The military recruitment office smelled like old coffee and desperation, a crumbling brick building on the edge of town that looked like it hadn’t seen a renovation since the Cold War. Seventeen-year-old Aslan strutted through the creaky front doors, his worn leather jacket slung over one shoulder, a smirk playing on his lips. He was here for a routine medical exam—some formality for a potential draft he had no intention of signing up for. Easy in, easy out, he thought. Maybe flirt with a cute receptionist if he got lucky.
“Next!” barked a voice from behind a counter. A grizzled warrant officer with a face like a bulldog’s backside glared at him, clipboard in hand. “Name?”
“Aslan Carter,” he replied, leaning casually on the counter. “You know, like the lion. Rawr.” He flashed a toothy grin.
The officer didn’t blink. “Move it, lion boy. Locker room, down the hall. Strip down. Everything. Underwear too.”
Aslan’s smirk faltered for half a second before he recovered with a laugh. “Whoa, whoa, Sarge, buy me dinner first. I don’t just drop trou for anyone.”
The officer’s eyes narrowed. “You’ll drop ‘em now, or I’ll have you scrubbing latrines with your toothbrush. Move!”
Grumbling under his breath, Aslan shuffled down the hall, joining a group of other young men who looked equally confused and annoyed. The locker room was a damp, tiled hellhole, the air thick with the scent of mildew and cheap disinfectant. Lockers lined the walls, most of them dented or hanging off their hinges.
“Seriously?” muttered a lanky guy with acne scars, already halfway out of his shirt. “They can’t even spring for a decent changing room?”
“Guess they spent the budget on charm school for Sarge out there,” Aslan shot back, peeling off his jacket. He tossed it onto a bench with a dramatic flourish. “What’s next, a cavity search with a rusty spoon?”
A stocky kid with a buzz cut snorted. “Keep talking, pretty boy. I bet you’re the first one they probe.”
“Oh, I’m flattered,” Aslan said, kicking off his sneakers. “But I’m more of a ‘wine and dine’ kinda guy before I let anyone get that personal.”
“Enough chit-chat!” The warrant officer stormed in, his boots echoing on the tiles. “I said everything off. Now! You think this is a damn comedy club?”
Aslan, down to his jeans, crossed his arms and cocked his head. “Nah, comedy clubs have better lighting. And less creepy voyeur vibes. You gonna stand there and watch, or what?”
The officer’s face turned a shade of purple Aslan hadn’t thought possible. “You’ve got ten seconds to be bare-assed, or I’ll strip you myself, wise guy.”
“Promises, promises,” Aslan muttered, but he complied, shucking off the rest of his clothes with exaggerated reluctance. The other guys followed suit, a chorus of awkward coughs and muttered curses filling the room as they stood there, naked and shivering.
“Line up!” the officer barked, pointing to a door at the far end. “Upstairs. Move it!”
“Upstairs for what, a nude conga line?” Aslan quipped, earning a few stifled laughs from the others. The officer’s glare could’ve melted steel, but Aslan just shrugged and sauntered toward the door, his bare feet slapping against the cold floor.
The staircase was narrow and dimly lit, the kind of place where horror movies started. At the top, they were herded into a stark, sterile laboratory that looked like it belonged in a sci-fi flick—gleaming metal tables, trays of sharp instruments, and walls lined with humming machines. A woman stood at the center of it all, her white lab coat crisp and her dark hair pulled into a severe bun. She was in her late thirties, maybe, with sharp cheekbones and colder eyes than the Arctic. Her name tag read *Dr. Helena Voss*.
“Well, well,” she said, her voice a low, commanding purr as she surveyed the group. “What a fine collection of specimens. Though I see one of you thinks he’s a stand-up comedian.” Her gaze zeroed in on Aslan, who stood with his arms crossed over his chest, trying to look more confident than he felt.
“Guilty as charged, Doc,” he said with a wink. “But if you wanted a show, you could’ve just asked. I do private performances.”
Dr. Voss’s lips twitched, but it wasn’t a smile. It was the kind of look a predator gave before pouncing. “Oh, I’ll get my show, Mr. Carter. Step forward. You’re first.”
Aslan’s bravado flickered, but he masked it with a lazy grin. “Ladies first, huh? I’m flattered. What’s on the menu? Full-body massage? I’m game.”
Her eyes glinted with something dangerous as she gestured to a nearby operating table. “On the table. Now. Unless you’d prefer I have my assistants strap you down. They’re not gentle.”
Two burly men in scrubs loomed nearby, their expressions blank but their presence intimidating. Aslan swallowed hard but kept his mouth running as he climbed onto the cold metal slab. “Straps, huh? Kinky. Didn’t peg you for the type, Doc, but I’m open to new experiences.”
Dr. Voss leaned over him, her face inches from his as she snapped on a pair of latex gloves with a deliberate, menacing *snap*. “Keep talking, Carter. It won’t change a thing. You’re here for a purpose, and I don’t tolerate insolence. Or cowardice. So, tell me—are you going to be a good boy, or do I need to make an example of you?”
Aslan’s heart thudded, but he forced a smirk. “Good boy? Nah, I’m more of a bad boy with a heart of gold. But if you’re into discipline, I can roll with it. What’s the safe word?”
Her lips curled into a smirk of her own, sharp and cutting. “There is no safe word here, Mr. Carter. Only compliance. Now, hold still. This might… sting.” She picked up a gleaming instrument from the tray, something that looked far too much like a needle for Aslan’s liking.
“Whoa, hold up,” he said, his voice pitching just a little higher. “You’re not gonna stick that in me without at least a first date, are you? I’ve got standards.”
“Standards are irrelevant,” she replied coolly, her tone dripping with authority as she pressed the instrument closer. “You’re mine to examine, dissect, and study. And if you keep flapping that mouth of yours, I’ll find a way to put it to better use. Understood?”
Aslan bit back his next quip, the weight of her words—and her unflinching gaze—pinning him more effectively than any straps ever could. Around him, the other recruits watched in tense silence, the air thick with unease. Whatever this place was, whatever these “examinations” were for, it was clear Dr. Voss wasn’t playing games. And yet, as the cold metal of the instrument grazed his skin, Aslan couldn’t help himself.
“Understood, Doc. But if you’re gonna get this intimate, at least call me by my first name. Fair’s fair.”
Her eyes narrowed, but there was a flicker of amusement there, buried under layers of steel. “Very well, Aslan. Now shut up and let me work.”
As the examination began, invasive and humiliating in ways he hadn’t anticipated, Aslan’s sharp tongue stayed quiet—for the moment. But his mind raced. What the hell was this place? What did they want with him and the others? And why did Dr. Voss’s iron control both terrify and intrigue him in equal measure? Whatever answers lay ahead, one thing was certain: he wasn’t getting out of this without a fight—or at least a few more well-timed quips.
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