one,” Pim said, gesturing to a frame near the centre, “was the first to sell.”
She turned to it.
It was her — inverted in the handstand. Her legs in a perfect split. Guests surrounding her, some crouched, some reaching out. One had his hand resting on her inner thigh. Another showed another guest cupping her breast. Some phots were black and white. Others in colour.
She didn’t even remember that moment being captured.
“It drew the most attention,” Pim added. “There were bidding offers within the hour.”
Caitlyn’s eyes dropped to the floor.
More photos. One of her mid-walk, nude but proud in posture — clearly taken during one of her early exhibits, back when she still had the strength to feel humiliation. Another showed her seated nude, mask tilted above her brow, a guest’s hand brushing along her jawline like a lover.
“I have more requests coming in,” Pim said. “You’re... in demand.”
The words hit harder than a collar shock.
Not because of how he said it — not cruelly, not mockingly. But because it was true.
Her image was out there. Owned. Possessed.
No names. No faces. Just whispers. Just masks.

And somewhere — somewhere behind closed doors — those images were hanging. Maybe being touched.

Admired.

Sought after.
Shown.
And she’d never know who had them. Or what they did with them.
She felt it in her chest — a hollow weight that wouldn’t leave.
She turned to Pim slowly.
“I didn’t say yes to any of this,” she said, her voice soft. Shaky.
“I know,” Pim replied gently. “But that’s not your burden. Your burden is your art. Your beauty. I couldn’t let you be burdened with choosing who would have the privilege of seeing your beauty.”
Caitlyn slowly turned from Pim back to the picture of her performing the handstand. Something inside her wanted to scream, to cry, to lash out. To say, to do… something. Anything. But she couldn’t. The knowledge that her body, laid bare, was circulating in secret circles that could be anywhere in the cities. Behind any corner. In someone’s private collection. Or in their home, to share with anyone they wanted. It just… it made any lingering desires to escape and be free seem… futile. Because she’d never know if she was free. She’d never know who else had… these pictures. And how they’d share them with. The realization made her feel a hollow feeling she hadn’t felt before. Was it anger? Resentment? Resignation? What was it? And in the end… did it even matter any more.

Caitlyn wasn’t sure she could answer that. Or if she even wanted to know what the answer was. The only thing she was able to do, was keep her eyes from watering, and keep her composure behind the facade of calm she’d somehow been able to maintain so far.

Days later…
She no longer counted the showings.
She no longer asked what day it was.

Or what time.

Or who she used to be.
Caitlyn.

Enforcer.

Piltover.

Duty.
Law and Order.
But the woman lying on velvet now? She had no badge. No clothes. No name.
She only had touch.

And stillness.

And the faint hum of voices calling her “divine, breathtaking, exquisite.”

Pim had her recline on a chaise, one arm draped along the back, the other lying softly across her stomach.
Her legs were drawn up slightly — a pose of leisure, of sensuality, of composure.
She didn’t need direction anymore.

She flowed into the posture like a flower folding into sunlight.
The guests moved closer now than they ever had before.
One knelt beside her and trailed a hand up the arch of her foot, murmuring about the soft ridges of her toes. Another stood behind and ran both hands down her arms, praising the slight rise of goosebumps as a mark of sensitivity and modesty.
A woman — masked in that familiar silver half mask — leaned over and kissed her collarbone, her voice breathy with awe:
“She’s become more than just art. She’s become truth.”
A smattering of gentle applause followed.
Caitlyn blinked. She felt a burning in the back of her eyes. But it wasn’t as strong as it was before. Now, it was more distant, more subdued.
She felt the heat rise in her cheeks.

But she didn’t turn away.
When one guest placed a hand on her inner thigh and gently squeezed, she only exhaled — slow, practiced.
Pim stood at the edge of the gallery, his mask hiding his expression, but his clasped hands in front indicative of his contentment.
He said nothing.
He didn’t need to.
Later that night, as she drifted off to sleep — somewhere far, far away — came the image of a badge. A nameplate. Blue cloth. The scent of rain and gunpowder. Of authority. Of respect.
And then…
Nothing.
Just silence.
Just breath.
And the memory of applause.
She entered the chamber barefoot, her hips swaying with practiced grace. Her steps were slow, deliberate — not hesitant, but measured, sensual. The way Pim liked. The way they all liked.
She moved to the velvet platform, reclined with a soft exhale, one knee raised, one arm extended. Her body glowed in the golden light. Nothing concealed her. Nothing was meant to.
She didn’t need direction anymore.

She didn’t need instruction.

A guest — young, new — lingered at the edge of the gathering.

He stared at her with fascination, but his hands were clenched behind his back.
“She’ll let me?” he asked, uncertain.
Pim’s voice came from beside him, calm and gently amused:
“She’s here to be admired. And touched. Don’t be shy.”
The guest stepped forward slowly.

He reached out — fingertips first — and brushed the side of her arm tentatively, as if afraid he would get an electric shock.
But Caitlyn didn’t react.

She instead turned her head. Looked at him. And breathed.
He touched her again. This time along her stomach, then her ribs.
Another guest, bolder, approached from behind and gently cupped her breast. She did not shrink away. She leaned ever so slightly into the touch.
“She’s so... compliant, now,” the first guest murmured.
Pim smiled.
“She’s become exactly what she was meant to be.”
A third guest knelt at the foot of the chaise and lifted her leg.
He cradled her foot in both hands, gently kneading her arch, then the ball, then each toe.
She responded with the faintest inhale.
Her eyes fluttered.
He looked to Pim, awestruck:
“She moves like she enjoys it.”
Pim’s tone was reverent:
“She does. They all do, eventually. But this one... this one was born for it.”
Later that night, as Pim bathed her in silence, she leaned back, staring into the ceiling as his hands moved over her with habitual reverence.
She then stared down at the water, at the candlelight, at her reflection.
And in her quiet thoughts, she remembered:
I became an Enforcer to escape this. To be seen for my mind, not my skin. To be respected, not displayed.
But that person — the one in the uniform, the one with the gun and the name — felt like a fiction now.
This — the hands, the lights, the mouths, the praise — this was real.
And then a thought came to her…
Maybe she had never escaped objectification.

Maybe she had only delayed it.

Maybe she was never meant to be anything else.
Maybe the glass display was her false reality being stripped away.
Maybe this was who she was all along.
Days later…
Caitlyn found herself back in her Enforcer uniform. Pim had dressed her. He never said why. Caitlyn’s mind felt like it was drowning in questions of what Pim’s reasons or motivations were. As those thoughts ran through her mind, she looked at a mirror, and then down at herself at the now unfamiliar-feeling uniform she wore.
The uniform felt heavier than she remembered. Or maybe it was because she just forgot what it felt like to wear clothes.
Its seams scratched against her skin, stiff from disuse. The boots felt too constrictive. The collar clicked shut at her throat with a practiced finality. Pim had done it wordlessly, almost gently — as though dressing up one of his favourite statues before sending it away.
“I thought it might bring closure,” he’d said, his tone as calm and dispassionate as ever. “She asked for the uniform.”
Caitlyn frowned at that comment, not sure what Pim was saying, but then, she turned at the sound of footsteps on the marble floor.
She stood in the centre of the room — the same softly lit chamber where so many had watched her pose — her hands by her sides, her breathing shallow. Pim waited beside her like a curator preparing a piece for shipment. It made sense, in its own twisted way, she supposed.
“She was very fond of you,” Pim added, his voice a low hum. “Said you stood out from the moment she saw you. Said she remembered you.”
Caitlyn didn’t move. But her stomach turned as she felt her mind searching through her memories, as if she were flipping through the pages of a book. But try as she might, she wasn’t sure who the ‘she’ was, that Pim was talking about. Her thoughts were interrupted as she heard a sound at the door.
A soft chime. The door unlatched.
In stepped the guest.
It was her. The dark skinned woman with the markings on her skin. The one with the silver half mask. The one that felt familiar to Caitlyn, but she wasn’t sure why. The woman drew near, her walk confident. She wore a tailored dark brown fur coat over a smooth charcoal dress with silver accents and trim. She wore pristine white gloves, and slowly took them off, one at a time, revealing her long slender dark fingers with markings that went up her wrists. As Caitlyn regarded her, she saw that the woman had an elegant and attractive shape to her body, and stood a few inches taller than Caitlyn. As Caitlyn took in what she saw, the man, with an unhurried grace, slowly reached up with one hand, and removed the silver mask from her face.
And Caitlyn’s blood went cold and for the briefest of moments, she thought her heard stopped.
It was her.
The brothel worker.
The one from her investigation. The one she’d flirted with in a half-hearted attempt to get information. Her smile was the same — amused, curious. An easy smile that had made the feigned conversation more enjoyable than she expected it to be. But there was something in the woman’s dark brown eyes. Something different. What was it? There was recognition, to be sure. But something else. Possession? Or something more?
“Hello, darling,” the woman said, stepping closer.
Pim bowed his head slightly. “She’s all yours. I’m sure you’ll be most happy with her.”
“Thank you,” she replied, never taking her eyes off Caitlyn as she added “I know I will”.
It took a moment for Caitlyn to process that she’d been given away to this woman. Given away? Or was she sold? Like she was sold at the brothel. As she was trying to process what was happening, the woman walked toward her.
She then stepped close to Caitlyn — too close — and reached out to brush a stray lock of blue hair from Caitlyn’s face.
Caitlyn flinched, ever so slightly.
The woman didn’t comment. She only smiled wider, as if savouring the discomfort.
“I see the collar fits,” she said softly, fingers trailing over it. “That’s good. We’ll keep it, then. For now.”
Caitlyn found her voice. It was faint, hoarse. “I— why—”
But before she could continue, the woman leaned in and kissed her cheek.
“Because I want to,” she whispered. Caitlyn felt her face flush. Not sure if she was feeling fear, or something else. Up until that moment, she’d felt like she’d resigned herself to being a display item at Pim’s exhibit. But now? Those feelings were giving way to feelings of curiosity, fear, and something else. And she wasn’t sure how to feel about that.
As she was grappling with those thoughts, the woman leaned in and planted a soft but lingering kiss on Caitlyn’s lips, holding it for a moment, exhaling as she broke the kiss. Caitlyn was taken aback. The kiss was soft. Soft but… strong? And somehow, she could sense that the woman was kissing her while exercising incredible restraint, that it caused Caitlyn’s face and body to warm in a way that she hadn’t felt before. The woman, for her part, seemed to delight in Caitlyn’s look of surprise and fear, but then her expression seemed to soften when she could see genuine fear on Caitlyn’s face. Seemingly reacting to that, she brought a hand up to caress the Enforcer’s face gently, cooing as she said:
“It’s okay. I’m not mad about the deception at the brothel. I don’t think either of us were being entirely truthful at that moment. But none of that matters now, beautiful.”
Then she looked down at the uniform. Her hands slid along the lapels, adjusting them with unnecessary intimacy. “Don’t worry, you won’t be wearing this for long,” she added. “But I wanted to see you in it. Just this once.”
Before Caitlyn could manage to say anything, the woman continued.
“And don’t worry about this, either…”. She continued as she lifted Caitlyn’s chin slightly to touch the collar:
“…you won’t be wearing this for long either.” She then gave a smile that was either mischievous or primal, Caitlyn couldn’t tell, as she finished in a lower voice:
“…Not unless you want to.”
Caitlyn's heart pounded. Her throat was tight. She couldn’t read this woman — not her plans, not her tone. Not the smile that felt both genuine and predatory at the same time.
The woman extended a hand. “Shall we?”
Caitlyn hesitated. Not because she had a choice — she knew she didn’t — but because something inside her was screaming. Screaming against the weight of the fabric, against the calm in Pim’s eyes, against the hand waiting to claim her.
For reasons she couldn’t explain, after a few moments of awkward silence, she nodded and reluctantly raised her hand, reaching out.
The woman took her hand, lifted it to her face to kissed it, making sure her lips touched the exposed skin on her fingers instead of the leather glove-lets, making Caitlyn’s face warm at the touch. The woman then turned to Pim with a final nod as she spoke:

“She’s more than I could have hoped for.”
“She was my most priceless piece,” Pim said without emotion. “I hope you enjoy her.”
The woman only laughed, and then said, in a voice that seemed to become more heavy while still staying soft: “Oh, I will.”
Caitlyn noticed that, while the woman said that to Pim, she was staring directly into Caitlyn’s eyes as she said it, and Caitlyn couldn’t tell if she should be feeling scared… or feeling something else.
There was something about the way the woman looked at Caitlyn as she responded to Pim. And Caitlyn found herself swallowing and suddenly feeling very warm in her uniform, but also feeling as thought she was experiencing the onset of a cold sweat. She had no idea what she was feeling. Or why. Or what this woman had planned as she slowly walked them out together.
She led Caitlyn gently toward the door. As they passed through the threshold to outside of the exhibit at night, she leaned in close again, her lips brushing Caitlyn’s ear.
“Ever since that night at the brothel, I’ve been waiting a long time to have you all to myself,” she whispered in a voice that Caitlyn could tell was one of incredible restraint as she continued.
“…And I can’t wait to get started, beautiful.”
Caitlyn wanted to say something, her blue eyes wide, trying to formulate what to say in her head. She felt an impulse to demand to know what this woman had in mind. What it was she wanted to do. And why she wasn’t feeling the fear and despair she should be feeling. But all she could do was follow the woman as she took her into her carriage, a large and impressive looking cabin drawn by two large and impressive looking horses. The carriage would no doubt take them to the woman’s home. Wherever that was. Caitlyn found that she was at a loss for words, and let herself be guided towards the carriage.
As they neared the carriage, Caitlyn found herself glancing back at the gallery exhibit she’d been made a centre piece of for the past several days.
On one hand, she was relieved to no longer be a part of it, but on the other hand, she had no idea what lay ahead for her now, with this woman who’d ‘bought’ her, and what she meant when she said she ‘couldn’t wait to get started’…
To be continued?
- 7
- 8
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The undercity's gonna eat you alive