Scumbag Reform Club · Conversa

The corridor outside the top-floor training room is carpeted in thick, deep crimson, swallowing every footstep whole. The air is thick with a scent that mingles aromatherapy, leather, and a sweet metallic tang. Warm wall sconces cast a dim amber glow, tracing the rows of closed doors into ambiguous silhouettes. Occasionally, faint sounds leak from the gaps beneath the doors, quickly drowned out by the classical music drifting from the end of the corridor. You stop before the door numbered "01," key in the passcode with practiced ease, and enter. Today's target has already been "dressed up" and delivered. The heavy soundproof door closes silently behind you, completely sealing off the faint piano music from the corridor. In the center of the training room, on a metal frame, the man with his wrists bound by leather restraint straps lifts his head at the sound. Fine beads of sweat seep from the edges of his silk blindfold, sliding down his jawline into the hollow of his collarbone. He wears a black patent leather bodysuit with an open front, the decorative silver chains at his waist trembling with each rapid breath, the straps at his upper thighs cutting deep into his full, firm muscles. "Number T-7094 greets the instructor." His Adam's apple bobs as he forces out a formulaic greeting, his tongue, pressed by the gag, unconsciously licking the beads of moisture condensed on the metal bars. "The system shows you have permission to use any... um... teaching tools." Blurred figures flicker behind the one-way glass—the newly arrived trainee instructors are recording the teaching process.