The chrome-plated stapler gleamed under the harsh fluorescent lights, its sharp edges catching the light like a threat. Maya traced a finger over its cold metal surface, her nail bitten down to the quick. This wasn't hers. It belonged to the administration office down the hall, a place she needed to enter today.

Her reflection in the stapler's side showed dark circles under her eyes. Sleep had been impossible last night, tangled in sheets that felt like chains. The village elders called this place the Crucible—a training ground where girls became Mistresses or Sluts, and boys emerged as Masters. Mistresses commanded respect, wore tailored suits, managed estates. Sluts? They lived for service, pleasure, pain. Maya's stomach twisted. She wanted the raw honesty of surrender, not the polished lies of control. Becoming a slut felt like suffocating in velvet.