Mei Ling - The Spider of Shanghai

[Noctavya]

Mei Ling - The Spider of Shanghai

Shanghai, 1942


Chapter 1 : The Delivery

The door rattled under Mei Ling’s knuckles—three quick taps, a pause, then two more. Footsteps approached from inside. A chain slid free, and the door cracked open just enough to reveal one wary eye. "We’ve got to hurry," Mei Ling hissed, slipping past the woman before she could speak. The scent of stale tea and dust hung thick in the cramped hallway.



Inside the apartment, Mei Ling didn’t pause. Her fingers flew to the holster beneath her cheongsam, pulling out a compact Mauser. She racked the slide with a sharp clack, ejected the magazine, and thumbed bullets onto the worn carpet—counting each brass casing as it fell. Six. Full. She slammed the magazine home, the sound echoing in the stillness. Across the room, her contact, Li Na, watched silently, twisting a jade bracelet around her wrist.



Mei Ling snatched the forged papers from Li Na’s trembling hands. With swift precision, she tore a strip from the hem of Li Na’s dress, knotting it into a makeshift headscarf. A smudge of soot from the stove became rouge on Li Na’s cheeks; a charcoal pencil darkened Mei Ling’s eyebrows into stern lines. Outside, the distant wail of sirens sliced through the humid afternoon air. They exchanged no words—only a nod—and moved toward the stairwell.



The street hit them like a furnace blast. Mei Ling kept her strides measured, blending into the crowd of rickshaws and vendors. Behind them, tires screeched. Three troop trucks skidded to a halt outside the apartment building, disgorging soldiers in khaki uniforms. Rifles snapped up as the men fanned out, shouting orders. Mei Ling gripped Li Na’s elbow, steering her into the mouth of a bustling silk market just as the first boot slammed against the apartment door upstairs.



Inside the market’s humid chaos, Mei Ling navigated instinctively. Her movements were economical—a tilt of the head to scan reflections in brass teapots, a pause at a spice stall to adjust Li Na’s headscarf with hands that didn’t tremble. Beneath the thin silk of her cheongsam, sweat traced the line of her spine. She could feel Li Na’s shallow breaths against her shoulder. "Don’t look back," Mei Ling murmured, palming a dried chili from a basket. She crushed it discreetly, letting the acrid scent mask Li Na’s expensive French perfume.



The alley behind the market stank of fish guts and damp stone. Halfway down, Mei Ling stopped abruptly. She pressed Li Na flat against the wall, her own body shielding the smaller woman. Footsteps echoed—two soldiers, rifles slung, scanning doorways. Mei Ling’s fingers brushed the cool steel of her Mauser. The soldiers paused, arguing over a crumpled map. One gestured vaguely toward the market entrance. As they turned away, Mei Ling exhaled silently. Li Na’s knuckles were white where they clutched her sleeve.



At the canal dock, a rust-stained sampan bobbed beside rotting pilings. The boatman didn’t speak, merely extending a calloused hand. Mei Ling counted out silver coins into his palm. Her eyes never left the rooftops as she guided Li Na onto the swaying deck. The Mauser’s weight felt solid beneath her sleeve. Across the water, searchlights swept the Bund. Somewhere in the city’s maze, the hunt was tightening.



Li Na sank onto a damp crate, shoulders trembling. Moonlight caught the tear tracks cutting through the soot rouge on her cheeks. Her silk dress—once the envy of the Paramount Ballroom—was torn at the hem where Mei Ling had ripped fabric for her disguise. She clutched her jade bracelet like an anchor. That bracelet had paid for her escape from a Ningbo brothel, only to trap her in gilded cages where generals whispered secrets between sips of sake. Her voice could melt hearts at Cathay Hotel, but tonight it had choked on a pillow confession about troop movements in Manchuria.



The sampan slid into the ink-black waterway. Mei Ling watched Li Na’s reflection ripple in the canal—a shattered doll who’d traded her body for survival until the price became imperial war plans. Her trembling wasn’t just fear; it was the aftershock of touching pure evil. The Japanese general had bragged about his "nightingale" between brutal couplings, never imagining her mind recording rail schedules and battalion numbers. Now that knowledge lived between them like a live wire.



A low whistle echoed from a shadowed bridge. Mei Ling’s hand tightened on the Mauser. The boatman froze, pole hovering above the water. Across the canal, a cigarette tip glowed once—green. Safe passage. As the sampan drifted beneath the arch, Li Na finally whispered, hoarse as broken glass: "He said… they’re bringing something worse than bullets to Nanking." Mei Ling didn’t turn. She kept her eyes on the receding bridge, where the silhouette of a rifle now stood outlined against the moon. The real hunt was just beginning.



The sampan rounded a bend choked with water hyacinths. Ahead, a makeshift checkpoint barred the canal—two Japanese soldiers on a floating platform, lanterns casting jagged shadows. "Papers!" barked the older one, rifle leveled. The boatman nudged the sampan against the rotting timbers. Mei Ling handed over the forged documents, her face a mask of weary resignation. The younger soldier, barely more than a boy, scanned Li Na with hungry eyes. "Pretty bird," he murmured in broken Mandarin, fingers brushing her soot-streaked cheek. Li Na flinched.



Mei Ling moved faster than thought. Her knife slid from the thigh slit of her cheongsam—a fluid flick of wrist and blade. Steel punched upward beneath the boy’s jaw. Before his companion could shout, she pivoted, the knife’s edge opening his throat in a dark arc. The boatman gasped. The younger soldier staggered, gagging blood, then toppled backward into the ink-black water with a thick splash. Shouts erupted upstream. Lantern beams sliced through the mist. "Go!" Mei Ling hissed at Li Na, shoving her toward the opposite bank. "Find Chen in Old Town. Now."



Li Na scrambled onto the muddy embankment, silk shoes sinking into the filth. She paused, eyes wide with terror and gratitude. "Thank you…" The words choked in her throat. Mei Ling didn’t look back. She snatched the dead soldier’s rifle, firing two shots toward the converging lights. The sharp crack-crack shattered the night. Li Na vanished into the reeds as the sampan drifted, empty. Mei Ling stood alone on the platform, the knife dripping in her hand. Boots pounded on the docks. Time to draw the wolves away.



She moved like smoke through the deserted streets. Two shots echoed off shuttered storefronts—a soldier crumpled near a noodle stall, another staggered against a pharmacy window. Mei Ling reloaded the rifle smoothly while running, brass casings clattering on cobblestones. Every pair of bullets bought distance: one to suppress, one to kill. But the hunters adapted. Whistles shrilled from rooftops. Flashlight beams crisscrossed alleys like prison bars. They had radios crackling coordinates, boots thudding in unison from three directions. She was a fox in a tightening snare.



Shanghai’s heartbeat had stilled. Teahouses stood dark, their paper lanterns extinguished. Only the scent of spilled soy sauce and gunpowder lingered. Mei Ling ducked into a tailor’s doorway as bullets chewed splinters from the frame above her head. She returned fire—two precise shots. A scream, then silence. But heavy footsteps closed in from behind. Too many. She bolted across the street, the Mauser a cold comfort against her ribs. The city felt like a graveyard, every shadow holding a rifle’s gleam.



Her lungs burned as she vaulted a low wall into the French Concession. Here, the emptiness felt heavier, the colonial facades watching with blind windows. She’d gained seconds, not safety. A spotlight swept the intersection ahead, pinning her in its glare. Rifles rose from behind a sandbag emplacement. Mei Ling dove sideways as the first volley tore through the air where she’d stood. Rolling behind a shattered fountain, she counted heartbeats. They had her cornered now. The radios would be screaming her position.



She scrambled through a small doorways, glass crunching underfoot. Inside was stillness – a middle-income apartment complex. Every door was shut tight. She hammered a fist on the nearest, desperation rising. "Open up! Please!" Only silence answered. Outside, booted feet pounded closer, shouts sharpening. They’d breach the front entrance any second.



Nobody opened. Mei Ling cursed softly, the sound harsh in the stale air. She leaned against the locked door, fingers brushing the captured Arisaka rifle slung across her back. With swift, economical movements, she slid it off, checked the bolt. The chamber was empty. She pulled back the bolt carrier – nothing. A final, futile shake confirmed it: one useless bullet rattled loose in the magazine well. A hollow prize. She tossed the rifle clattering onto the linoleum floor. Worthless weight.



Her own Mauser slid from its silk holster with practiced ease. She thumbed the release, catching the magazine as it dropped. Seven brass cartridges gleamed dully in the gloom filtering through the broken window. Full. She slammed it home, racked the slide with a decisive clack. Seven breaths. Seven chances. Her eyes scanned the apartment layout – small living room, hallway branching to bedrooms. No fire escape visible. Out of all the apartments in Shanghai, she’d picked the one with no back exit. A death trap.



She moved fast, ducking behind a low, crumbling cement partition wall separating the cramped kitchen area. Large ceramic pots holding long-dead plants offered scant cover. Kneeling, she pressed her back against the rough concrete, the Mauser held ready across her knees. Sweat stung her eyes. From the hallway, the splintering crash of the front door being kicked in echoed like a gunshot. Shadows filled the doorway. Time was up. She drew a slow, silent breath, finger resting lightly on the trigger. The hunt ended here, or began anew.



Images flickered behind her eyelids, sharp and unwelcome: the dusty courtyard of her childhood farmhouse near Hangzhou, the sudden roar of truck engines, her father’s frantic shout swallowed by the sharp crack of a rifle. Soldiers in mustard-brown uniforms dragging her mother and older brother away. Her own small hand clutching her grandmother’s skirt, the rough cotton against her cheek. The silence that followed, thick and suffocating. She was nine. They never came back. The Resistance found her at nineteen, a ghost haunting the Shanghai docks. She learned fast: the cold logic of Morse code tapping against her teeth, the precise angles of rooftop traverses under a moonless sky, the subtle shifts in tone that betrayed a lie in Japanese, English, Russian. By twenty-three, she commanded a cell; by twenty-five, she was a spider at the centre of Shanghai’s clandestine web, coordinating sabotage and smuggling vital intelligence out through the Concessions. The bootsteps hammering closer weren't just sound; they were the echoes of that Hangzhou courtyard, the promise of the interrogation room’s blinding lights and jagged knives. She couldn’t be taken. Not with the Manchurian troop dispositions Li Na had whispered, the Bund warehouse sabotage schedule, the names of the compromised agents. Death was cleaner.



The first soldier burst into the living room, rifle sweeping wildly. Too eager, too loud. Mei Ling’s shot was a single, precise crack. The bullet took him high in the chest, spinning him sideways into a bamboo side table. It shattered under his weight. The second soldier, right behind, reacted faster, diving for cover behind a heavy lacquered cabinet. His return fire splintered wood above Mei Ling’s head, showering her with dust and fragments. She shifted position silently, pressing flat against the partition wall. The doorway framed a kill zone, perfect for defence. But she counted the shouts outside – more than a squad. They’d flank, or rush her. She wouldn’t last. Seven bullets wouldn’t hold back a tide.



A harsh command barked in Japanese from the hallway – "Hold position! Flank left!" Shadows shifted beyond the shattered doorframe. They weren’t rushing. They were thinking. Planning. That bought her seconds, maybe a minute. Mei Ling’s thumb found the safety, clicking it off. Her knuckles whitened on the pistol grip. Luck was a fairy tale told to children. Survival was bought with brass and blood. She sighted on the edge of the lacquered cabinet, waiting for movement, for the inevitable rush. The next shot would buy Li Na another block. The next breath was borrowed time. The city held its breath with her.



A boot scraped deliberately on the splintered wood near the doorway. A rifle barrel, then a helmeted head, slowly inched into view. Testing. Mei Ling squeezed the trigger. The Mauser bucked, a sharp crack echoing off the cramped walls. The helmet snapped back violently, a spray of crimson misting the air. Before the body hit the floor, another soldier lunged from the opposite side, rifle swinging towards her crouched position behind the pots. Instinct screamed. She fired twice more in rapid succession. Crack. Crack. The first bullet punched into his shoulder, spinning him. The second caught him square in the throat. He collapsed, choking silently. Three bullets spent. Three breaths bought. Silence descended, thick and heavy. Only the harsh rasp of her own breathing filled the tiny apartment. One bullets left. Four chances. But the footsteps outside hadn’t retreated. They were regrouping.



Her gaze flickered to the empty magazine pouch beneath her cheongsam. Four bullets. The Japanese weren't amateurs. They were Asia's elite forces, disciplined, relentless. They’d probe, flank, overwhelm. Capture wasn't just failure; it was agony. The Kempeitai’s reputation for interrogation – the blinding lights, the jagged knives, the slow, meticulous dismantling of body and mind – flooded her consciousness like ice water. Li Na’s terrified face flashed before her eyes, the Manchurian troop dispositions, the Bund sabotage schedule, the names… all of it screaming inside her skull. Surrender meant betrayal. Death was cleaner. Her finger trembled against the trigger guard. The Mauser felt impossibly heavy. She lifted it slowly, the cool steel brushing her temple. A single, clean shot. Oblivion. Escape. Her thumb found the hammer. One click back.



Before she could muster the strength to pull the trigger against her own skull, two soldiers rushed her position. They exploded from the hallway in a coordinated burst – one low, rolling behind an overturned chair; the other high, rifle leveled directly at her crouched form behind the crumbling partition. Instinct screamed louder than despair. Mei Ling pivoted, the Mauser snapping up towards the charging soldier. She squeezed the trigger. crack her last bullet missed. The hammer fell on an empty chamber. Panic lanced through her. She squeezed again, frantic. Click. Empty. The magazine was dry. The soldier lunged, bayonet gleaming in the dim light filtering through broken shutters.



The rest of the soldiers moved in line, rifles steady, advancing with predatory slowness. They filled the cramped living room doorway, a wall of khaki uniforms and cold steel. "Surrender!" The barked command echoed off the bare walls, harsh and final. The leader, a sergeant with a scar bisecting his eyebrow, gestured sharply with his pistol. They knew she was cornered. They knew she was out of bullets. The trap had sprung. Mei Ling stared at the advancing rifles, her own useless Mauser dangling from her fingers. The cold certainty of capture settled over her like a shroud. The Kempeitai awaited. Her mind raced, not for escape, but for the cyanide capsule sewn into the hem of her cheongsam. Could she reach it before they took her? The sergeant took another step forward, his eyes hard, calculating. "Drop the weapon. Hands where we can see them." The command brooked no argument. The silence stretched, taut as a wire.



Mei Ling closed her eyes for a heartbeat. The courtyard in Hangzhou flashed behind her lids – the dust, the shouts, the rifle crack. Her mother’s face. Li Na’s terrified gratitude. The names, the troop movements, the sabotage schedules… all screaming inside her skull. Capture meant betrayal. Slow, agonizing betrayal. Her jaw tightened. Resignation washed over her, cold and heavy. It was too late. The cyanide was too far. She exhaled slowly, a sound like tearing silk. Her fingers uncurled from the Mauser’s grip. It clattered onto the linoleum beside her. A small, final sound. Her shoulders slumped, the fight draining out of her. She slowly pushed herself up from behind the meagre cover of the crumbling partition and the dead plants. Dust drifted in the shafts of light piercing the broken shutters. She stood tall, facing the rifles.



Hands raised slowly, palms open and empty. The sudden glare of half a dozen flashlights snapped on, blinding white beams pinning her against the peeling wallpaper. She blinked, turning her face slightly away from the searing light, her long, jet-black hair falling across her cheek. The beams played over her, harsh and intrusive, illuminating every detail. The slit in her cheongsam fell open as she raised her arms, revealing the smooth, powerful line of her thigh where the knife sheath was now empty. The thin silk clung damply to her curves, outlining the swell of her C-cup breasts beneath the high collar, the narrowness of her waist, the flare of her hips. Her exotic features – high cheekbones, full lips, almond-shaped eyes – were starkly beautiful in the unforgiving light, etched with defiance and despair. The sergeant’s gaze lingered, a flicker of something predatory beneath the professional mask. He barked again, his voice thick with authority and something else – a coarse appreciation. "Hands up! Higher! Keep them there!" She obeyed, the posture accentuating her figure against the bare wall, a stark, captivating silhouette in the chaos of the ransacked apartment. It felt like a grotesque stage, the flashlights her unwanted spotlights.



The lieutenant, a lean man with cold eyes who had entered silently behind the sergeant, stepped forward into the circle of light. He didn't bark. His voice was low, precise, cutting through the tension like a scalpel. "Hands," he repeated in flawless, clipped Chinese, his eyes raking over her from head to toe, lingering on the exposed skin at her thigh, the curve of her hip, the defiant set of her jaw beneath the blinding glare. "You move, you die." He gestured sharply with his own pistol. Two soldiers moved in swiftly, rifles trained unwaveringly on her center mass. Their hands were rough as they grabbed her raised wrists, yanking them down behind her back. Cold steel bit into her skin as handcuffs snapped shut with a final, metallic click that echoed louder than any gunshot in the sudden stillness. The lieutenant stepped closer, his breath hot on her face, smelling of stale tobacco and something metallic. His gaze, devoid of pity, held only the cold calculation of an interrogator assessing his prize. "Mei Ling," he stated, not asked. The hunt was over. The nightmare was just beginning.



His gloved hand shot out, fingers tangling brutally in the intricate knot at the high collar of her cheongsam. With a sharp, tearing sound, the silk ripped open down the front. The delicate fabric parted, exposing the smooth skin of her throat, the swell of her breasts straining against the thin, modest silk of her traditional Chinese bra. She didn't flinch, didn't react beyond a tightening of her jaw, her eyes fixed on some distant point beyond the lieutenant's shoulder. Another soldier stepped forward, knife flashing. He slit the silk sleeves, tearing the ruined garment completely away. It pooled around her feet like a discarded chrysalis, leaving her standing in only her bra and panties – simple, functional cotton against her pale skin. Rough hands patted down her hair, fingers probing her scalp, pulling pins loose. They checked her ears, her nostrils. The lieutenant himself grabbed her jaw, forcing her mouth open wide. A flashlight beam stabbed inside, searching gums, beneath her tongue. They knew the tricks. They knew Mei Ling. Cyanide was expected. Her breath came in shallow, controlled bursts against the lieutenant's leather-clad fingers. The search was clinical, invasive, utterly thorough. No capsule.



"Fount the capsule Liutenant! His soldier reported. He released her jaw, a flicker of grim satisfaction in his eyes. He nodded curtly. "Hai." The prize was secured. Pure. Ready for extraction. He barked a command. A coarse, heavy sackcloth hood, smelling of mold and dust, was yanked brutally over her head, plunging her into suffocating darkness. The rough material scraped her face. Strong hands seized her arms again, hauling her forward. She stumbled blindly, the cold linoleum giving way to splintered wood and then the uneven cobblestones outside. Rifles nudged her!" growled a voice near her ear. Boots crunched on debris around her. The lieutenant's voice cut through the night, tight with triumph and anticipation: "Take her directly to Kempeitai Headquarters. Secure transport. No stops." The lieutenant chuckled softly, a dry, chilling sound. "What a prize," he murmured, switching back to Japanese, his voice thick with vindication. "She killed seven of our finest tonight... Tanaka, young Sato... But capturing the Spider of Shanghai? Worth every bullet." He paused, the sound of his boots halting beside her hooded head. "Imagine what she knows... What secrets she'll sing."





Chapter 2 : The Preparation



She was shoved violently forward. Hands gripped her shoulders, propelling her towards the harsh rumble of an engine. Metal clanged—a tailgate dropping. Rough hands lifted her bodily, tossing her onto the cold, ridged metal floor of a troop truck. Her shoulder slammed against the unforgiving surface. The hood muffled sound, but she felt the vibrations as boots climbed in around her. Heavy bodies settled onto benches flanking her prone form. The air thickened with the smell of stale sweat, gun oil, and anticipation. The engine roared, gears grinding as the truck lurched forward, throwing her against a booted leg. A coarse laugh erupted nearby. "Careful with the merchandise, Kato," another voice warned, thick with menace. "The Kempeitai wants her intact... for now." The truck accelerated, bouncing violently over the ruined streets. Each jolt sent fresh waves of pain through her bound wrists and bruised body. The darkness under the hood was absolute, disorienting. Only the roar of the engine, the creak of the truck, and the harsh breathing of her captors filled her world.



Time stretched and warped in the suffocating darkness. The truck slowed, turned sharply, then accelerated again on smoother pavement—likely entering the International Settlement or the French Concession. The quality of the road changed. The soldiers remained mostly silent, tense. She felt their presence radiating hostility, a physical pressure. Occasionally, a muttered phrase in Japanese reached her: "...heard she killed Lieutenant Mori with a hairpin..." "...bastard deserved it..." "...silence! Orders are orders..." The truck halted abruptly. Voices outside—sharp, authoritative exchanges in Japanese. Papers rustled. A checkpoint. Her breath hitched beneath the hood. Had Li Na made it? Had Chen gotten the warning? The truck lurched forward again after agonizing seconds. Relief warred with dread. They were still moving towards the Kempeitai stronghold. The lieutenant's chilling words echoed: "What secrets she'll sing." She focused on the rhythm of the engine, the bumps in the road, mapping the turns in her mind. Survival now meant enduring the unendurable. The ride was a descent into hell.



Beside her, a soldier shifted, his boot scraping against the metal floor near her hip. His voice, young, slightly nasal, muttered low, meant only for his comrade across the bench: "...*Chikushō*, look at her now... ripped silk... those tits..." His companion grunted, a sound thick with lecherous agreement. "*Hai*. Like ripe melons. Wonder what’s inside..." A low chuckle followed. "*Shhh!*" hissed a third voice, older, weary. "*Taichō said no stops. Direct to HQ. Hands off.*" The lewd commentary stopped abruptly, replaced by the heavy silence of discipline enforced. But the damage was done. Mei Ling lay rigid, the crude words etching themselves onto her consciousness beneath the scratchy hood. They saw only flesh, a prize stripped bare. They didn't know she understood every filthy syllable. The humiliation burned hotter than the bruises.



Another voice, deeper, filled with cold anticipation, broke the tense quiet. "*The Spider... they say she’s tough. Remember that bitch? The radio operator they caught last month?*" A pause. "*She lasted seven days.*" The words hung in the fetid air, heavy with implication. "*Seven days... before she told them everything... names, frequencies, dead drops... everything.*" The soldier’s tone held a morbid fascination mixed with professional respect for the Kempeitai’s methods. "*She screamed like a mad woman by the end.*" Mei Ling felt the butterflies erupt in her stomach, a fluttering panic that threatened to claw its way up her throat. Seven days. She’d trained for this. Endured simulations, psychological hardening, the cyanide capsule that was now gone. She’d expected capture, torture, death. Intellectually. But now? Hearing it laid bare in the language of her captors? The reality was ice water dumped on her soul. The Kempeitai didn’t just break bodies; they dismantled minds.



The truck slowed decisively, turning onto a surface that sounded like gravel crunching under heavy tires. It rolled to a final stop. The engine idled, a low growl vibrating through the metal floor pressed against her cheek. Outside, sharp commands echoed—Japanese voices barking orders, boots snapping together on gravel. They’d arrived. The rear flap clanged open violently. Rough hands grabbed her arms again, hauling her upright. She stumbled blindly as she was dragged backwards off the tailgate. Her bare feet landed on uneven, cold stones. The hood was suddenly ripped off. Blinding electric light stabbed her eyes. She blinked rapidly, trying to focus. Before her loomed a massive, brutalist concrete building, its windows barred, its entrance a dark maw guarded by soldiers in crisp uniforms. Kempeitai Headquarters. The lieutenant stepped into her blurred vision, his face a mask of triumph. "*Welcome,*" he said in perfect Chinese, his smile devoid of warmth. The hands gripping her arms tightened, propelling her forward into the suffocating shadow of the entrance.



Inside was a different kind of cold. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting a harsh, sterile glow on grey concrete walls slick with condensation. The air tasted metallic, thick with disinfectant and something darker—fear, sweat, and old blood. Boots echoed sharply on polished linoleum. They dragged her down a long, narrow corridor flanked by heavy steel doors, each bearing a small, barred viewing slot. From behind one door, a muffled, rhythmic thumping pulsed—steady, relentless. From another, a choked gasp, abruptly cut off. Guards stood rigidly at intervals, their eyes fixed straight ahead, ignoring the procession. The lieutenant strode ahead, his boots clicking with authority. They passed a recessed alcove where a clerk sat behind thick glass, typing mechanically, his face impassive. The silence here was heavier than the truck’s rumble, broken only by the lieutenant’s clipped orders and the dragging shuffle of her bare feet on the cold floor. This place swallowed sound, swallowed light, swallowed hope. It was a machine designed for one purpose: extraction.



They halted before an unmarked steel door indistinguishable from the others. The lieutenant produced a heavy brass key and inserted it into a reinforced lock. The mechanism clunked loudly, echoing down the corridor. The door swung inward silently on well-oiled hinges, revealing a small, windowless room. The walls were padded with stained, dark leather. A single, bare bulb hung from the ceiling in a wire cage, casting a harsh pool of light onto a solitary wooden chair bolted to the floor. In the corner sat a metal bucket. That was all. The lieutenant gestured curtly. The soldiers shoved her forward, releasing her arms. She stumbled into the center of the room, the sudden absence of their grip leaving her feeling strangely weightless. The door clanged shut behind her with terrifying finality. The lock turned again. She was alone. Utterly alone. The padded walls seemed to lean in, absorbing the frantic hammering of her own heart. The air was thick, still, smelling faintly of bleach and despair. The silence was absolute now, pressing in like a physical force. This was the antechamber. The real work would begin soon. The thin cotton of her underclothes offering no warmth against the chill seeping from the concrete floor and the dread coiling in her gut. The borrowed time had run out.



The lock turned again, sharp and metallic. The door opened. Two soldiers entered first, their faces impassive masks beneath their helmets, rifles slung. Behind them came a man in a crisp, white medical coat, incongruously clean in this place of grime. He carried a small black leather bag. His eyes, magnified behind thick spectacles, swept over Mei Ling with detached clinical interest. No introductions were offered. The soldiers moved with practiced efficiency, seizing her arms again, their grips like iron vises. They forced her towards the bolted chair. She resisted instinctively, a futile twist of her body, but they simply increased pressure, shoving her down onto the cold wood. Her bound wrists scraped against the chair's back. One soldier pinned her shoulders against the padding while the other locked his arms around her thighs, spreading her legs wide and immobilizing her hips against the seat. The medical officer approached, snapping open his bag. He withdrew a pair of gleaming steel scissors. The fluorescent light glinted coldly off the blades. Mei Ling froze, her breath catching in her throat. This wasn't interrogation. This was degradation. Preparation. The lieutenant’s chilling words echoed: "No risks."



The blades snicked through the thin cotton of her underwear with shocking ease. The cool air of the cell washed over her exposed skin, raising goosebumps. Mei Ling squeezed her eyes shut, her jaw clenched so tight her teeth ached. The humiliation was a physical burn, worse than any blow. The soldiers' hands tightened, holding her utterly immobile against the chair. She felt the medical officer's gloved fingers, cold and impersonal, probing. The cavity search was methodical, thorough, utterly devoid of anything resembling humanity. It was a violation performed with chilling professionalism, a necessary procedure to eliminate risk. Every touch was clinical, precise, designed to uncover hidden threats, not inflict pain. Yet the violation was absolute. A choked sound escaped her lips, swallowed instantly by the oppressive silence of the padded room. The soldiers stared fixedly at the wall opposite, their faces expressionless. The medical officer worked silently, his breathing steady, his focus complete. He found nothing. Of course he found nothing. The cyanide was long gone.



"*Meguru!*" The examiner's voice was flat, devoid of inflection. Turn around. The soldiers reacted instantly. Hands hauled her roughly upright from the chair. Her legs trembled, the cold floor biting into her bare feet. They pivoted her, shoving her forward until her forehead pressed against the cold, stained leather padding of the wall. The position forced her spine into a sharp curve. One soldier gripped her bound wrists, pulling them taut against the small of her back. The other seized her hips, fingers digging into the flesh above her pelvis, holding her firmly in place, bent over, exposed. The posture was degrading, vulnerable, designed to facilitate access. The examiner moved behind her, his white coat rustling faintly. Mei Ling braced herself, pressing her cheek harder against the rough padding, trying to detach, to retreat somewhere deep inside. The humiliation was a tide threatening to drown her. The soldiers' grips were unyielding. She was a specimen pinned for examination.



The cold touch of lubricant was a shock. Then came the sharp, intrusive pressure. Not a finger. Metal. Cold, unyielding steel. The speculum. It pressed against her tight ring of muscle, insistent, violating. The examiner worked silently, methodically prying her open. The stretch was intense, a tearing burn that radiated deep into her pelvis. She gasped, a sharp intake of breath muffled by the padding. It was painful, a deep, internal ache, but bearable – a focused, controlled agony far removed from the brutality she’d expected. It was the cold precision that made it worse. The examiner adjusted the instrument with detached efficiency, cranking it open millimeter by agonizing millimeter. The blinding beam of a penlight stabbed into the exposed cavity. Mei Ling flinched violently, a tremor running through her pinned body. The light probed, searching every fold, every shadow. She felt utterly invaded, laid bare under that clinical glare. The soldiers held her steady, their breathing the only other sound besides the faint metallic click of the speculum.



A gloved finger, slick and cold, slid inside alongside the steel. It probed deeper than the light, exploring the inner walls with deliberate, scraping pressure. The sensation was intensely violating, scraping against the sensitive sphincter muscle itself. Mei Ling bit down hard on her lower lip, tasting copper. Her knuckles were white where her bound hands clenched behind her back. The finger withdrew. A scraping tool followed – a small, blunt spatula. It rubbed firmly against the mucosal lining near the entrance, collecting a sample. The entire procedure was swift, clinical, utterly devoid of malice or even interest. It was simply a task to be completed. The speculum was released, clicking shut with a final, metallic sound that echoed in the silence. The examiner stepped back. "Clear," he stated flatly in Japanese to the soldiers. They released her instantly. Mei Ling slumped forward against the wall, trembling violently, the cold air rushing over her newly violated skin. The degradation was complete, a necessary step before the real interrogation could begin. The lieutenant's words echoed: "No risks." They had ensured there were none. The Kempeitai awaited its prize.



The examiner snapped his bag shut. He didn't look at Mei Ling as she pushed herself shakily away from the wall, her legs trembling. Instead, he reached into his coat pocket and withdrew a small glass vial. Inside rattled a dozen small, unmarked white pills. With practiced indifference, he tapped two out onto his gloved palm. He turned to the nearest soldier. "*Kyōsei ni nomaseru,*" he ordered, his voice devoid of inflection. Force her to take these. The soldier nodded curtly. He stepped forward, his expression impassive. Mei Ling instinctively backed away, her bare heels hitting the bolted chair. Nowhere to go. The soldier seized her jaw in a crushing grip, fingers digging into the pressure points beneath her ears. Pain exploded through her skull. Her mouth was forced open wide against her will. She choked, gagging on the sudden invasion.



The examiner stepped forward. His gloved fingers shoved the two chalky pills deep into her mouth, scraping against the back of her tongue. They tasted bitter, medicinal, utterly alien. The soldier's grip tightened, crushing her jaw shut. His other hand clamped over her nose and mouth, sealing off her air. Panic surged, primal and blinding. Her body convulsed, desperate for breath. She thrashed, but the soldier held her immobile, his strength overwhelming. Her lungs screamed. Darkness pulsed at the edges of her vision. Reflex took over. Her throat convulsed. She swallowed convulsively, painfully. The bitter pills scraped down her raw esophagus. Only then, as her chest heaved with desperate, ragged gasps, did the soldier release his grip on her nose and mouth. Mei Ling doubled over, coughing violently, tears streaming down her face, the vile taste coating her tongue and throat. The soldiers watched, unmoved.



The examiner gave a curt nod and exited without a backward glance. The atmosphere shifted instantly. The two soldiers relaxed their rigid posture. One stretched, cracking his knuckles. "*Kuso...*" he muttered, scratching his stubble. "Damn doc... don't make her shits on our shift." He glanced towards the metal bucket in the corner with distaste. The other soldier chuckled, a low, lewd sound. His eyes raked over Mei Ling's trembling form, lingering on her exposed breasts and the neat triangle of dark hair between her thighs. "*Hai*. But at least we got to clean the bitch," he smirked, his gaze predatory. "Look at those tits... and that trimmed bush... marvelous." They spoke freely, assuming she understood nothing. Mei Ling kept her head bowed, her hair hiding her face, the crushing weight of their words and her utter vulnerability pressing down on her. She felt hollowed out, defeated. The pills sat heavy in her gut, a new unknown terror.



"*Ikuzo!*" the first soldier barked, grabbing her arm roughly. They hauled her upright and dragged her, stumbling on bare feet, out of the padded cell and back into the harshly lit corridor. They turned sharply, marching her past several more steel doors before stopping before one labeled with simple Kanji: 清掃室 (Seisō-shitsu - Cleaning Room). The door was unlocked and shoved open. Inside was starkly utilitarian: concrete floor sloping towards a central drain, a hose coiled on the wall, a large metal tub filled with murky water, and shelves holding stiff brushes and harsh-smelling disinfectant. The air reeked of bleach and mildew. The soldiers shoved her inside towards the drain. "*Matte!*" Wait! ordered one. "*Sanjuppun.*" Thirty minutes. He glanced at his watch, then leaned against the doorframe, lighting a cigarette. The other soldier leaned against the opposite wall, his rifle slung casually, his eyes still roaming her body with undisguised hunger. Mei Ling stood shivering in the center of the room, the cold concrete biting her feet, the ominous pressure building low in her abdomen. The countdown had begun.



They didn't take their eyes off her. The first soldier, stubble darkening his jaw, blew lazy smoke rings towards the ceiling. "*Kono karada... subarashii,*" he murmured, his gaze tracing the curve of her hip, the swell of her breast. "This body... magnificent." His companion, younger with a cruel twist to his mouth, chuckled. "*Hai. Sono oppai... futoi.*" Yeah. Those tits... huge. "*Motto yoku kangaeru to... sono ana wa kitto kitsui darō...*" Thinking more... that hole must be tight... He mimed a crude thrusting motion with his hips, drawing a low laugh from the other. "*Shikashi, kempeitai ga saisho ni tsukau...*" But Kempeitai uses her first... "*Demo, sono ato wa...*" But after that... Mei Ling kept her head bowed, hair shielding her face, forcing her trembling limbs to stillness. She focused on the drain between her feet, the rough texture of the concrete, anything but the lewd dissection happening just feet away. Their crude Japanese painted vivid, violating pictures – fantasies of her pinned, used, broken. Every filthy word was a lash, but she absorbed them silently, her face a mask of numb terror. The knowledge was her only weapon now, hidden beneath feigned incomprehension.



Ten agonizing minutes crawled by. The soldiers smoked leisurely, their commentary growing bolder, more graphic. They speculated on her reactions, her sounds, the feel of her skin. Mei Ling felt the pills' effects intensifying – a sharp cramp twisting deep in her gut, a gurgle she couldn't suppress. "*Aa, hajimatta yo!*" Ah, it's starting! the younger soldier grinned, stubbing out his cigarette. "*Tsukamaero!*" Grab her! They moved swiftly. One seized her arms, wrenching them behind her back. The other grabbed her hips, forcing her stumbling towards the large metal tub filled with cold, grey water. Above the rim, bolted to the concrete wall, was a heavy iron ring. They shoved her upper body forward over the tub's edge. The soldier holding her arms snapped the chain of her handcuffs through the iron ring. Clink. The lock engaged. Her wrists were now secured behind her back, the chain taut, forcing her bent double at the waist, her head and shoulders suspended over the murky water, her hips thrust back and utterly exposed. The position was grotesquely vulnerable, designed for humiliation and control. The cramps intensified, sharp and urgent. "*Dōzo,*" the stubbled soldier sneered, stepping back. "Please." The command was a final degradation. Mei Ling squeezed her eyes shut, biting her lip until it bled, fighting the inevitable tide rising within her. The icy water waited below.



She couldn't hold it. The pressure was volcanic, unstoppable. With a choked gasp that echoed in the tiled room, Mei Ling lost control. A hot, urgent stream of piss splashed violently into the tub, the sound loud and obscene against the soldiers' sudden silence. It seemed to go on forever, her body trembling violently with the involuntary release. Before the stream fully ceased, a deeper, visceral cramp seized her. Her back arched against the chain. A low groan escaped her clenched teeth as her bowels spasmed uncontrollably. Liquid filth erupted from her, splattering thickly into the water below with a sickening, wet sound. The stench – acrid ammonia mixed with the foul odor of diarrhea – bloomed instantly, thick and choking in the confined space. Humiliation burned hotter than any fever, scalding tears streaming down her cheeks, mingling with the foulness dripping from her chin. She was reduced to this: a trembling, defiled animal chained over a tub. The soldiers watched, silent now, their earlier lewdness replaced by a grim, fascinated disgust.



The silence broke with a harsh bark of laughter from the younger soldier. "*Kuso darō!*" Shit, huh! "*Mitai na mono da!*" What a sight! His companion chuckled, a low, cruel sound. "*Hontō ni kusai!*" Really stinks! "*Sono ketsu ga kirei ni natte iru... ima wa kusakke de ippai da.*" That ass was so pretty... now it's full of shit. They moved closer, boots scraping on the wet concrete. The stubbled soldier grabbed the stiff-bristled brush leaning against the wall. Without warning, he jabbed the wooden handle hard against her exposed buttock. "*Ugoke!*" Move! he commanded. Mei Ling flinched violently, a fresh wave of shame washing over her. The soldier holding the hose turned the faucet. A powerful, icy jet of water blasted her from behind, shocking her skin. The stubbled soldier then began scrubbing her buttocks and thighs brutally with the stiff brush, the bristles scraping her skin raw, mixing cold water, filth, and disinfectant into a stinging slurry that ran down her legs and pooled around her feet. The water in the tub beneath her swirled brown and foul. They cleaned her like livestock, efficient and utterly merciless. Each scrape was a fresh violation.



The icy spray ceased abruptly. The scrubbing stopped. Rough hands unlocked the chain from the iron ring. Mei Ling collapsed forward, barely catching herself on the slippery rim of the tub, gasping, shivering violently. Her skin burned from the scrubbing; the cold water plastered her hair to her face; the vile taste of bile and humiliation filled her mouth. The soldiers hauled her upright. "*Sōji owatta,*" Cleaning finished, the stubbled soldier grunted, shoving her towards the door. "*Tsugi wa shinmon.*" Next is interrogation. They dragged her, dripping and shaking, back into the antiseptic horror of the corridor. The fluorescent lights glared down. Ahead, the lieutenant waited, flanked by two Kempeitai officers in dark uniforms. His cold eyes swept over her wet, trembling, scrubbed-raw form. A flicker of something – satisfaction? contempt? – crossed his face. "*Jōkyō wa?*" Situation? he snapped at the soldiers. "*Seisō kanryō,*" Cleaning complete, one reported crisply. The lieutenant nodded. "*Yoi. Tsurete ike.*" Good. Bring her. The Kempeitai officers stepped forward, their expressions impassive, their gloved hands reaching for her arms. The padded room had been preparation. The cleaning room degradation. Now, the real dismantling would begin. Mei Ling closed her eyes, the corridor lights burning red through her eyelids.



They marched her deeper into the complex. The air grew colder, drier. The fluorescent hum intensified. A heavy steel door, unmarked save for a small, reinforced viewing slit at eye level, slid open with a hydraulic hiss. The Kempeitai officers propelled her forward into the chamber beyond. The door hissed shut behind her with chilling finality. The interrogation chamber was a stark, sterile nightmare. Dominating the far wall was a massive Rising Sun flag, its crimson disc glaring down like a malevolent eye. Beneath it stood a heavy metal table bolted to the concrete floor, its surface bare except for a coiled electrical cord. To the left sat a simple metal chair facing the table, and beside it, a larger, padded chair for the interrogator. Against the right wall stood a metal-framed cot, thin mattress stained. Above it, hooks protruded from the ceiling beam. Nearby, a metal cabinet stood open, revealing gleaming pliers, scalpels, probes, and coils of wire. In the corner, a generator hummed softly beside a machine with dials and electrodes. A single, powerful floodlight mounted high on the wall was aimed precisely at the center of the room, casting harsh, unforgiving light onto the metal chair awaiting her. The air smelled of ozone, disinfectant, and old blood.

[Noctavya]

Chapter 3 : A Long Game of Chess



The lieutenant entered, followed by a Kempeitai captain – a gaunt man with deep-set, intelligent eyes and thin lips pressed into a permanent line of disapproval. The captain wore immaculate black gloves. He gestured silently towards the metal chair beneath the floodlight. The Kempeitai officers forced Mei Ling forward. Her bare feet stumbled on the cold concrete. They shoved her down into the chair. Its unforgiving metal bit into her bruised skin. Her arms were wrenched behind the chair's back, her wrists secured to the frame with thick leather straps pulled painfully tight. Another strap cinched around her waist, pinning her against the cold steel. A final strap locked across her thighs, just above the knees, forcing her legs apart and immobile. The floodlight blinded her, bleaching all color, turning the flag into a crimson smear, the interrogator's face into shadowed planes. The lieutenant leaned against the metal table, watching. The captain stood before her, just outside the blinding pool of light, his gloved hands clasped behind his back. He studied her, his gaze traveling slowly from her wet, tangled hair down her exposed, scrubbed body, lingering on the abrasions from the brush, the tremors she couldn't suppress. He said nothing. The silence was profound, broken only by the generator's hum and her own ragged breathing.



"Mei Ling." The captain's voice was soft, precise, cutting through the silence like a scalpel. He spoke flawless Chinese. "The Spider of Shanghai." He took a single step closer, entering the edge of the light. His deep-set eyes, devoid of warmth, held hers. "Your network. Your sources. The Manchurian troop dispositions you stole. The sabotage schedule for the Bund." He paused, letting the weight of the names hang in the air. "You will tell me everything." He didn't raise his voice. It was a simple statement of fact, chilling in its certainty. He gestured minutely towards the generator. "Resistance is... inefficient. Painful." His gaze flickered over the straps binding her, the floodlight pinning her, the tools gleaming in the cabinet. "You have endured much tonight. Unnecessarily. Cooperation mitigates suffering." He took another step, now fully illuminated. He withdrew a small notebook and pencil from his breast pocket. "Begin with Li Na. Where's she" he instructed softly, his eyes locking onto hers, unblinking. "Her location. Her contacts." The generator's hum seemed to grow louder. The electrodes gleamed. The interrogation had begun.



Mei Ling didn't flinch. She met his gaze, her almond-shaped eyes burning with defiance despite her trembling limbs. Her voice, hoarse from screaming and bile, cut through the hum: "What's your name? Rank?" The question hung, sharp and unexpected. Kenzo Yamamoto froze mid-step, his pencil hovering over the notebook. A flicker of genuine surprise – quickly masked – crossed his gaunt features. Behind him, the lieutenant stiffened. The two soldiers flanking the door exchanged stunned glances. Silence stretched, thick and charged. Slowly, deliberately, Kenzo lowered the notebook. He moved the padded interrogator's chair with deliberate slowness, its legs scraping harshly on the concrete. He sat down directly facing her, leaning forward, elbows resting on his knees, his gloved hands clasped loosely. A thin, humorless smile touched his lips. "I know you speak Japanese," he stated, switching effortlessly to the language. His tone was conversational, almost amused. "Perfect Japanese. Russian. English. Shanghainese." He paused, switching back to flawless Chinese, his voice dropping to a near whisper dripping with menace. "I am Kenzo Yamamoto. Cousin to General Yamamoto. Your interrogation is under my personal supervision." He leaned back slightly, his cold eyes appraising her anew. "The High Command is... elated at your capture."



Kenzo Yamamoto's smile widened, revealing small, even teeth. It held no warmth, only predatory anticipation. "Let us dispense with illusions, Spider," he continued in Chinese, his voice smooth as oiled silk. "We want everything. Names, networks, codes, future plans. Every secret festering in that remarkable mind." He gestured vaguely towards the generator, the cabinet of tools. "We will use everything. Every conceivable method of persuasion." He leaned forward again, his gaze boring into hers. "Rest assured, you will not die easily. Your survival is paramount. Crude methods that damage irreparably? Off the table. But electricity?" He nodded towards the machine. "We can modulate voltage. Prolong sessions... exquisite agony without permanent harm. Needles... precise, penetrating." His eyes flickered down her restrained body, lingering deliberately. "And rape? Of course." His voice remained chillingly calm, clinical. "A necessary release for... tension. For the men. For you, perhaps?" He chuckled softly, a dry, rasping sound. "Consider it incentive. Cooperate swiftly, and perhaps that particular degradation can be... minimized." He settled back, steepling his gloved fingers. "This is not a negotiation. It is a simple equation. Your suffering versus your cooperation. Choose wisely."



Mei Ling stared back, her face a mask of numb terror masking a core of icy resolve. Yamamoto's words painted a vivid hellscape – endless volts coursing through her nerves, needles probing her flesh, the violation of multiple hands... all while kept meticulously alive. Buy time. The mantra screamed inside her skull, louder than the generator's hum. Chen needed time to evacuate the Bund safehouse. Li Na needed time to reach Old Town contacts. Every second she endured was a second bought. She couldn't break easily. She had to make them work for it. Her gaze locked onto Yamamoto's, a spark of defiance igniting in the depths of her despair. "Everything?" Her voice rasped, barely audible. "You... want everything?" She let her eyes dart nervously towards the electrodes, then flinch back to his face, injecting a tremor into her voice. "How... how long? Until... until I tell?" The question hung, pathetic, desperate. A plea wrapped in calculation.



Kenzo Yamamoto leaned back in the padded chair, a slow, satisfied smile spreading across his gaunt features. Her feigned terror, the tremor, the pathetic question – it was textbook initial resistance. Predictable. Manageable. He gestured languidly towards the lieutenant. "Prepare the generator, Sato. Low frequency modulation. Hands." His eyes never left Mei Ling's face, dissecting every micro-expression. "How long?" He echoed her question softly, almost conversationally. "That depends entirely on you, Spider." He paused, letting the hum of the generator powering up fill the silence. "An hour? A day? A week?" His smile widened, chillingly pleasant. "We have excellent doctors. Excellent stimulants. Excellent patience." He leaned forward again, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Tell me about Li Na. Where she fled. Her contacts in Old Town. Tell me quickly... and perhaps we delay the electrodes. For now."



The lieutenant, Sato, moved with practiced efficiency. He attached thick, cold copper electrodes coated in conductive gel to Mei Ling's bare thighs, just above the leather straps. The gel felt like icy slime against her raw, scrubbed skin. Another electrode was clamped firmly onto her big toe. He adjusted dials on the machine – a low, resonant buzzing filled the room, vibrating through the metal chair into her bones. Yamamoto watched her, notebook ready. "Li Na," he prompted, his voice soft but relentless. Mei Ling squeezed her eyes shut, biting her lip until she tasted blood. Buy time. She forced her body to tremble violently, letting out a choked sob. "She... she didn't tell me!" she gasped, the words tumbling out in a terrified rush. "Just... just Old Town! An alley... near... near the fish market! A blue door!" The information was vague, useless – a deliberate stall. She prayed Chen had already moved the Bund drop point.



Yamamoto scribbled a single word: Fish Market. His expression didn't change. He gave Sato a curt nod. "Begin." Sato flipped a switch. The low buzz intensified sharply. A jolt, like a thousand red-hot needles, exploded through Mei Ling's leg muscles, locking them in agonizing spasm. Her back arched violently against the straps, a raw, guttural scream tearing from her throat – a sound ripped from her core, echoing off the sterile concrete walls beneath the glaring Rising Sun flag. The pain was blinding, absolute, shredding thought, shredding defiance. Her body convulsed uncontrollably. Through the white-hot agony, one desperate thought clawed its way to the surface: Chen... Li Na... Run. The generator hummed louder, promising more. Yamamoto watched, his cold eyes noting every tremor, every choked gasp, his pencil poised. The race against time had entered its most brutal phase.



The voltage ceased abruptly. Mei Ling slumped against the restraints, gasping, trembling violently, sweat plastering her hair to her forehead. The stench of ozone and her own terror filled the small room. Yamamoto leaned forward, his voice unnervingly calm. "Li Na," he repeated softly. "Where's she?" Mei Ling dragged in a ragged breath, forcing her eyes open against the blinding light. She met Yamamoto's gaze, defiance warring with the lingering agony in her limbs.



"I'm not your ordinary interrogator, Mei Ling," Yamamoto stated, his tone almost conversational, yet layered with chilling menace. A thin smile touched his lips. "I'm the one they send for... VIP guests. You'd have to do better than vague alleys." He watched her intently, noting the calculation flickering beneath her pain-dulled eyes. "I know," Mei Ling rasped between gasps, her voice raw. "You know I'm buying time." She managed a weak, humorless smirk. "Pain is pain... everyone breaks."



"But I'm not the one bound and tortured," Yamamoto countered smoothly, leaning back in his padded chair, steepling his gloved fingers. His gaze was predatory, assessing her resilience like a scientist observing a specimen. "Again," he commanded Sato, his voice devoid of inflection. "Low voltage. Remember, Spider... it's a long game." The lieutenant flipped the switch. The generator's hum surged, transforming instantly into the familiar, agonizing buzz. Electricity ripped through her thighs and toe again, locking her muscles in violent, shuddering spasms. Her scream tore through the room, sharp and desperate against the sterile concrete. Yamamoto watched, unmoved, his notebook ready, waiting for the precise moment her strategic endurance would fray into genuine, exploitable desperation.



After ten brutal seconds, the voltage ceased abruptly. Mei Ling slumped forward against the straps, gasping, her body slick with sweat that ran in rivulets down her bruised skin, pooling beneath the metal chair. Her breath came in ragged, choking sobs. The stench of ozone, fear, and exertion hung thick in the air. Yamamoto studied her dispassionately. "See?" he murmured, his voice unnervingly calm. He reached into his breast pocket, withdrew a silver cigarette case, and selected a cigarette with deliberate slowness. He tapped it twice against the case. "It's only five minutes into the game, Ling," he said, striking a match. The flame flared, illuminating his gaunt face for an instant before he touched it to the cigarette tip. He inhaled deeply, the smoke curling lazily upwards into the harsh light. "Can I call you Ling?" He exhaled a plume of grey smoke towards the ceiling. "Acknowledging the inevitable saves... unpleasantness."



He leaned forward slightly, extending the cigarette towards her trembling lips. His eyes held hers, a strange mixture of professional detachment and chilling intimacy. Mei Ling stared at the glowing tip, then at his unblinking gaze. The gesture was perverse, a mockery of camaraderie. Yet, defiance warred with exhaustion. Buy time. The mantra pulsed weakly. With immense effort, she lifted her head, ignoring the tremor in her jaw. She leaned forward, meeting his gaze squarely, and took a long, deliberate drag from the offered cigarette. The smoke burned her raw throat, making her cough violently. She blew the smoke out slowly, directly towards his face, her eyes never leaving his. It wasn't submission; it was a silent declaration: I'm still here.



Yamamoto watched the smoke dissipate, a flicker of genuine interest replacing the cold detachment in his eyes. He retrieved the cigarette, took another drag himself, and leaned back. "Good," he murmured, almost approvingly. The shared smoke hung in the air, a grotesque parody of trust. He gestured towards Sato. "Again"



Sato flipped the switch. Five seconds. But the voltage was higher this time. Mei Ling’s body snapped taut against the straps like a bowstring. Her head slammed back against the metal chair frame with a sharp crack, exposing the delicate column of her throat. A choked gasp tore from her lips, morphing into a ragged scream as her muscles locked in violent spasm. Sweat flew in droplets from her heaving chest, the firm mounds of her breasts straining against the thin cotton shift plastered to her skin. Her thighs, slick with conductive gel and perspiration, trembled violently, the defined muscles corded beneath the smooth skin. The harsh light gleamed on the neat triangle of dark hair between her spread legs, trimmed close against the vulnerable curve of her pelvis. Her ears, flushed bright pink at the delicate lobes, stood out starkly against the tangled mess of her wet hair.



The voltage ceased. Mei Ling collapsed forward, chest heaving, gulping air like a drowning woman. Every nerve screamed. Sweat dripped from her chin onto her trembling thighs. The thin cotton shift clung transparently to her sweat-slicked form, leaving nothing to the imagination. Yamamoto studied her intently, his gaze lingering on the rapid rise and fall of her breasts, the sheen on her exposed skin, the vulnerable pink flush of her ears. He stubbed out his cigarette slowly on the metal table edge. "Li Na," he prompted, his voice dangerously soft. "The alley near the fish market. The blue door. Who waits behind it?" He leaned forward, elbows on knees, his face inches from hers. The scent of tobacco mingled with ozone and her terror. "Tell me quickly, Ling... before Sato increases the voltage again."



Mei Ling lifted her head with monumental effort. Her eyes, blurred with pain and tears, met his predatory gaze. Her lips parted, trembling. She drew in a shuddering breath, forcing words past the raw ache in her throat. "Old... Old Man Feng," she gasped, the name ripped from her. It was a name, useless now, years retired. A sacrificial pawn thrown onto the board. "He... he sells... eels." Her voice cracked, thick with feigned exhaustion and despair. She slumped back, her body a trembling map of agony and calculated submission. The lie hung in the charged air, a desperate gambit to buy precious seconds. Yamamoto’s pencil scratched against the notebook.



Kenzo Yamamoto froze. The clinical detachment vanished, replaced by a flicker of sharp, cold fury that tightened the skin around his eyes. His knuckles whitened where they gripped the notebook. He leaned forward slowly, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous whisper that sliced through the generator’s hum. "*Feng?*" The name was a curse. He slammed the notebook shut with a sharp crack. "That senile worm?" A thin, contemptuous smile twisted his lips. "We caught him years ago, Spider. Dragged him from his filthy stall." He paused, letting the weight of his words sink in, his eyes locked onto hers, dissecting her reaction. "He croaked even before we laid a finger on him. Weak heart." He leaned back, his gaze triumphant, predatory. "You should try better." Mei Ling’s breath hitched. She’d miscalculated. Feng was dead. Her bluff was ashes. Kenzo was sharp, far sharper than she’d gambled on. The icy tendrils of genuine panic began to coil around her resolve.



Mei Ling swallowed hard, the metallic taste of blood thick in her mouth. She forced her trembling limbs still, pushing down the rising tide of panic. Her eyes, wide with feigned desperation, flickered from Yamamoto’s coldly triumphant face to the cigarette stub smoldering on the metal table. A new angle. A smaller bid. Her voice emerged as a ragged whisper, barely audible over her own ragged breathing. "Wait..." She licked her cracked lips. "*Kenzo-san*... can I... can I have a puff... please?" The plea hung in the air, pathetic, vulnerable. She knew he saw her game – bidding time. But she also saw his game: despair. Let her think she’s grasping straws, let her feel a flicker of control... only to crush it utterly. He wanted her broken, believing hope was futile. He’d gladly offer the straw, knowing it was poison.



A slow, deliberate smile spread across Kenzo Yamamoto’s face. Predatory amusement danced in his deep-set eyes. He retrieved the cigarette, relit it with a slow, deliberate scrape of the match, and leaned forward. He placed it gently between her trembling lips, his gloved fingers brushing her chin. "Enjoy it, Ling," he murmured, his voice thick with silken menace. Mei Ling inhaled deeply, once, twice, savoring the acrid smoke, letting it fill her lungs. A brief, illusory warmth against the pervasive cold. She blew the smoke out slowly, deliberately, towards his face. Her eyes, burning with defiance despite the exhaustion, locked onto his. Then, with a sudden, sharp clarity that cut through the haze of pain, she rasped, "*Again, Sato*." Her voice held a brittle edge of mockery, echoing Yamamoto’s earlier command. It was a gauntlet thrown down. The generator’s hum surged instantly into the agonizing buzz. Electricity ripped through her once more, locking her scream in her throat as her body convulsed violently against the straps. Kenzo watched, his smile unwavering, the cigarette smoke curling lazily around his victory.



Mei Ling endured the ten seconds. Her jaw clenched tight, tendons standing out like cables in her neck. Only a low, guttural groan escaped her lips, vibrating deep in her chest – a sound of raw, primal resistance forced through clenched teeth. Sweat poured down her face, stinging her eyes, mingling with the taste of tobacco and blood. Her muscles screamed, locked in agonizing rigidity. She focused on the faint tremor in Kenzo’s hand as he held his cigarette. She focused on the cold bite of the metal chair against her spine. She focused on not giving him the scream he craved.



The voltage ceased. Mei Ling slumped forward, gasping, her body shuddering uncontrollably. Her lungs burned. Kenzo exhaled a plume of smoke, watching her tremors with detached fascination. He took another slow drag from his own cigarette. "*We have all night, Ling,*" he stated softly, the words hanging heavy in the ozone-tainted air. "*All week. All month, if necessary.*" He leaned back, crossing his legs, a picture of unnerving calm. "*I find I am... enjoying this game of ours.*" His gaze traveled slowly, deliberately, over her sweat-slicked, trembling form, lingering on the exposed vulnerability the straps enforced. "*The resilience. The calculation behind the pain. It’s... stimulating.*"



Mei Ling lifted her head with monumental effort. Her hair clung to her face in wet strands. Despite the tremors wracking her frame, a ghost of a smirk touched her cracked lips. Her voice emerged raw, ragged, but laced with a venomous thread of dark humor. "*Sure, Kenzo...*" she rasped, forcing a small, harsh laugh that scraped her throat. "*You wanna swap places?*" She arched an eyebrow fractionally, a flicker of defiance amidst the wreckage. "*See how stimulating* you find it?" Kenzo’s smile froze for a fraction of a second. A flicker of irritation crossed his features before settling back into cold amusement. He didn’t answer. Instead, he flicked ash onto the concrete floor and gave Sato a curt nod. "*Again.*" The generator’s hum surged back instantly, transforming once more into the soul-shredding buzz. Ten more seconds of low-voltage agony tore through Mei Ling’s frame, her choked gasp echoing Kenzo’s satisfied exhale of smoke. The game, brutal and intimate, continued.



Mei Ling gasped for air, her lungs burning. The seconds stretched into an eternity with each shock, the pauses between feeling cruelly brief. Kenzo’s gaze remained locked on her, predatory and patient. "*Again!*" he commanded sharply. Sato flipped the switch. This time, the voltage spiked brutally high – a savage, concentrated burst lasting only three seconds. Mei Ling’s body jerked violently against the straps, limbs flailing in uncontrolled spasms like a marionette with its strings slashed. A strangled shriek tore from her throat, abruptly cut off as her jaw clamped shut, teeth cracking together. Her head snapped back against the chair frame with a sickening thud. The sudden, jarring shift in rhythm was its own unique torture. As the voltage ceased, leaving her shuddering uncontrollably, Mei Ling’s blurred gaze fixed on Sato. "*You... cheated...*" she choked out between ragged gasps, accusation thick in her voice. Sato remained impassive, adjusting dials.



Kenzo chuckled softly, a low, chilling sound. "*Cheated?*" He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, his face inches from hers. His breath smelled of stale tobacco and ozone. "*Like I said... I’m not the one bound and tortured.*" He retrieved the cigarette, took a leisurely drag, then extended it towards her trembling lips. "*Another puff?*" Mei Ling stared at the glowing ember, then met his gaze. The defiance in her eyes was dulled by exhaustion, but not extinguished. With immense effort, she leaned forward, taking a shallow, painful drag. The smoke burned her raw throat. As she blew it out weakly, Kenzo straightened. "*Guards...*" he commanded without taking his eyes off her. "*Give her something to drink.*" Mei Ling realized with sudden, overwhelming intensity how parched she was – her throat felt like sandpaper scraped raw. One of the Kempeitai officers stepped forward, unscrewing a canteen. He lifted it to her lips. Cool water touched her cracked skin. She drank greedily, desperately, gulping down the blessed relief, rivulets running down her chin and neck. The water tasted faintly metallic, but it was heaven. She drank until the canteen was pulled away.



Kenzo watched her drink with detached fascination, noting the desperate gulps, the water dripping onto her exposed collarbones. "*Better?*" he murmured, his voice unnervingly soft. Mei Ling slumped back, gasping, water dripping from her chin. The coolness inside her was a stark contrast to the lingering fire in her muscles. Kenzo picked up his notebook again, tapping his pencil lightly against the metal table. The soft tap-tap-tap echoed in the silence. "*Now,*" he said, his tone shifting back to chilling professionalism. "*Li Na. The blue door.*" His eyes hardened, the brief interlude of water and smoke over. "*Who waits behind it?*" He leaned forward, the floodlight casting deep shadows in the hollows of his cheeks. "*The truth this time, Spider.*" His pencil hovered over the page, poised to dissect her next lie or capture her surrender. The generator hummed softly, ready.



"*Again, Sato.*" Kenzo’s command was crisp. Sato flipped the switch instantly. Three seconds of brutal, high-voltage agony ripped through Mei Ling. Her body snapped taut against the straps, every muscle fiber screaming. Her head slammed back, teeth clenched so hard her jaw ached. The scream clawed its way up her raw throat – a raw, primal sound fighting for release. But Mei Ling choked it down, swallowing the shriek into a guttural, vibrating groan that tore from her chest instead. Her knuckles turned white where her hands gripped the chair frame behind her back. Hold it. The command was internal, desperate. Three seconds. Count. One... the current locked her lungs, burned her nerves. Two... the floodlight blurred into white oblivion. Three... the muscles in her thighs spasmed violently. Silence was her shield, her defiance compressed into a silent roar trapped behind clenched teeth. The voltage ceased. She slumped forward, trembling violently, sweat dripping onto her thighs, her breath ragged gasps that scraped her throat raw. She hadn't screamed. Not this time.



It became her anchor. The pain was a storm; holding back the scream was the eye. For those three brutal seconds, her entire universe narrowed to a single, desperate act: silence. She focused on the cold bite of the metal chair against her spine, the rough texture of the leather strap digging into her wrists, the faint smell of ozone cutting through the lingering tobacco. Anything but the agony tearing through her. How long? The question pulsed in the frantic rhythm of her heart. Could she last three seconds? Five? Ten? Each successful suppression, each stifled cry, was a tiny victory wrested from Kenzo's control. It was a grim, internal game – a test of endurance against the machine and the man. The pain was inevitable, but her reaction was hers to command. This fragile mastery, born of sheer will amidst degradation, became the only thing she truly owned in that sterile hell. It was her anchor in the electric storm.



Kenzo watched her shuddering recovery, his expression unreadable. He noted the choked groan instead of the scream, the white-knuckled grip, the defiant tilt of her chin despite the tremors. A flicker of something – grudging respect? deeper calculation? – crossed his features before settling back into cold assessment. He tapped his pencil once more. "*Impressive,*" he conceded softly, the word devoid of warmth. "*But endurance has its limits, Ling.*" He leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that sent chills down her spine despite the residual heat in her limbs. "*The Kempeitai has Li Na’s photograph. We’re circulating it now. Every patrol, every checkpoint.*" He paused, letting the implication sink in – the net tightening, time running out. "*Your silence buys her nothing. Only your cooperation grants her a chance... perhaps.*" His pencil hovered again. "*The blue door. Who waits?*" The generator hummed patiently, waiting for Sato’s next command. The game continued, the stakes impossibly high.



Kenzo leaned back, studying her sweat-slicked form beneath the blinding light. His gaze traveled slowly, deliberately, down her trembling body, lingering where the conductive gel gleamed wetly on her exposed thighs and toes. A slow, predatory smile touched his lips. "*You know...*" he murmured, his voice silk over steel, "*this electric patch... it's placed so... conventionally. Toes. Thighs.*" He paused, letting his eyes drift upwards, tracing the curve of her heaving chest beneath the soaked shift. "*A pity.*" His gaze locked onto hers, filled with a chilling promise. "*We know there are far more... interesting places.*" His voice dropped to a near whisper, thick with menace. "*You have large breasts for a Chinese... firm... sensitive.*" His eyes flicked lower, a cruel leer forming. "*And such a neat, trimmed little cunt... civilized.*" He leaned forward, invading her space, his breath hot on her face. "*Imagine... the electrodes... placed* there*...*" The unspoken threat hung, vile and intimate. "*We'll get there... eventually.*"



Mei Ling met his gaze, defiance burning through the haze of pain and exhaustion. A harsh, brittle laugh escaped her cracked lips. "*Maybe,*" she rasped, her voice raw but laced with dark amusement. "*Maybe I’ll rape* you myself when this is over?" It was pure bravado, a desperate gambit thrown back in his face to claw back some shred of psychological ground, to distract herself from the horror his words conjured. "*Give you a taste of your own... stimulation.*" Kenzo froze. For a heartbeat, genuine shock registered on his gaunt face, followed swiftly by a dark, dangerous amusement that lit his deep-set eyes. He chuckled, a low, appreciative rumble. "*I can't say I'm not tempted,*" he conceded, his voice thick with silken menace. "*You* are beautiful... even like this." He leaned back, savoring the twisted intimacy of the exchange, the shared descent into depravity. "*



Kenzo tapped his cigarette ash onto the concrete floor. "*Sato...*" His voice was soft, deliberate. "*Perhaps it’s time to... move the patch.*" Sato’s impassive face flickered with understanding. He stepped forward, peeling the cold copper electrode from Mei Ling’s inner thigh. Kenzo leaned in, offering her the cigarette again. "*One last puff, Ling?*" Mei Ling inhaled deeply, the acrid smoke filling her lungs, a fleeting shield. Sato applied a fresh smear of cold conductive gel directly onto her right nipple, the sensation sharp and violating. He pressed the electrode firmly onto the hardened peak. "*I know you're a lousy one,*" Kenzo murmured, his eyes fixed on Sato’s handiwork as if admiring a technician’s precision. "*You want it fast... men are men.*" Mei Ling steeled herself, trying to play the game, to wrap her mind around this new violation. "*Why not?*" she choked out, a hollow echo of defiance. Kenzo nodded slowly, examining the electrode placement. "*You’re ready for Round Two?*" he asked softly, almost intimately.



"*Again,*" Kenzo barked. Mei Ling instinctively squeezed her eyes shut, bracing her entire body against the expected surge, muscles locking tight. Silence. Only the generator’s low hum filled the room. Nothing happened. Her eyes snapped open. Kenzo threw his head back and laughed, a sharp, cruel sound echoing off the concrete walls. "*Gotcha!*" he crowed, leaning towards the voltage regulator panel Sato had been using. "*You see... there are so many variations to this... simple openings...*" His gloved hand grasped a large dial Sato hadn't touched. He twisted it viciously clockwise. The generator roared instantly into a furious, high-pitched whine. A brutal, searing jolt ripped through Mei Ling’s nipple – raw, localized agony unlike the diffused torment before. It lasted five excruciating seconds. The fortress of her mind shattered. A deep, guttural moan tore from her throat, raw and involuntary, escaping her clenched teeth in a ragged gasp of pure, animalistic suffering. Her back arched violently against the straps, her body a taut bowstring vibrating with agony.



Kenzo released the dial abruptly. The whine died instantly. Mei Ling slumped forward, gasping like a landed fish, her chest heaving, tears streaming uncontrollably down her cheeks despite her furious blinking. "*What’s the matter, Ling?*" Kenzo murmured softly, leaning close enough for her to smell the stale tobacco on his breath. His voice dripped with mock sympathy. "*Can’t hold your scream?*" He traced a gloved finger along the tear track on her cheek. "*Let it out. Nothing to be ashamed of.*" He leaned back, surveying her wrecked form with detached admiration. "*You’re stronger than most men we brought here.*" Mei Ling dragged in a shuddering breath, trying desperately to regain control, to find the eye of the storm again before the next assault ruined her rhythm. Her lungs burned, desperate for oxygen. "*Argh!*" she choked out involuntarily, a ragged gasp escaping as her diaphragm spasmed, the sound a pathetic echo of the scream she’d stifled moments before.



Kenzo chuckled, a low, satisfied sound. "*See?*" he noted, glancing at his wristwatch with meticulous precision. "*The first hour wasn’t so bad.*" His calm pronouncement landed like a hammer blow. Only an hour? Mei Ling’s mind reeled. It felt like an eternity. The relentless shocks, the pauses just long enough to let dread build, the shifting locations of the agony – thighs, toe, nipple – it had warped her sense of time completely. Her body trembled violently, slick with sweat and conductive gel, every nerve ending screaming. The metallic tang of blood filled her mouth where she’d bitten her lip raw. She dragged in a ragged, shuddering breath, fighting to steady her diaphragm before Sato’s hand inevitably moved back towards the dials. The floodlight seemed brighter, harsher, bleaching the color from the Rising Sun flag on the wall behind Kenzo’s impassive silhouette.



He leaned forward again, resting his elbows on his knees, invading her space. His gloved fingers brushed a damp strand of hair from her forehead, the gesture grotesquely intimate. "*You surprise me, Ling,*" he murmured, his voice a silken whisper that scraped against her frayed nerves. "*Most break during the nipple phase. Beg. Sob incoherently.*" His cold eyes scanned her face, noting the tear tracks cutting through the grime, the tremor in her jaw she couldn’t suppress. "*But you… you fight it.*" He tilted his head, a predator studying wounded prey. "*Why? For Li Na?*" The name was a barb. "*She’s likely already in custody. Your silence buys her nothing.*" He paused, letting the lie hang heavy, a calculated pressure point. "*Or is it pride? The Spider’s legendary defiance?*" He traced the edge of the electrode still clamped to her right nipple with a gloved fingertip, sending a fresh jolt of phantom pain through her. "*Pride is brittle, Ling. It shatters.*"



Mei Ling squeezed her eyes shut, focusing on the cold bite of the metal chair against her spine, the rough texture of the leather strap digging into her wrists. Anything to anchor herself against the encroaching despair Kenzo’s words and touches cultivated. Chen. Li Na. Their faces flashed in her mind’s eye – fleeting, desperate anchors. She forced her eyes open, meeting Kenzo’s predatory gaze. Her voice emerged, a raw scrape against the silence. "*What... what time is it?*" The question was absurd, pointless, a stall tactic scraped from the bottom of her reserves. But it was defiance, however weak. It was control, however illusory. She needed to know how much time she’d truly bought.



Kenzo’s thin lips twitched, recognizing the gambit. He glanced again at his watch. "*Eight forty-three,*" he stated precisely. "*Night has fallen.*" He leaned back, steepling his fingers. "*Plenty of time.*" His gaze drifted pointedly towards the cabinet housing the needles, then back to her restrained form. "*Shall we explore another... avenue?*" He nodded to Sato. The lieutenant moved towards the cabinet, his footsteps echoing in the sudden, heavy silence. Mei Ling braced herself, her breath catching in her throat. The question echoed in the void Kenzo had carved inside her: How much longer? The answer, she knew, was measured only in pain.

[Noctavya]

Chapter 4 : The Second Round



Kenzo peeled off his leather glove with deliberate slowness, revealing long, pale fingers. He carefully detached the copper electrode from Mei Ling’s right nipple, the suction releasing with a soft, wet pop that echoed in the sudden silence. His bare fingertips traced the inflamed skin around the areola, sticky with conductive gel. Then, unexpectedly, his hand closed gently around her entire breast, kneading the firm flesh with an almost clinical tenderness. The cool gel acted like lubricant, allowing his thumb to slide smoothly over her hardened nipple in slow, circular motions. "Soft..." he murmured, his voice low and detached, like a connoisseur appraising fine silk. "...tender. Marvelous resilience." His fingers explored the weight, the curve, the texture – not lustful, but fascinated, possessive. To Mei Ling, it felt like being handled by a mortician preparing a corpse. Disgust coiled thick in her throat, bile rising. Yet, compared to the searing agony of the electrodes moments before, this invasive touch was almost... bearable. A reprieve. Worse still, a treacherous warmth bloomed deep within her pelvis, an involuntary, shameful betrayal by her own exhausted body. "Chi sin!" she cursed silently in Shanghainese, furious at the traitorous flicker of sensation beneath the violation.



He shifted his grip, lifting her breast slightly, testing its fullness against his palm. His thumb continued its relentless, gentle circling. "Such responsive tissue," Kenzo observed, his eyes fixed on her face, dissecting every micro-expression of revulsion and unwanted vulnerability. "The nerves sing, even now. Especially now." He leaned closer, his breath ghosting over her damp skin. "Tell me about Li Na’s contacts... and perhaps I keep exploring only... this." The threat was implicit – the electrodes could return to far more sensitive locations at any moment. Mei Ling squeezed her eyes shut, focusing on the cold metal digging into her spine, the rough bite of the strap on her wrists. Anything to anchor herself against the dual assault – the degrading touch and the terrifying promise beneath it. She forced her breathing shallow, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing her panic escalate. Buy time. Chen needs time.



A choked gasp escaped her as Kenzo’s thumb pressed harder against her nipple, a sharp, deliberate pinch masquerading as continued exploration. Her eyes flew open, meeting his predatory gaze. He smiled faintly. "Resisting even this?" he whispered. "Or perhaps... enjoying it more than you admit?" He released the pressure, resuming the slow, maddening circles. The gel felt cold now, chilling against her overheated skin. The unwanted warmth in her core intensified, a traitorous pulse she couldn't suppress. "Sei lo mo!" she screamed inwardly, hating her body's weakness. She focused on Li Na’s terrified face fleeing through the market, on Chen’s stern features etched with worry. Anything but the sensation of Kenzo’s skilled fingers manipulating her flesh, turning violation into a grotesque parody of intimacy under the blinding floodlight.



His gaze drifted downward, lingering on the neat triangle of dark hair plastered against her pelvis by sweat and gel. Slowly, deliberately, his hand slid from her breast, tracing a wet, cold path down her trembling abdomen. Mei Ling flinched violently, straining against the straps binding her wrists and ankles. "Don't!" she rasped, her voice thick with revulsion. Kenzo ignored her, his bare fingertips brushing the coarse hair at the apex of her thighs. He paused, studying her frantic breathing, the desperate tension in her hips trying to twist away. A low hum of anticipation vibrated from Sato near the generator. Then, with agonizing slowness, Kenzo’s middle finger parted her labia, slick with sweat and conductive gel. The touch was shockingly intimate, violating the most private space. Mei Ling squeezed her eyes shut again, biting her lip until fresh blood filled her mouth. Not here. Not this.



His finger found her clitoris instantly, a soft, pulsing nub already swollen with unwanted arousal fueled by the nipple stimulation. He began to stroke it gently, rhythmically, with the same detached precision he’d used before. "Ah..." Kenzo murmured softly, almost to himself. "Responsive indeed." The sensation was a bolt of white-hot lightning, utterly different from the agony of the electrodes – a deep, involuntary pleasure that ripped through her exhaustion and terror. Against her will, against her furious mental commands, a soft, shuddering moan escaped her lips. It was low, guttural, thick with shame, but unmistakable in the silent room. Her hips jerked involuntarily, pressing towards the touch for a horrifying fraction of a second before she froze, mortified. Her body had betrayed her utterly.



Kenzo chuckled, a dark sound of triumph. "There it is," he breathed. He kept stroking, the slow, insistent pressure maddening. Her clit throbbed under his touch, sending waves of treacherous heat radiating through her pelvis. She felt herself growing wetter, slickness mixing with the cold gel. His finger slid lower, probing tentatively at her entrance. With agonizing slowness, he pressed inward, shyly at first, then deeper, prying past the tight resistance. Mei Ling gasped, her body arching slightly despite her desperate attempts to remain rigid. It wasn't force, it was insidious invitation, exploiting her body's traitorous response. He worked his finger deeper inside her, curling it slightly, exploring the slick, warm walls. She hated him. She hated Sato watching impassively. Most of all, in that moment under the blinding light, Mei Ling hated her own treacherous body with a white-hot, consuming fury. Her breath hitched in ragged sobs, tears of humiliation mingling with sweat on her cheeks. Kenzo watched her face, fascinated, his finger moving with slow, relentless precision inside her.



He leaned closer, his aristocratic features starkly handsome in the harsh light. Slick black hair, perfectly parted, framed a strong jawline and high cheekbones. Tall for a Japanese man, his lean, straight physique beneath the crisp Kempeitai uniform spoke of aristocratic breeding, not the hardened life of a common soldier. His eyes, dark and intelligent, held hers captive. "See?" he murmured, his voice dangerously soft, intimate. "The body knows truth the mind denies." He withdrew his finger slowly, deliberately, holding it glistening before her eyes – coated with her own slickness mixed with the conductive gel. "Such a fascinating contradiction." He traced the wetness along her trembling lower lip. "Tell me about Chen."



Mei Ling flinched violently, turning her head away from the violating touch. The name, spoken aloud in this place of degradation, was a fresh wound. Kenzo merely smiled, wiping his finger clean on her thigh. He leaned back, surveying her trembling form with chilling detachment. "Sato," he commanded softly, his gaze flicking towards the electrode cabinet. "Prepare the needles. We'll explore... deeper truths." The lieutenant moved instantly, the clink of glass vials sharp against the generator's low hum. Kenzo steepled his fingers, his handsome face serene. "The body speaks, Ling. Soon... so will you." He watched her, a predator savoring the inevitable collapse of his prey's defenses. The silence stretched, thick with dread and the scent of ozone, sweat, and shame.



Mei Ling squeezed her eyes shut, retreating inward. She focused on the cold metal biting into her wrists, the rough leather straps, the blinding ache behind her eyelids – anything but the lingering phantom sensation of Kenzo's touch and the terrifying promise of needles probing her veins. Chen. Li Na. She clung to their names like talismans against the encroaching darkness. The scrape of Sato's boots on concrete signaled his return. She heard the soft clatter of metal instruments being laid out. Her breath hitched. The game was entering a new, horrifying phase. She braced herself, muscles tensing involuntarily, awaiting the sharp, violating sting. Kenzo watched, utterly still, his handsome face a mask of cold anticipation. The floodlight seemed to intensify, bleaching everything to stark, unforgiving clarity.



Lieutenant Sato, a gaunt silhouette against the harsh light, approached Mei Ling's restrained arm. In his fifties, Sato moved with the brittle economy of a lifelong soldier, every gesture pared down to its essential function. Deep lines etched his impassive face, carved by decades of unquestioning obedience. He barely registered Mei Ling’s ragged breathing or Kenzo’s predatory stillness; his world narrowed to the task. Finding a vein in her trembling, sweat-slicked forearm required practiced precision. His cold, calloused fingers probed briefly, locating the faint blue ridge beneath bruised skin. Without hesitation, he swiped the area with alcohol-soaked gauze, the sharp scent cutting through the ozone. Then, with a swift, clinical motion, he slid the needle home. The puncture was clean, efficient. He depressed the plunger steadily, emptying the syringe’s clear contents into her bloodstream. His expression never flickered. He was the perfect instrument: cold, precise, utterly devoid of empathy. Kenzo’s silent nod was the only acknowledgment he needed.

A strange warmth bloomed instantly where Sato’s needle had pierced her skin, radiating up her arm like liquid fire. Mei Ling gasped, her eyes flying open. It wasn't pain, but a disorienting, spreading heat that chased away the chill of fear and fatigue. Her vision blurred momentarily, colors softening at the edges. The harsh floodlight seemed less blinding, the cold metal chair less biting against her spine. Kenzo leaned forward, his aristocratic features softening into a semblance of concern. "Relax, Ling," he murmured, his voice unnervingly soothing. "Just our latest invention. It'll make you happy" Kenzo said.

Happy? The word echoed grotesquely in Mei Ling’s drug-fogged mind. Drugs? Heroin? Morphine? Truth serum? Tranquilizer? Her thoughts raced, frantic. No... this was torture. What was it? Then it hit her—a sudden, insistent itch deep in her privates, a tingling warmth spreading outward with alarming speed. Her thighs clenched involuntarily against the restraints. Aphrodisiac! Her mind screamed the realization. Kenzo’s lips curved into a knowing smile, as if he’d heard her thoughts. "Yep... it is," he confirmed softly, his gaze lingering on her flushed skin. "You’re gonna enjoy this... at least it’s better than electricity, right?" He stood abruptly, his crisp uniform rustling. "Guard her," he commanded the two stone-faced soldiers flanking the door. "Don’t touch her. Keep a close watch. NO mistakes." He nodded to Sato. "Dinner time. We’ll get you some," Kenzo added casually, before both men strode from the chamber, leaving Mei Ling alone with the guards and the spreading, treacherous fire in her veins.

[Noctavya]

The heavy steel door clanged shut. Mei Ling sagged against the restraints, trembling not from pain now, but from the relentless, invasive heat pooling low in her belly. The aphrodisiac worked with terrifying speed—every nerve ending felt hypersensitive, electrified. The rough leather strap chafing her wrist became a maddening texture; the cool draft from the ventilation shaft above felt like a lover’s breath on her sweat-slicked skin. She squeezed her eyes shut, biting down on a whimper as the itch intensified, a throbbing ache demanding attention. Her hips shifted restlessly against the chair, seeking friction that never came. She could feel her own slickness soaking the cotton shift between her thighs, a humiliating testament to the drug’s power. The guards remained statuesque by the door, rifles slung, eyes fixed straight ahead—but Mei Ling felt their presence like a physical weight, amplifying her shame. Chen, she thought desperately, clinging to his face like a lifeline. Li Na. Hold on. Just hold on. But the warmth surged anew, drowning resolve in a wave of liquid need.



Time blurred. The floodlight hummed. Mei Ling’s breath came in shallow, ragged gasps as the aphrodisiac tightened its grip. Her nipples hardened painfully against the damp cotton, every shift of fabric sending jolts of sensation straight to her core. She arched her back involuntarily, a low moan escaping her lips—a sound of pure, involuntary torment. The guards didn’t move, didn’t react, but their stillness felt like judgement. She tried to focus on the pain she’d endured—the electricity, the needles—anything to override this insidious pleasure. But the drug was cunning, weaving through her exhaustion, twisting terror into desperate arousal. Her thighs trembled, slick with sweat and her own slickness. The urge to touch herself, to relieve the agonizing pressure, was a physical scream inside her skull. She clenched her fists until her nails bit into her palms. Don’t move. Don’t give them the show. But her body betrayed her—a helpless, rhythmic rocking against the unforgiving metal seat, seeking release that wouldn’t come. The chamber felt impossibly hot, airless. She was drowning in her own skin.



One guard shifted his weight, the scrape of his boot loud in the stillness. His voice, low and thick, broke the silence. "Captain’s still away?" The other grunted confirmation. "Yep." A pause. Then, the first guard again, hushed but hungry: "Fuck... look at her. Such a beauty." His companion’s reply was sharper, edged with warning: "Look at her squirming... you think we can touch her?" The first guard exhaled sharply. "No. Don’t. We’ll get our dues later, maybe... but not now. Captain’s strict." A heavy sigh followed, laden with frustration. "Sigh... what a pity." Their voices were rough whispers, but Mei Ling heard every word. She felt their stares like brands—fixed on the sweat-sheened curve of her throat, the frantic rise and fall of her chest, the desperate clenching of her thighs trying to find friction against the leather straps. Humiliation burned hotter than the drug. Thirty minutes crawled by. Mei Ling jerked against her bonds, sweat dripping into her eyes, her breath hitching with choked whimpers. She was a spectacle—a captured spider thrashing in its own web.



The heavy door clanged open. Kenzo Yamamoto strode in, followed by Sato. The scent of rich food—ginger, soy, grilled meat—clung to them, a cruel counterpoint to Mei Ling’s torment. Kenzo paused, his sharp eyes taking in the scene: Mei Ling trembling violently, her shift plastered to her skin, her face flushed crimson, her lips parted in a silent gasp as another wave of the drug’s effect shuddered through her. A low, appreciative sound escaped him. "Ah..." he murmured, a predator savoring his prey’s distress. "What a meal." He settled back into the chair facing her, crossing his legs with elegant leisure. Sato stood impassively beside the generator cabinet. Kenzo’s gaze traveled slowly over Mei Ling’s squirming form, lingering on the damp triangle between her thighs, the frantic pulse visible in her throat. Her low, continuous moan filled the chamber. Her blush deepened, spreading down her neck to her chest. Kenzo smiled, a thin curve of pure satisfaction. "Comfortable, Ling?" he asked softly. The question was a knife.



Kenzo’s gaze snapped to the two guards still frozen by the door. His voice cut through Mei Ling’s ragged breathing, chillingly flat, devoid of inflection: "Did my two guards act impolite?" The men stiffened instantly, eyes widening slightly. They remained rigid, staring straight ahead, but Mei Ling saw the flicker of primal fear in their eyes. They were thanking their gods for their earlier restraint. Mei Ling didn’t respond. She couldn’t. Her entire world was consumed by the relentless, maddening pressure building inside her. She twisted against the straps binding her wrists and ankles, hips grinding against the unforgiving metal seat, desperately seeking any friction, any relief from the agonizing itch radiating from her untouched core. A choked sob escaped her. Kenzo watched her futile struggle for a long moment, then nodded slowly. "Good," he stated, the word crisp and final. He glanced at Sato. "Commendable discipline, Sato. Right?" Sato gave a single, sharp nod. "Hai."



Kenzo’s gaze returned to the guards. His voice remained calm, almost conversational, but the command was absolute: "You two... come." He gestured towards Mei Ling with a flick of his fingers. "Fondle her breasts. Good job on your discipline." Mei Ling’s head snapped up.



Her eyes burned with pure revulsion. "*Buta*," she spat, the Japanese word for pig slicing through the humid air. The soldiers exchanged a fleeting glance, their faces carefully blank masks of duty, but their steps were quick as they approached. Each man took a breast, hands rough and calloused. They squeezed and kneaded, not brutally, but with deliberate, impersonal pressure, twisting her nipples through the fabric. Mei Ling arched away, a strangled gasp escaping her lips – a mixture of disgust and unwanted physiological response amplified by the drug coursing through her veins.



"You want to use your mouths?" Kenzo’s question was soft, almost indulgent. The guards needed no further encouragement. They leaned in, mouths finding her straining nipples through the thin shift. Wet heat bloomed where their lips and tongues worked, sucking, flicking, biting gently. Mei Ling shuddered violently, her moans deepening, torn between shame and the relentless chemical demand. The stimulation was maddening, focusing the unbearable pressure lower, where she remained untouched. The guards’ own arousal was palpable; they shifted uncomfortably, the fabric of their trousers straining. For ten agonizing minutes, the only sounds were wet sucking, Mei Ling’s choked moans, and Kenzo’s soft exhale of cigarette smoke.



Mei Ling’s head lolled back. Her body betrayed her utterly, writhing against the restraints, hips grinding futilely against the chair. The dual assault on her breasts sent electric jolts straight to her core, amplifying the desperate ache. Tears streamed down her temples, mingling with sweat. She was a spectacle of degradation: flushed skin gleaming, breath ragged, utterly exposed. Kenzo watched, his expression unreadable, savoring the tableau. The guards finally pulled back, lips glistening, chests heaving slightly. Mei Ling slumped, trembling uncontrollably, the ghost of their mouths lingering on her skin, the fire within her burning hotter than ever. Kenzo stubbed out his cigarette. The silence stretched, thick with anticipation and the scent of sweat, saliva, and Mei Ling’s own desperate arousal.



"You may relieve yourself and get some meal," Kenzo commanded abruptly, his voice cutting through the humid tension. The two guards snapped to attention, saluting crisply. They turned on their heels and marched out, the steel door clanging shut behind them. Kenzo chuckled softly, a low, predatory sound. "Poor boys..." he murmured, his gaze lingering on the door. "Their pants must have wetted." He turned back to Mei Ling, who was still arching against the straps, her breath hitching in frantic, shallow gasps. Her eyes were wild, unfocused, locked in a private battle against the relentless aphrodisiac. Kenzo tilted his head slightly. "What you say, Sato?" Sato bowed faintly, his expression impassive as stone. "*Hai,*" he acknowledged, the single syllable hanging in the air like a verdict.



Kenzo rose smoothly. He circled Mei Ling’s chair slowly, his polished boots clicking softly on the concrete. His gaze traced the sweat-slicked lines of her neck, the frantic pulse at her throat, the damp shift clinging to her trembling thighs. He paused behind her, his shadow engulfing her. One hand rested lightly on her shoulder. Mei Ling flinched violently, a choked whimper escaping her. Kenzo leaned down, his lips brushing her ear. "You see?" he whispered, his breath hot. "The body knows." His free hand drifted lower, fingers tracing the edge of the leather strap binding her waist. Mei Ling froze, every muscle taut. His touch lingered, deliberate, teasing. Then, with agonizing slowness, his fingers slid beneath the damp hem of her shift, ghosting over the sensitive skin of her inner thigh. Mei Ling jerked, a ragged gasp tearing from her lips. Her hips lifted involuntarily, seeking the touch she both craved and despised. Kenzo smiled against her hair.



His fingers climbed higher, skimming the slick heat gathering between her thighs. He paused, fingertips hovering just above her swollen clit. Mei Ling held her breath, trembling violently. "Tell me," Kenzo murmured, his voice thick with dark promise. "Who waits behind the blue door?" His fingertip brushed her clit—a feather-light, electrifying touch. Mei Ling arched violently, a strangled cry escaping her. She bit down hard on her lower lip, drawing blood. The sensation was overwhelming—pleasure and agony twisting together. Kenzo applied gentle, rhythmic pressure. "Speak," he breathed. "Speak, and I will give you release." Mei Ling squeezed her eyes shut, tears streaming. Her resolve crumbled under the dual assault of the drug and his skilled torment. Her lips parted. A name began to form—a betrayal poised on the edge of surrender. Kenzo leaned closer, his eyes gleaming with triumph. The floodlight seemed to intensify, bleaching the room stark white. Sato watched, silent and unmoving, a statue of obedience. The generator hummed softly, waiting.



"*Ni de... muqin...*" Mei Ling gasped, the Chinese insult—*your mother*—a desperate, defiant whisper torn from her lips amidst the rising wave of forced ecstasy. Kenzo’s triumphant expression froze. A flicker of cold fury replaced it. "*I see,*" he hissed, his voice dripping venom. His thumb found her clitoris and pinched—hard. Mei Ling screamed, a raw sound of shock and sudden, excruciating pain. Then, just as abruptly, he plunged two fingers deep inside her, curling them ruthlessly against her most sensitive spot. The scream transformed into a ragged, involuntary moan. Her body betrayed her utterly, hips bucking against his hand, chasing the brutal friction. For one whole minute, she surrendered—writhing, gasping, lost in the chemical storm and the violent, unwanted relief. A choked sob escaped her lips. "*Ah... Kenzo...*" The name was a plea, a curse, a moment of utter degradation. Sato remained impassive, but his knuckles whitened on the generator handle. The room smelled of sweat, ozone, and shame.



Kenzo withdrew his fingers abruptly, slick with her arousal. He stood, wiping them fastidiously on a handkerchief pulled from his pocket. Mei Ling collapsed forward against the restraints, trembling violently, a low, continuous whine escaping her throat. The sudden absence was its own torture—the unbearable itch instantly returned, sharper than before, leaving her hollow and desperate. Kenzo looked down at her, his handsome face a mask of icy contempt. "*Enjoyed your moment?*" he asked softly. "*That was a taste of mercy. Now...*" He nodded to Sato.



With brutal efficiency, Sato approached. He released the leather straps binding Mei Ling’s waist, wrists and ankles to the chair. She slumped forward, her limbs leaden, muscles unresponsive jelly. The aphrodisiac still burned through her veins, warring with sheer exhaustion. Sato hauled her upright. She stumbled, legs buckling instantly. He dragged her limp form towards the corner opposite the generator cabinet—a shadowed recess Mei Ling hadn’t noticed before. Two thick iron shackles, each attached to a heavy chain, lay coiled on the concrete floor beside a sturdy steel ring bolt embedded deep in the concrete. Sato shoved her down. Her knees hit the cold floor hard. He seized her left ankle, clamping the cold iron shackle around it. The chain clanked taut as he pulled it towards the ring bolt, forcing her leg wide. He repeated the motion with her right ankle, spreading her legs roughly fifty centimeters apart. The metal bit into her skin.



Sato then hauled her upright again by her arms. Mei Ling’s head lolled, her vision swimming. Above her, a heavy iron pulley hung from the ceiling. Sato shackled her wrists together with a single thick cuff, then clipped the shackle to a hook dangling from the pulley rope. With a sharp pull, he hoisted her arms straight up over her head. The pulley groaned. Mei Ling gasped as her full weight suspended her, arms stretched taut overhead, legs forced wide apart. She hung like a grotesque marionette, utterly exposed, toes barely brushing the concrete. The position stretched every muscle, amplifying the ache in her limbs and the relentless, throbbing need between her spread thighs. Sweat dripped down her ribs. She panted, helpless.



Kenzo circled her suspended form slowly, his polished boots clicking. He stopped directly in front of her, eye level with her trembling abdomen. His gaze traveled slowly down her slick, open thighs to the dark triangle plastered flat against her pelvis by sweat and residue gel. He reached out, his bare fingertips tracing the sensitive inner skin of her thigh, just inches from her core. Mei Ling flinched violently, a choked sob escaping her. "*Perfect,*" Kenzo murmured, his voice thick with dark anticipation. "*Now... we truly begin.*" He glanced towards Sato, who stood ready near the generator cabinet.



Sato moved with grim purpose. He knelt, rummaging in a heavy canvas bag beside the cabinet. When he stood, he held a thick, imposing object: a dildo crafted from rough metal with ribbed exterior, nearly two inches in diameter and unnervingly long. Its base was a solid metal plate, gleaming dully under the floodlights. Without ceremony, Sato positioned himself behind Mei Ling. She felt the cool air on her exposed backside as he carefully slid the wooden shaft between her spread legs. He aligned it vertically, its blunt tip hovering precisely ten centimeters below her dripping entrance. The proximity was torture. Mei Ling’s breath hitched violently; she knew instantly. They intended to impale her on it, using the pulley to force her down onto its unforgiving length. The sheer size, lenght and rough exterior promised agony blended with violation.



Kenzo watched Mei Ling’s panicked realization flicker across her sweat-streaked face. Her hips jerked instinctively upwards, away from the threatening intrusion, straining against the chains pulling her ankles apart and the rope suspending her arms. The movement only emphasized her helplessness. "*Ah,*" Kenzo noted softly, a predator savoring the trapped struggle. "*See how she anticipates?*" Sato, still holding the dildo steady in its menacing position beneath her, gave a single, clipped acknowledgment. "*Hai.*" They let the moment stretch, Mei Ling suspended above the instrument of her degradation, the air thick with her ragged breathing and the scent of her own desperate arousal. The floodlight bleached her trembling form stark white against the shadows.



The seconds crawled. Mei Ling’s focus fractured between the deep ache radiating from her strained shoulders and the relentless, chemical fire blazing in her core. The untouched itch intensified with each passing moment, a maddening counterpoint to the looming threat below. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to retreat inward, but the image of the polished wood shaft waiting to violate her burned behind her eyelids. Kenzo remained motionless before her, his handsome face impassive, observing her internal disintegration. Sato’s knuckles were white where he gripped the dildo’s base, holding it perfectly steady. The generator hummed its low, constant drone. The only other sound was Mei Ling’s shallow, frantic gasps as she hung suspended between agony and anticipation.



Kenzo glanced at his wristwatch, a sleek silver band gleaming under the floodlight. "It's 10:45 PM now..." he murmured, his voice startlingly conversational. He reached into his uniform pocket and pulled out a cigarette case. With deliberate calm, he selected one, tapped it, and lit it with a silver lighter. He took a slow drag, exhaling smoke that curled lazily towards the harsh light. Then, he stepped closer, holding the cigarette towards Mei Ling's lips. Her eyes snapped open, wide with disbelief mixed with raw need. The smoke smelled like oblivion. Without conscious thought, driven by a desperate craving for any sensation besides the torment, she leaned forward slightly and took a long, deep drag, holding the acrid smoke in her lungs. She exhaled shakily, then took another, deeper pull. The nicotine hit her bloodstream, a brief, sharp jolt that momentarily cut through the drug fog and the dread.



"You see..." Kenzo continued, his voice soft, almost intimate, as he watched her smoke. He gestured vaguely upwards with the cigarette. "This is only... what? Three hours?" He took the cigarette back, inhaling thoughtfully. "It's a long game, Ling. Days. Weeks." His dark eyes locked onto hers, filled with chilling certainty. "*We have them.*" He let the words hang, heavy and ominous. "Where is Li Na?" he asked, the question dropping like a stone into the silence. As he spoke, he reached up towards the pulley rope controlling her wrists. With a slow, deliberate motion, he eased the tension. The pulley groaned softly. Mei Ling gasped as the excruciating stretch in her shoulders and arms lessened instantly. Kenzo lowered the rope steadily, inch by inch, until her arms were no longer stretched taut overhead but bent comfortably at the elbows, her shackled wrists resting near her collarbone. Her shoulders screamed in grateful relief. More importantly, she could now bend her knees slightly, lowering her body away from the terrifying proximity of the dildo Sato still held poised below her.



Mei Ling slumped fractionally in her chains, her toes finding firmer purchase on the concrete. The reprieve was physical and psychological. She took another shuddering breath, the cigarette smoke still bitter on her tongue, mingling with the taste of blood from her bitten lip. Kenzo watched her intently, his gaze sharp. The lowered position offered a fleeting sense of control, a tiny island in the sea of degradation. But the aphrodisiac still burned, the chains still bit, and Sato hadn't moved the dildo an inch. The question hung in the ozone-scented air, heavier than the chains themselves: Where is Li Na? Mei Ling met Kenzo's predatory stare, her own eyes dark pools of exhaustion, defiance, and the terrifying, treacherous warmth still coursing through her veins. The game hadn't ended; it had merely shifted ground.



"*Ni de muqin de fangzi!*" Mei Ling gasped, the crude Chinese insult – your mother's house – tearing from her lips as another wave of unbearable, itching heat surged from her core, radiating down her trembling thighs. Her gaze flickered desperately downwards towards the monstrous metal shaft Sato still held poised beneath her spread legs. With her knees now slightly bent, she could lower herself onto it. The thought was a horrifying temptation – a chance to grind against it, to seek friction, to alleviate the agonizing pressure clawing inside her. It was a solution offered by the devil himself. Humiliation warred violently with the drug's relentless imperative. She squeezed her eyes shut, muscles straining against the chains holding her ankles wide apart and her wrists shackled near her collarbone. Resist. Resist. But her body screamed for release, hips twitching involuntarily towards the cool metal promise below.



"You see, Ling," Kenzo murmured, a chilling note of satisfaction in his voice as he observed her internal struggle. He gestured dismissively towards the dildo. "Our creation... not the cheap filth sold in back alleys. Designed for this." He leaned closer, his breath warm against her sweat-dampened temple. "Endurance. Stimulation. Precision." His hand brushed her inner thigh, eliciting a violent flinch. "You can count yourself lucky I was in the vicinity tonight." His voice dropped lower, intimate and menacing. "Any other interrogator... it would be messy. Whips. Beatings. Nail ripping. Hot irons pressed to soft flesh..." He traced a fingertip lightly over her collarbone. "*But...*" A cruel smile touched his lips. "...this befits the Shanghai Spider, does it not? A fitting web." Mei Ling remained silent, her jaw clenched so tight her teeth ached. She focused solely on her breathing – shallow, rapid gasps that did nothing to cool the fire within. Kenzo’s words were another layer of torment, twisting the knife of humiliation deeper.



Kenzo straightened, his handsome face hardening. "Where is Li Na?" he demanded again, his voice cracking like a whip. Simultaneously, Sato, reacting to an unseen signal, gave the dildo a slight, deliberate upward tilt. The polished tip brushed against Mei Ling’s slick, swollen folds. The contact was fleeting, electric. A ragged cry tore from Mei Ling’s throat, her body arching violently backwards against the chains suspending her wrists. Her hips jerked forward instinctively, seeking the touch again even as her mind recoiled in utter horror. The drug’s command was overwhelming. Her thighs trembled violently. She could lower herself. A fraction. Just enough. The rough metal ridges promised brutal friction against her aching core. The choice was monstrous: endure the unbearable itch and Kenzo’s escalating threats, or surrender to the violation and find momentary, degrading relief. Tears streamed down her cheeks as she hung suspended above the instrument of her despair, the floodlight bleaching her shame stark white.



Kenzo watched her desperate struggle, a flicker of cold amusement in his eyes. He glanced sideways at Sato, who remained frozen behind Mei Ling. "Sato-san..." Kenzo murmured, his voice suddenly softer, almost conspiratorial. "...help her a bit." The implication was clear, a calculated reward for his lieutenant's stoic endurance. Kenzo knew Sato was a man, after all – loyal, meticulous, utterly impersonal, but still driven by base instincts Sato kept ruthlessly suppressed. This was permission. "HAI!" Sato barked, the single syllable sharp, clipped, yet carrying an unmistakable undercurrent of tightly leashed excitement beneath its professional veneer. He was a fine assistant, never personal. He would have raped her silly given the chance, purely as a man. Now, it was sanctioned duty. He’d still rape her, but it was all business. Sato swiftly retrieved a tube of thick lubricating gel. Without preamble, he coated two fingers and pressed them firmly against Mei Ling’s tightly clenched anus. She gasped, tensing violently. Sato worked methodically, probing, stretching with impersonal efficiency. The intrusion was sudden, invasive, sending jolts of sharp sensation that amplified the drug’s maddening heat radiating from her front. Her moans deepened, hips grinding helplessly against empty air as Sato’s fingers explored.



Sato withdrew his fingers. Mei Ling sagged, trembling. Then came the cold, thick gel applied directly to the dildo’s monstrous shaft. Sato worked it thoroughly, coating every inch of the ribbed metal surface. The sound was obscenely slick. He tilted the gleaming instrument upwards, its lubricated tip hovering mere centimeters beneath Mei Ling’s slick, exposed entrance. "Don't say we're savages," Kenzo remarked casually, settling back into his chair with the air of a connoisseur preparing for a performance. He lit another cigarette, the flame briefly illuminating his predatory smile. "Cigarettes, Sato-san?" Kenzo offered, extending the pack. "*Hai.*" Sato accepted one, lighting it quickly before stepping back slightly, positioning himself beside Kenzo’s chair. Both men exhaled smoke, their gazes fixed on Mei Ling’s suspended form. "It gets boring," Kenzo added softly, almost to himself, his eyes never leaving her face. The floodlight cast harsh shadows, framing Mei Ling against the darkness like a specimen pinned for dissection. Below her, the lubricated dildo gleamed wetly, an obscene promise.



Mei Ling stared down at the polished metal shaft, its ribbed surface slick and glistening under the harsh light. The drug’s fire roared in her veins, a relentless command obliterating reason. The rough edges promised agony, sending chills of pure terror through her sweat-slicked skin. But the unbearable itch deep within her core screamed louder. Her hips jerked violently, a desperate, involuntary spasm. Her last bastion of mental resistance crumbled. "*Argh!*" A guttural moan tore from her throat, raw and primal, echoing off the concrete walls. Her thighs trembled violently. She locked eyes with Kenzo, defiance warring with utter desperation in her tear-filled gaze. Then, with agonizing slowness, driven by the chemical imperative that had become her master, she began to lower herself. Her knees bent further, her body descending towards the waiting instrument. Sato watched impassively, cigarette smoke curling from his lips. Kenzo leaned forward slightly, his expression rapt.



The cool, lubricated tip met her slick entrance. Mei Ling gasped, a sound caught between shock and unwanted sensation. She paused, trembling violently. The rough metal ridges pressed against her delicate flesh, a terrifying promise of violation. But the drug surged, a tidal wave of need drowning out fear. With a choked sob that sounded like surrender, she pushed down. The dildo slid inside – not smoothly, despite the lubricant. The ribs scraped, stretched, burned. Pain flared, sharp and shocking, momentarily cutting through the aphrodisiac haze. Mei Ling cried out, her head snapping back. Yet, beneath the agony, the relentless friction ignited something else – a brutal, degrading spark of relief against the unbearable itch. Her hips jerked instinctively, grinding down onto the invading shaft, seeking more of the terrible sensation. Kenzo smiled, savoring the spectacle. Sato exhaled smoke, his knuckles white on the armrest. The pulley groaned softly as Mei Ling sank deeper onto the metal pole, her body betraying her utterly.



She tried to lift herself, seeking only the outer friction, hoping to avoid the deeper invasion. But the shallow grinding only intensified the maddening itch deep within her core, amplifying the ache to an unbearable crescendo. A desperate whine escaped her lips. Driven by chemical imperative, she pushed down again, harder this time. The dildo plunged deeper, forcing her impossibly tight passage to yield. The ribs scraped rawly, tearing at tender flesh. Tears streamed down her face, mingling with sweat. But the deeper penetration brought a wave of profound, degrading relief – a momentary silencing of the internal scream. Her hips bucked involuntarily, driving herself down onto the shaft, seeking that fleeting solace again, even as fresh pain blossomed with each brutal thrust. She found a rhythm: a frantic, shallow lift followed by a desperate, plunging descent onto the unforgiving metal. Each downward stroke was agony; each upward withdrawal a fresh torment of unfulfilled need.



The rhythm became frantic, compulsive. Mei Ling rode the dildo with increasing abandon, her body moving of its own accord, driven by the drug and the desperate chase for relief. Her tight cunt stretched obscenely around the thick, ribbed shaft. Even with the lubricant, the friction burned like fire. Each downward slide tore at her, a searing violation. Yet, the reward – that momentary, chemical silencing of the unbearable internal pressure – outweighed the searing pain. Her moans became guttural cries, a symphony of agony and involuntary pleasure. Her thighs trembled violently, slick with sweat and her own fluids dripping onto the concrete below. She arched her back, suspended by her wrists, her entire being focused on the brutal penetration, the rhythmic slide in and out, the devastating friction that both destroyed and delivered. Kenzo watched, utterly rapt, his cigarette forgotten. Sato’s expression remained stone, but his breathing had quickened.



Mei Ling lost herself in the rhythm. The pain became a dull, throbbing ache beneath the relentless chemical compulsion. Her world narrowed to the sensation of stretching, sliding, burning, and the fleeting, devastating relief each deep thrust brought. Her hips pistoned faster, grinding against the base of the dildo, her slickness mingling with the lubricant. She was a machine of degradation, suspended in chains, servicing the metal pole with frantic, desperate movements. Her cries echoed off the walls – raw, animalistic sounds stripped of defiance, filled only with the agony of violation and the shameful ecstasy of the drug’s command. She slid deeper, harder, faster, chasing the impossible peak the aphrodisiac promised. Tears flowed freely, but her body betrayed her utterly, consumed by the rhythm of self-violation under the cold, predatory gaze of her captors. The floodlight bleached her writhing form stark white against the shadows.



The design revealed its true cruelty. Each frantic upward lift, seeking momentary respite, became agony. The ribbed edges weren't smooth bumps; they were sharp ridges angled like barbed hooks. Entering was a harsh scrape, a tearing burn. Exiting was worse. As Mei Ling lifted her hips, the hooks caught her tender, swollen flesh, dragging against the grain. It felt like pulling a coarse file backwards through her raw, blistering insides. A choked scream ripped from her throat, sharper than the electric shocks. "*Argh!*" Her body spasmed violently, instinctively trying to stop the upward motion, plunging back down onto the shaft to escape the scraping exit. But the downward thrust reignited the deep, tearing burn. She was trapped in a cycle of torment: agony driving her down onto the pole, and agony forcing her back up, each movement intensifying the damage. Sweat poured down her face, mingling with tears of pain and humiliation. This was worse than the electricity. Far worse. Her entire cunt felt flayed, every nerve ending screaming.



"What... did... you... ga..ve...me..." Mei Ling gasped between ragged breaths and involuntary cries, her voice thick with tears and exhaustion. Her frantic movements slowed slightly, a tremor of pure agony shaking her frame as she hovered halfway impaled. "...argh...rugh...ooff..." The question was born of desperate, horrified curiosity amidst the brutalization. Kenzo leaned forward, his eyes gleaming with dark amusement. "Ah..." he murmured, savoring her suffering. "...the drugs. Not only stimulate... but enhance endurance." He gestured vaguely towards her trembling form. "Who knows? How long you'd be... happy?" His smile was a razor cut. "Maybe soon... maybe an hour from now." The implication was chilling: her body would be forced to endure this tearing violation far beyond its natural limits, trapped by chemical enhancement. Mei Ling whimpered, a sound of utter despair. Her hips jerked forward again, driven by the relentless itch beneath the searing pain. The ribbed hooks scraped brutally on the exit. She cried out, her head snapping back.



Suddenly, the chain attached to her wrist shackles jerked taut. The pulley groaned overhead. Mei Ling gasped as she was hauled sharply upwards, her body lifting away from the lubricated metal shaft still slick with her fluids and blood. The abrupt withdrawal tore another scream from her throat as the cruel ridges ripped free. But then... she hung suspended higher, her toes dangling centimeters above the concrete, her legs still spread wide by the ankle chains. The unbearable friction ceased instantly. Mei Ling sagged against the wrist restraints, her entire body trembling violently. The maddening itch deep within her core still pulsed relentlessly, amplified by the drug and the sudden absence of stimulation. Yet, amidst the chemical fire, a wave of profound, desperate relief washed over her. Her violated cunt throbbed fiercely, raw and torn, but it was no longer actively being shredded. She could stop. She could refrain from grinding herself onto that instrument of agony. Her tortured flesh screamed for rest, for respite from the tearing invasion. She hung limp, panting, tears streaming silently down her cheeks, her focus narrowing to the agony radiating from her core and the blessed cessation of self-inflicted destruction.



Kenzo watched her suspended agony, a predator studying wounded prey. He rose slowly, deliberately, and walked towards her. He stopped directly in front of her trembling form, his gaze fixed on her slick, swollen, and visibly damaged labia. Blood mingled with lubricant and her own fluids, dripping slowly onto the concrete beneath her spread legs. He reached out, not touching her, but pointing a single finger towards the glistening mess. "See?" His voice was soft, almost gentle, yet filled with icy contempt. "The Shanghai Spider... unraveled." He traced a slow circle in the air inches from her violated flesh. "A web of... this." He let the word hang, heavy with degradation. Mei Ling squeezed her eyes shut, unable to bear his gaze or the sight of her own ruin. The aphrodisiac still roared within her, demanding friction, demanding release, warring violently with the searing pain and the crushing humiliation. Her hips twitched involuntarily, a desperate, futile spasm seeking relief that was now cruelly denied.



Kenzo stepped closer. His hand brushed her inner thigh, making her flinch violently. "Where," he breathed, his voice dropping to a menacing whisper thick with promise, "*is Li Na?*" As he spoke, his other hand moved towards the pulley rope. His fingers tightened on the release lever. The unspoken threat hung in the ozone-scented air: answer, or be lowered back onto the waiting, ribbed metal shaft. Mei Ling’s eyes flew open, wide with terror. Her gaze darted between Kenzo’s predatory stare and the gleaming, lubricated instrument of torture positioned perfectly beneath her spread, vulnerable core. Her breath hitched in frantic gasps. The urge to confess, to betray Li Na for even a moment’s true relief from the agony and the itch, surged violently within her. Her lips trembled, forming the first syllable of a name...



"Chen..." Mei Ling choked out, the name a ragged sob torn from her throat. "...old market..." Her voice cracked, thick with tears and exhaustion. Her head slumped forward against her suspended arms. She thought she'd already given them enough time, endured enough. They should be gone by now. They had to be. Kenzo didn’t react immediately. His predatory gaze remained fixed on her face for a long, agonizing moment. Then, with deliberate slowness, he withdrew his hand from the pulley lever and reached into his uniform pocket. He pulled out a small, leather-bound notebook and a fountain pen. He flipped it open, the sound crisp in the tense silence. With meticulous strokes, he jotted down the information: Chen... Old Market. The scratch of the pen nib was unnaturally loud. Mei Ling watched through tear-blurred vision, her hips swaying involuntarily against the chains, seeking friction, seeking any relief from the relentless aphrodisiac fire still coursing through her veins.



"Good," Kenzo murmured, closing the notebook with a soft snap. He slipped it back into his pocket, his expression unreadable. "That wasn't so hard, was it?" He gestured dismissively towards Sato. "*Sore o doke.*" Sato moved instantly. He knelt, gripped the blood-smeared metal shaft, and slid it roughly out from beneath Mei Ling’s suspended form. The sudden removal of the immediate threat brought a shuddering gasp from Mei Ling, though the deep, throbbing ache and the maddening itch remained. Kenzo stepped back towards Mei Ling, stopping directly before her trembling body. He tilted his head, studying her flushed face, her tear-streaked cheeks, her hips still making small, desperate circles in the air. "You bought them," he stated calmly, almost conversationally, "...three and a half hours head start." A cold, calculating smile touched his lips. "Not bad." Mei Ling squeezed her eyes shut again, a fresh wave of humiliation crashing over her. Three and a half hours. Was it enough? Had her agony bought Li Na safety? She didn't know. Her body screamed for release.



"Here's the game," Kenzo continued, his voice dropping to a low, intimate purr. He leaned in slightly, his breath warm against her ear. "You cooperate... truly cooperate..." His hand drifted down, fingertips brushing the slick, swollen mess between her spread thighs. Mei Ling flinched violently, a choked whimper escaping her. "...and we give you something." His fingers traced her raw, inflamed labia with deliberate, clinical pressure. "Something... real." The promise was explicit, obscene. Mei Ling’s hips jerked forward instinctively against his touch, a low moan escaping her lips despite the searing pain his contact ignited. Her body, still enslaved by the drug, craved the promised relief, even if it came from her tormentor’s hand. She didn't speak. She kept her eyes tightly closed, trembling violently, lost in the storm of agony, shame, and chemical desperation. Her resolve felt like ash.



Kenzo chuckled softly, withdrawing his hand. He turned sharply towards Sato. "*Hand the intel to the team,*" he commanded, his voice snapping back to crisp authority. "*Hai,*" Sato replied instantly, the single syllable clipped and professional. He retrieved the small notebook Kenzo had used and strode towards the steel door. "*And leave us for an hour,*" Kenzo added, his gaze fixed on Mei Ling’s suspended, trembling form. "*Grab yourself some coffee.*" "*HAI!*" Sato barked, louder this time, a flicker of something – perhaps relief, perhaps anticipation – beneath the rigid obedience. He exited swiftly, the heavy door clanging shut behind him, sealing Mei Ling alone with Kenzo. The sudden silence felt heavier, charged.



Kenzo circled Mei Ling slowly. He stopped directly behind her suspended form, his gaze tracing the sweat-slicked lines of her spine, the curve of her buttocks, the raw, glistening evidence of her violation still dripping onto the concrete below. He reached out, his bare hand settling firmly on her hip. Mei Ling gasped, her body tensing. "*Now...*" Kenzo murmured, his voice thick with dark intent. "*Where were we?*" His other hand slid between her legs from behind, fingers finding her swollen, throbbing clit. He pressed – not gently, but with deliberate, knowing pressure. Mei Ling cried out, arching violently against the wrist restraints. The sensation was electric, a brutal spark igniting the wildfire within her. Her hips bucked forward, seeking more, her mind screaming betrayal even as her body surrendered utterly to the skilled manipulation. Kenzo chuckled again, low and predatory, his fingers beginning a slow, relentless rhythm against her hypersensitive flesh. "*That’s it!"



He lowered the pulley rope steadily. Mei Ling gasped as her body descended, her shackled wrists dropping near her waist. Her knees bent fully now, her toes planted firmly on the cold concrete. The position was awkward, hunched and vulnerable. Instinctively, her bound hands strained against the shackles, fingers curling desperately towards her throbbing core – seeking friction, seeking relief from the relentless itch beneath the searing pain. Kenzo watched her futile struggle with a cold smile. "*Such... desperation,*" he noted softly. He stepped back, his polished boots clicking on the concrete. With deliberate slowness, he unfastened his uniform trousers. They slid down his hips, revealing the thick, straining bulge beneath his underwear. He pushed that down too. His erection sprang free, fully hard and glistening slightly at the tip. "*I’m a man too, Ling,*" he stated simply, his voice devoid of mockery, stating a brutal fact.



Kenzo moved beneath her suspended form. He lay down flat on his back on the cold concrete floor, directly positioned between her spread, shackled ankles. He lifted his hips slightly, aligning the head of his cock precisely beneath Mei Ling’s dripping, swollen entrance. The heat radiating from him was palpable. "*Your choice,*" Kenzo said flatly, closing his eyes as if settling in for sleep. The words hung in the charged silence. Mei Ling stared down, trembling violently. The pulsing heat of his erection promised a terrifyingly different kind of penetration – flesh instead of metal, heat instead of cold agony. It offered the real release Kenzo had hinted at, a chance to sate the drug’s inferno. But it meant surrendering utterly to her captor, becoming his vessel. The aphrodisiac roared, obliterating thought. Her hips lowered instinctively, a fraction of an inch. The slick head of his cock brushed against her raw, violated flesh. A shuddering gasp escaped her lips. The choice was no choice at all.



Her body betrayed her utterly. Mei Ling sank down onto him. Kenzo’s cock slid deep inside her torn passage with a slick, brutal ease, filling the aching void the dildo had carved. The friction was searing agony against her raw flesh, yet beneath the pain bloomed a terrifying, degrading wave of profound relief – the heat, the pulsing fullness, the undeniable humanity of it silencing the chemical scream for a fleeting moment. A choked sob tore from her throat as her hips began to move of their own accord, grinding down onto him, seeking more of the devastating sensation. Kenzo remained utterly still beneath her, eyes closed, hands resting loosely at his sides, allowing her to ride him like an animal servicing its master. Her bound hands clawed uselessly against the air near her waist as she fucked herself on her torturer’s cock, lost in the storm of agony, ecstasy, and utter shame.



She rode him frantically, desperately. Her suspended form rocked violently, chains clanking with each plunging descent. Sweat flew from her swaying breasts as she threw her head back, eyes squeezed shut, mouth open in ragged gasps that transformed into low, guttural moans. The pain was still there, a deep, tearing throb with every stroke, but it was drowned beneath the overwhelming, degrading need to chase the elusive peak the aphrodisiac promised. Kenzo’s cock offered friction, heat, a terrible anchor in the storm. She didn’t care who filled her, only that she was filled. Her hips pistoned faster, slamming down onto him with abandon, the wet slap of flesh echoing obscenely in the concrete chamber. Kenzo’s lips curved into a faint, satisfied smirk. He enjoyed the spectacle – the Shanghai Spider, unraveled and frantic, humping him for relief like a bitch in heat.



Mei Ling surrendered completely. The defiance, the calculation, the thoughts of Li Na or Chen – they dissolved into the primal haze. All that existed was the desperate drive of her hips, the searing stretch of Kenzo inside her, and the terrifying promise of release. She moaned his name, "*Kenzo!*" – a sound ripped from her depths, thick with pain and unwanted pleasure. Her thighs trembled violently, slick with sweat and the fluids dripping from her abused cunt onto his uniform trousers pooled beneath him. Three and a half hours wasn’t so bad. She’d earned this. This brutal, degrading moment of oblivion. Nobody expected her not to break. Not like this. She arched violently, grinding her swollen clit against his pubic bone, chasing the devastating friction, her cries escalating into sharp, desperate keening.



Kenzo’s detached composure shattered. His breathing grew ragged, harsh gasps escaping his lips as Mei Ling rode him with frantic, punishing intensity. His hands, previously resting passively at his sides, flew up to grip her hips, fingers digging deep into the flesh above her shackled thighs. His hips bucked upwards involuntarily, meeting her downward thrusts with brutal force. "*Fuck!*" he snarled, his voice strained, losing its calculated cruelty. "*Ling!*" His control evaporated completely. His thrusts became erratic, desperate, his eyes wide and unfocused beneath her suspended form. Mei Ling felt him swell impossibly larger inside her torn passage just as her own climax detonated – a violent, convulsive wave of agony and ecstasy that tore a ragged scream from her throat. Simultaneously, Kenzo roared, his body locking rigid beneath her as he pulsed deep within her bleeding core, his release hot and profuse. For a suspended moment, they were locked together, shuddering violently – predator and prey fused in mutual, degrading climax.



Utter silence descended, broken only by their harsh, gasping breaths. Kenzo slumped back onto the concrete, his grip on Mei Ling’s hips slackening. Mei Ling went limp above him, her body utterly spent. The aphrodisiac’s fire had finally dimmed, replaced by overwhelming exhaustion and the deep, throbbing agony radiating from her violated flesh. Kenzo slid out of her with a wet sound. He pushed himself out from beneath her suspended form, leaving her sagging awkwardly in the chains. He stood slowly, his movements stiff, avoiding Mei Ling’s unfocused gaze. With clinical detachment, he used a clean handkerchief from his pocket to wipe his softening cock and the mess from his thighs before pulling his uniform trousers and underwear back up. Mei Ling’s knees buckled completely; the chains holding her ankles wide and her wrists shackled near her waist were the only things preventing her collapse. She hung slumped, head lolling forward, a broken puppet suspended in a grotesque parody of repose.



Kenzo smoothed his uniform, regaining a semblance of his usual icy composure, though his breathing remained slightly uneven. He pulled out his silver cigarette case, selected one, and lit it. He took a deep drag, exhaling smoke towards the harsh floodlights. He stepped close to Mei Ling’s suspended, trembling form. Without ceremony, he placed the cigarette between her slack lips. "*After sex...*" he murmured, his voice regaining its mocking edge, though lacking its earlier sharpness, "*...a cigarette is best, ne?*" Mei Ling, too exhausted to resist or even comprehend the depth of the humiliation, instinctively drew in a shallow puff. Kenzo took it back, inhaling deeply himself. They shared the cigarette in silence, passing it back and forth twice more, the smoke curling in the heavy, ozone-scented air thick with the smell of sex and blood. The heavy steel door clanged open. Sato stood framed in the doorway. Kenzo took one final drag, stubbed out the cigarette on the concrete floor, and turned. "*We’re done for the day,*" he stated flatly. "*Take her to her cell. Clean her up. Patch her wounds.*" "*HAI!*" Sato barked, stepping briskly into the room, his gaze sweeping over Mei Ling’s suspended ruin.

[Noctavya]

Chapter 5 : The First Night



Sato's signal brought two guards who mechanically unshackled Mei Ling's ankles and wrists. Her body crumpled instantly, but they caught her under the arms before she hit the concrete, her head lolling forward onto her chest. They dragged her limp form through the corridors, her bare feet scraping over rough cement, leaving smears of blood and fluids. Back in the tiled cleaning room, they propped her against the wall. The water that hit her this time was startlingly warm, the pressure gentler—a perverse imitation of care. The guards' hands lingered under the spray, calloused palms sliding over her breasts, pinching a nipple "by accident," tracing the curve of her hip as they rinsed the blood and semen from her thighs. Mei Ling remained a ragdoll, eyes half-closed, until the spray and rough cloth hit her torn cunt. A raw, animal groan tore loose, her body jerking weakly against their grip.



They hauled her dripping to the cell block, throwing her onto the thin, stained mattress in the corner. The space was bare: concrete walls, a dented metal bucket for waste, the mattress, and nothing else. She curled instinctively onto her side, trembling, every joint screaming. The medical soldier arrived minutes later, his expression bored. Without a word, he jabbed a syringe into her arm, then pressed a white pill and a tin cup of water into her hand. "*Itami o yawarageru,*" he muttered—painkiller. Mei Ling swallowed it dry, too broken to hesitate. A heavy, chemical numbness spread through her limbs almost immediately, dulling the agony in her shoulders and hips to a distant throb.



He gestured for her to spread her legs. Mei Ling flinched but obeyed, the movement tearing a whimper from her throat. The soldier examined her swollen, lacerated flesh clinically. He scooped a thick, clear gel from a jar and applied it liberally with two fingers, working it deep into her raw tissues. "*Kore mo itami no tame,*" he said—this too, for the pain. The gel was shockingly cool, a momentary balm against the fire. She nodded weakly, her eyes fixed on the ceiling. As he stood to leave, he tossed a folded, surprisingly clean grey blanket onto the mattress beside her. The door clanged shut, the bolt sliding home.



Alone, Mei Ling dragged the blanket over herself with shaking hands. She curled into a tight ball, the wool scratchy against her skin. The numbness from the drugs spread, muting the physical torment, but the images flashed behind her eyelids—Kenzo’s smirk, the ribbed metal shaft, her own hips grinding down onto him. The shame was a colder, deeper ache no injection could touch. Outside, the muffled tread of a guard passed her door. She pulled the blanket over her head, burying herself in the dark, the chemical haze pulling her down into a depthless, dreamless void.



The scrape of the door bolt jerked her awake. Sato stood silhouetted against the corridor light, holding a tray. Steam curled from a bowl of miso soup beside a generous portion of rice topped with glistening grilled mackerel. A large bottle of water sat beside it. "Dinner," he stated in Japanese, his voice flat. "You haven’t eaten." Mei Ling pushed herself up slowly, wincing at the pull in her shoulders. Her mind churned—this was another move, a calculated kindness to erode her further. But the scent of fish and rice cut through the lingering smells of antiseptic and blood, and her stomach clenched with raw hunger. Better than pain. Better than Kenzo. Every moment she stalled was time bought for Li Na.



Sato surprised her. He didn’t leave the tray. Instead, he knelt stiffly beside the mattress, setting it down. Picking up the chopsticks, he scooped a small bite of rice and fish, holding it out towards her lips. Mei Ling stared at the offering, then at his impassive face. Slowly, she leaned forward and accepted it. The rice was warm, perfectly cooked; the fish flaked apart, rich and smoky. He fed her methodically, alternating bites with sips of water from the bottle he held to her lips. The silence stretched, thick with the absurdity of the torturer’s assistant performing this small act of care. "Are we done yet?" Mei Ling asked quietly in Japanese, her voice hoarse. Sato didn’t look at her. "No," he replied, scooping more rice. "We resume tomorrow." Mei Ling swallowed. "I understand." She finished the meal, the warm food settling heavily in her empty stomach.



Sato gathered the empty tray. He left the water bottle beside her mattress. "Get some rest now," he said, his tone still devoid of inflection. He paused at the door, looking back at her huddled form. "I’ll leave the bottle for the night." The door clanged shut behind him, the bolt sliding home. Mei Ling stared at the bottle, then at the heavy door. The food was a weapon. The water was a weapon. Sato’s impersonal care was a weapon. But in the suffocating silence of the cell, with the numbness reclaiming her body, she reached for the bottle, unscrewed the cap, and drank deeply. The water was cold, clean, and real. She curled back under the scratchy blanket, clutching the half-empty bottle to her chest like a shield. Outside, footsteps echoed down the corridor, fading away.



The overhead bulb in the corridor outside her cell flickered once, twice, then dimmed significantly, plunging the tiny space into deep, bruised shadows. Only a faint grey seeped under the door. In the sudden gloom, the sterile cell walls dissolved. Mei Ling saw the rain-slicked alley behind the tailor’s shop in the French Concession, the night she’d met Chen Wei. He was nineteen, lean and intense, with eyes that burned in the darkness. He’d pressed the crude pipe bomb into her hands, his fingers brushing hers. "Like this, Mei," he’d whispered, his breath warm against her ear, guiding her trembling fingers to twist the wires. The smell of damp wool and cordite filled her nostrils again. That night, after their first successful sabotage – the explosion lighting the skyline like a vengeful star – he’d kissed her behind the stacked crates. His touch was clumsy, urgent, fueled by adrenaline and shared danger. Her first time was quick, fumbling, pressed against rough brick, the distant wail of sirens their only witness. Pain, yes, but also a fierce, terrifying joy. He’d held her afterwards, shivering, whispering promises of a free China.



They became ghosts together. Planting explosives under supply trucks, stealing documents, moving through Shanghai’s underbelly like smoke. Chen Wei was her shadow, her teacher, her lover. He taught her to pick locks, to read the fear in a guard’s eyes, to kill silently. Their intimacy was stolen moments: a frantic coupling in a safehouse attic while comrades slept below, shared cigarettes on a rooftop watching dawn bleed over the occupied city, his calloused hand finding hers in the dark before a raid. The memory of his body over hers, the weight and heat, the shared gasps muffled against thin pillows, flooded the cold cell now. It hadn’t been gentle, often, but it was theirs. A rebellion carved into their very skin. Then, the ambush at the docks. The staccato bark of Nambu pistols. Chen Wei shoving her behind a stack of rubber tires, taking the bullets meant for her. The wet, choking sound he made as he fell. Her own scream swallowed by gunfire as she ran, his blood hot on her hands. She’d buried that part of herself with him. Two years. No lovers. Only the cold focus of the Resistance, the sharp tang of cordite replacing the memory of his sweat. Tonight… Kenzo… the brutal penetration… it hadn’t just been torture. It was the first invasion of that sacred, buried space in years. The violation felt deeper, colder, because it echoed in a hollow place she’d sealed shut.



A harsh clang echoed from somewhere deep in the building – pipes settling, perhaps, or a distant door. The sound snapped Mei Ling back to the present. The scratchy blanket, the lingering ache between her legs, the chemical taste in her mouth. Chen Wei’s ghost faded, replaced by the stark reality of her chains. The dim light under the door seemed to mock her. Survival wasn’t about the past. It was about the next hour, the next interrogation. Kenzo thought he’d broken her. Sato thought she was just another prisoner to process. Mei Ling’s fingers tightened around the water bottle. She hadn’t broken. Not yet. She took another slow sip, the cold water a deliberate anchor. Her mind, clearing from the drug haze and the seductive pull of memory, began to turn, cold and hard, like a blade being slowly sharpened on stone. Li Na was still out there. That was the only thing that mattered now.



The sleep that came was thin and fractured, haunted by fragmented nightmares – Kenzo’s predatory smile morphing into Chen Wei’s dying gasp, the cold metal dildo replaced by the hot slickness of blood on her hands. She startled awake repeatedly, heart pounding, only to sink back into the drugged stupor, the painkiller a heavy shroud. For brief, merciful stretches, she dozed, her body seizing the chance to mend. Then, a thin, grey light began to seep through the high, narrow slit of a window near the ceiling. Dawn. The light crawled across the grimy floor, eventually touching the edge of her mattress, a cold, unwelcome intrusion. The numbness had receded, replaced by a dull, pervasive throb in her shoulders, hips, and the deep, raw ache between her legs. She heard the footsteps then – sharp, purposeful, echoing down the concrete corridor outside. They stopped outside her cell. The bolt scraped loudly. The door swung open. Sato stood framed in the doorway, flanked by two armed guards, their faces impassive masks. "Stand up!" Sato’s voice was a whip-crack in the quiet cell, devoid of warmth, utterly cold.



Mei Ling flinched, curling tighter under the scratchy blanket, instinctively buying herself a few precious seconds. The thought of moving, of the chains, of facing Kenzo again, sent waves of nausea through her. The pain would resume. The degradation. "*I said stand up!*" Sato barked, stepping fully into the cell, his shadow falling over her. Mei Ling gathered her strength, pushing back the blanket with trembling hands. Every muscle screamed protest as she pushed herself upright on the mattress, the movement agonizingly slow. Her bare feet touched the cold concrete. She swayed, gripping the edge of the mattress for support, taking shallow breaths against the dizziness. As she finally straightened, a new, urgent pressure registered – her bladder was painfully full. The morning’s natural demand cut through the fear. "I need to use the toilet," she pleaded, her voice rough with disuse and strain.



Sato’s expression didn’t change. He simply pointed a stiff finger towards the dented metal bucket in the corner. Mei Ling hesitated, humiliation warring with the sheer physical need. The guards watched, rifles held loosely. Sato’s stare was unwavering. The pressure was insistent, undeniable. Slowly, stiffly, she shuffled towards the bucket, her movements hampered by the deep ache in her hips and thighs. Turning her back to them, she offered the pathetic illusion of modesty. The sound of her urine hitting the metal was loud in the silent cell, a stark, degrading counterpoint to the quiet morning outside. She kept her eyes fixed on the grimy wall in front of her, focusing only on the relief, however fleeting, and the cold calculation hardening in her mind. Sato waited.



The bucket was almost full when she was done. "Stand up!" Sato ordered, his voice sharp. Mei Ling pushed herself upright, wincing as her muscles protested. The guards moved in instantly, their movements efficient and impersonal. One seized her left wrist, twisting it behind her back with practiced ease. The cold steel of the cuff snapped shut. The other guard mirrored the action with her right wrist. Their grip was firm, unyielding. They ushered her, stumbling slightly, back into the stark corridor. The journey felt shorter this time, the harsh fluorescent lights stinging her eyes. The familiar, heavy door to the interrogation room loomed ahead. It swung open before they reached it. Inside, Sato was already waiting. He stood near the chair, impossibly fresh – his uniform crisp, his hair sleekly parted and damp, the faint, expensive scent of sandalwood cologne cutting through the lingering odors of ozone and antiseptic. He watched her approach, his face an impassive mask. "*Ohayō gozaimasu,*" he stated, his tone flat, devoid of inflection. Morning.



The guards guided Mei Ling to the center of the room. The chair awaited her, its cold metal frame gleaming under the floodlights. With rough efficiency, they uncuffed her wrists only to immediately force her arms, back against the familiar, cold restraints built into the chair’s arms. The leather straps bit into her skin as they were cinched tight. Her ankles were secured next, the buckles clicking shut with finality. The guards stepped back, leaving her exposed and vulnerable in the unforgiving light. Mei Ling tried to steel herself, drawing in a slow, shaky breath. Her body felt impossibly weak, every bruise and tear throbbing anew against the rigid confines of the chair. The ghost of yesterday’s agony seemed to seep from the metal itself. She focused on the cool, clinical scent of Sato’s cologne, a bizarre anchor in the room designed for breaking. Her gaze flickered past Sato to the corner where the ribbed dildo stood, cleaned and gleaming, a silent, obscene promise. Her stomach clenched

[Noctavya]

Chapter 6 : The Game Resumes



Kenzo approached, his footsteps unhurried on the concrete. He paused, his sharp eyes cataloging Mei Ling: the damp tangles in her hair where water hadn't fully rinsed out the grime, the faint purple bruise blooming on her inner thigh from yesterday's electrode, the way her shoulders strained slightly against the leather restraints despite her forced stillness. His gaze lingered clinically between her legs, noting the angry red puffiness visible beneath the hem of the rough smock, the torn flesh now sealed under a glistening layer of the medical gel—a battlefield healing under chemical ceasefire. Remarkable, he thought. She looked exhausted, yes, her eyes shadowed and wary, but her posture held a core of defiance, unbroken. He produced his silver cigarette case with a soft click. "Cigarette?" he offered, his voice a low rasp. Mei Ling met his gaze, then gave a single, curt nod.



He placed the cigarette between her lips, the paper cool against her chapped skin. The lighter flared, illuminating the sharp planes of his face for an instant before he drew back, exhaling his own stream of smoke. Mei Ling inhaled deeply, the familiar acrid bite a small, anchoring comfort in the sterile terror of the room. She held the smoke, feeling it burn in her lungs, her eyes never leaving Kenzo’s. He watched the tremor in her fingers as she held the cigarette, the slight hitch in her breathing—tiny fractures in her composure. "Good," he murmured, almost approvingly. "You heal well. Strong constitution." He took another drag, his gaze drifting pointedly towards the gleaming dildo in the corner. "Useful."



Sato stepped forward, his posture rigid, the scent of sandalwood momentarily overpowering the tobacco. His eyes, flat and assessing, scanned Mei Ling’s restrained form, lingering on the medical gel glistening beneath the smock’s hem. "I believe our accommodation is sufficient, at the very least?" he asked in clipped Japanese, his tone devoid of inflection, merely stating a fact for the record. Mei Ling met his gaze, a flicker of dark amusement touching her exhausted eyes. She exhaled smoke slowly, deliberately. "I’ve had better in Shanghai motels," she replied in clear, accented Japanese, her voice rough but steady. It was a defiance, small and sharp, a needle pricking their clinical detachment. If she was going to endure whatever came next, she might as well entertain herself, finding a grim focus in the verbal sparring, a shield against the looming depravity.



Kenzo chuckled, a low, rasping sound that held no warmth. He inclined his head slightly, a mockery of deference. "*Ah… on behalf of the Emperor… we’re sorry,*" he replied, his Japanese smooth and laced with icy sarcasm. He tapped ash onto the floor, his gaze sharpening, predatory. "Perhaps today we can elevate your experience." He gestured vaguely towards Sato. "The Major has prepared something… special. More refined than yesterday’s crude mechanics." Sato’s expression remained impassive, but he gave a curt nod, his hand moving towards a small, polished wooden box resting on a nearby trolley Mei Ling hadn’t noticed before. The box looked innocuous, almost elegant. That made it infinitely more terrifying.



Mei Ling took another drag, the cigarette trembling slightly now. Her gaze fixed on the wooden box as Sato lifted the lid. Inside, nestled in dark velvet, lay a row of slender, polished steel needles, glinting wickedly under the floodlights. Beside them rested a small, intricately carved ivory handle, its purpose unclear. Kenzo smiled, a thin, cruel curve of his lips. "Acupuncture," he purred, stepping closer, his shadow falling over her. "An ancient art. Healing… or otherwise. It depends entirely on the placement." He picked up one of the needles, holding it delicately between his thumb and forefinger, letting the light catch its deadly point. "Shall we begin?"



Kenzo leaned in, his voice dropping to a chilling whisper. "I want your network. Your cells. Your communication methods." His breath, smelling of tobacco and something metallic, washed over her face. Mei Ling met his gaze, her expression deliberately blank for a heartbeat. Then, a flicker of dark, exhausted sarcasm twisted her lips. "Of course," she rasped, her voice hoarse but clear. "Let me just get back to my office. I’ll bundle it all up neatly for you." Kenzo didn’t even blink. He straightened, turning his head slightly towards Sato. "Sato," he commanded, his tone utterly devoid of inflection. "*Hajime. Chīsana mono de.*" Start with something small.



Sato moved with silent precision. He selected a needle, his movements economical. Without preamble, he positioned himself beside Mei Ling’s chair. His fingers pressed firmly against the hollow just above her left collarbone, finding the precise point. Then, with a swift, practiced motion, he inserted the needle. It wasn’t the explosive agony of the electricity. It was a sharp, cold intrusion, followed by a deep, spreading ache that burrowed into the bone. Mei Ling gasped, "*Rugh…*" Her body instinctively tensed against the restraints. The ache intensified, radiating outwards, a constant, gnawing pressure. It was bearable, isolated. But then Sato adjusted the needle, a minute twist. A jolt, like a live wire had been touched to the nerve buried beneath her collarbone, lanced through her shoulder and down her arm. Her breath hitched violently, a strangled cry escaping her clenched teeth. Any tiny movement now sent fresh, electric surges sparking along the path the needle had claimed.



Kenzo watched her struggle to remain still, her muscles trembling with the effort to avoid triggering the nerve. He picked up the ivory handle, examining it casually. "The nerves," he mused, almost conversationally. "Fascinating pathways. You Chinese developed this… two thousand years ago. A gift to the world." He tapped the ivory handle lightly against his palm. "We merely… refine its application." His eyes, cold and assessing, locked onto Mei Ling’s pain-glazed ones. "Now. Network. Cells. Communication. Or Sato finds another point. And another. Until your entire body sings with this… refined discomfort." He leaned forward again, the promise of escalating torment hanging heavy in the ozone-scented air. "Where does the Shanghai Spider spin her web?"



Mei Ling was consumed by the pulsing agony radiating from her collarbone. Each shallow breath sent fresh jolts down her arm, a constant, grinding reminder of the needle’s cruel invasion. Sato moved silently to her right shoulder, his fingers probing the junction where muscle met bone, seeking the vulnerable nerve cluster beneath. Kenzo’s voice cut through the haze, clinical and mocking. "The body… a map of vulnerabilities. One hundred eight? Was it?" He gave a dismissive wave. "We have all day to explore them." His gaze was predatory, fixed on Mei Ling’s strained face. "Each point offers its own unique… persuasion."



Sato found his target. With the same detached precision, he positioned the next needle against the taut muscle of her shoulder joint. Mei Ling braced herself, her knuckles white where they gripped the chair arms. Sato delivered the needle with a swift, practiced thrust. The penetration was deeper this time, striking directly into the dense nerve bundle. "*Nnngh!*" The groan ripped from Mei Ling’s throat, raw and involuntary. It wasn’t a scream, but a guttural sound of pure, rising agony. The pain exploded outwards, a white-hot fire that engulfed her shoulder, seared down her spine, and lanced into her skull. Her vision blurred momentarily. She instinctively tried to curl forward, to escape the source, but the leather restraints held her rigidly in place, amplifying the torment. Her breath came in ragged, shuddering gasps.



Kenzo observed her reaction, a flicker of satisfaction in his eyes. He didn’t speak immediately, letting the agony resonate in the silence. The two needles, glinting wickedly under the floodlights, anchored her suffering. He picked up another needle from the velvet-lined box, holding it delicately. "See how quickly the body confesses?" he murmured, his voice a low purr. His gaze traveled down her restrained form, lingering deliberately on the hem of the smock, the glistening medical gel beneath it a stark reminder of yesterday’s brutality. "Now imagine… where the next point might be placed. Unless you tell me where the next bomb is being built." He leaned in, the needle poised. "Choose, Mei Ling. The map… or the minefield."



Mei Ling squeezed her eyes shut, the pain from her shoulder and collarbone radiating like hot wires. She drew a ragged breath, gathering the dregs of defiance. "*Cào nǐ zǔzōng shíbā dài!*" she spat, the raw, guttural Chinese curse tearing from her throat – Fuck your ancestors eighteen generations! It was a desperate shield, hurled at the torment, at Kenzo, at the violation echoing in her core. It was for herself, a brutal incantation to brace against the next wave.



Kenzo chuckled, a dry, rasping sound devoid of humor. He straightened, lowering the needle slightly. "Ah… the swearing trick," he observed, his tone almost clinical. "A crude method. Interrogation 101." He gave a dismissive wave of his hand. "It does help with steeling yourself… for about three seconds." His eyes, cold and predatory, fixed on her trembling thigh, visible beneath the rough smock. "Sato," he commanded, his voice snapping like a whip. "*Try her… thigh. The femoral nerve cluster. Deep.*"



"*HAI!*" Sato responded instantly, his flat voice cutting through the tension. He selected a longer, thicker needle from the box. Moving with chilling efficiency, he positioned himself beside Mei Ling’s right leg. His fingers pressed firmly into the soft flesh of her inner thigh, high up near the crease of her groin, finding the precise, vulnerable point where the femoral nerve fanned out. Mei Ling’s eyes flew open, wide with primal terror. Her breath hitched violently. Sato didn’t hesitate. With brutal precision, he drove the needle deep into the nerve bundle. The pain was instantaneous and catastrophic – a white-hot explosion that seared up her leg, into her pelvis, and down to her toes. Her body arched violently against the restraints, a raw, animalistic scream tearing from her throat, shattering the clinical silence of the room. The world dissolved into pure, obliterating agony.



Kenzo watched her convulse, a faint, cold smile touching his lips. He picked up another needle, tapping it lightly against his palm. "Three needles," he murmured, his voice a soft, mocking counterpoint to Mei Ling’s ragged sobs. "One hundred and five points left to explore." He let the implication hang – an eternity of meticulously applied torment. "Such a fascinating map." The pain from the thigh needle remained a deep, throbbing fire, radiating waves of nausea through her core. But as the initial, explosive shock subsided, it settled into a constant, grinding ache. Bearable, barely, if she remained utterly still. Yet the slightest tremor, the tiniest shift against the restraints, sent fresh jolts of excruciating fire lancing through her leg and groin. The other needles in her shoulder and collarbone pulsed their own dull, insistent songs of misery.



Mei Ling slumped forward as much as the restraints allowed, her head hanging low, sweat dripping from her chin onto the cold concrete floor. Her breath came in shallow, ragged gasps. The needles still protruded obscenely, anchors of suffering. The agony was a living thing, coiled deep within her muscles and nerves, waiting to strike if she dared move. She focused on the tiny spot of moisture on the floor, a desperate anchor. Kenzo’s polished boots stepped into her limited field of vision. He crouched down, bringing his face level with hers. His breath, smelling of stale tobacco and sandalwood, washed over her. "The bomb workshop," he demanded, his voice a low, dangerous purr. "Where is it? Tell me, and Sato removes the needles. All of them. Right now." He paused, letting the promise of relief sink in. "Or…" He lifted the new needle, letting it catch the light inches from her eye. "...we find a point near your eye. Imagine that exquisite sensitivity."



The threat was a physical weight pressing down on her. Mei Ling squeezed her eyes shut, gathering the dregs of defiance. Her mind scrabbled for any shield, any weapon. Not Chinese. Not Japanese. Something else. A language from another life, learned in cold Moscow winters. The curse ripped from her raw throat, guttural and desperate: "*Yob tvoyu mat!*" Fuck your mother! It was a primal snarl, hurled at the torment, at Kenzo’s proximity, at the violation echoing in every nerve ending.



Kenzo didn’t flinch. Instead, a slow, chilling smile spread across his face. He straightened up smoothly, his eyes gleaming with predatory amusement. "*Opyat' trik?*" he replied, his Russian flawless, accentless, the words dripping with icy disdain. Another trick? He chuckled softly, a dry, rasping sound. "*Dostatochno staraya igra, Ling.*" An old game, Ling. He tapped the needle against his palm, his gaze sharpening. "*No khorosho igraesh.*" But you play it well. For a fleeting, terrifying instant, buried beneath the agony and shame, Mei Ling felt a sliver of unwilling, grudging respect. He wasn’t just a brute. He was her mirror in darkness, fluent in her languages, her tactics. Her equal in this grim dance.



Sato moved without needing instruction. He selected a short, wicked-looking needle from the velvet-lined box. He knelt silently before Mei Ling’s shackled right foot. His fingers, cold and impersonal, grasped her big toe, pulling it taut. He positioned the needle tip against the sensitive pad just below the nail bed. Mei Ling’s breath hitched, her eyes widening in fresh terror. Sato drove it in with clinical precision. The pain wasn’t the deep, radiating fire of the thigh or shoulder. It was sudden, sharp, and shockingly intense – a white-hot lance driving straight up her leg, exploding behind her eyes. "*Argh!*" The groan tore from her, involuntary and sharp, her body jerking violently against the restraints. The movement sent fresh waves of agony radiating from the other needle sites, a symphony of torment.



Kenzo leaned back against the trolley, crossing his arms, a picture of detached observation. He watched Mei Ling’s convulsions, the tears welling in her pain-glazed eyes. "Funny," he mused in perfect, crisp English now, his voice devoid of mockery, merely stating a clinical observation. "It’s just a toe. But it still hits hard, doesn’t it?" He tilted his head, studying her reaction like a specimen. "The body’s map is full of such… surprising intersections." He picked up another needle, longer this time, his gaze drifting pointedly towards her restrained left hand. "Now… the bomb workshop. Or shall we explore the nerves in your fingertip? Imagine writing your confession with a trembling hand… on fire."



Sato moved to her pinky finger now, his movements silent and precise. His cold fingers grasped her left hand, forcing it flat against the armrest. He pressed the pad of his thumb firmly into the fleshy intersection where her pinky met her palm, finding the vulnerable nerve cluster beneath the skin. Mei Ling braced herself, her knuckles white, her breath held. Sato positioned the needle. With swift, brutal precision, he drove it deep into the sensitive junction. The pain was sharp, equally immediate, a searing lance that shot up her arm and exploded behind her eyes, mirroring the agony in her toe. "*ARGH!*" Mei Ling’s groan became louder, sharper, a raw gasp torn from her throat as her body jerked violently against the restraints once more. The movement sent fresh waves of torment radiating from every needle site, a cascading symphony of misery.



Kenzo didn’t react to her cry. He simply observed the tremor in her pinned hand, the way her fingers spasmed involuntarily around the needle embedded in the webbing. "Good," he murmured, almost approvingly. "Very responsive." He tapped the long needle he held against his palm, the metallic click echoing in the heavy silence. His gaze, cold and calculating, lifted from her tortured hand to meet her pain-dilated eyes. "The femoral nerve made you scream. The toe made you gasp. The palm made you groan louder. Each point has its own voice." He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to a chilling whisper. "Now… the bomb workshop. Or Sato finds a point that makes you beg. Choose the silence, Mei Ling. Give me the location."



Mei Ling’s breath hitched, ragged and shallow. The agony from the five needles was a constant, pulsing storm, each site radiating its unique brand of torment – the deep, grinding throb in her thigh, the electric jolts from her collarbone, the blinding fire in her shoulder, the sharp, nauseating lance in her toe, and now the searing throb in her palm. Her vision swam at the edges. Kenzo’s proximity, his calm menace, felt suffocating. She squeezed her eyes shut, gathering the tattered remnants of her will. "*Fuck… you…*" she rasped in English, the words thick with pain and defiance, but lacking the force of her earlier curses. It was a shield, paper-thin.



Kenzo’s lips curved into a thin, humorless smile. He straightened, his polished boots clicking on the concrete as he took a slow step back. His gaze drifted deliberately down her restrained form, lingering on the rough smock covering her chest. "No more tricks," he stated flatly. His hand moved with surprising gentleness. He didn’t grab, didn’t pinch. His fingertips brushed lightly, almost caressingly, over the swell of her left breast. The touch was incongruous, terrifying in its mock tenderness. Mei Ling flinched violently, the movement sending fresh agony lancing from her shoulder and collarbone needles, but there was no answering spark of arousal this time, only a cold dread that coiled deep in her gut. The aphrodisiac’s fire was long extinguished, replaced by raw, unadulterated pain. "*Imagine the nerves here…*" Kenzo murmured, his voice soft, almost contemplative, his fingers tracing a slow circle near her nipple. "*So sensitive… so… expressive.*"



Mei Ling’s eyes snapped open, wide with primal terror. "*Bù… bùyào zài nàlǐ…*" she gasped instinctively in her mother tongue, her voice a raw whisper. No… not there… Kenzo’s smile widened, predatory and sharp. He leaned close again, his reply flawlessly fluent in Mandarin, dripping with icy intimacy: "*Shì de… jiù zài nà…*" Yes… right there… His gaze dropped lower, trailing suggestively down her body. "*Yěxǔ… hái yǒu nàlǐ… nǐ de pìgǔ yěxǔ?*" And perhaps… also there… your butt perhaps? He gave a subtle nod. Sato moved instantly, selecting a long, thin needle from the box. He positioned its wickedly sharp tip against the exact spot Kenzo had traced, just below the curve of her breast, perilously close to her nipple. Mei Ling braced, every muscle rigid, a choked whimper escaping her lips. Sato drove the needle in deep, striking the cluster of nerves beneath the tender flesh. The pain was a white-hot lance, searing through her breast, radiating into her armpit and collarbone, igniting the agony of the existing needles there. "*ARGH!!!!! RUGH!!!!*" The groan ripped from her throat, transforming into a raw, guttural scream that echoed off the concrete walls. Her body convulsed violently against the restraints, tears streaming down her face, but she clamped her jaw shut, refusing to let the scream fully escape. She held tight, trembling violently, suspended in a new peak of meticulously applied agony.



Another hour crawled by. Kenzo sat slumped in his chair, chin resting on his fist, his earlier predatory focus replaced by a heavy-lidded boredom. Sato remained a silent statue beside the trolley, hands clasped behind his back, eyes fixed on the wall beyond Mei Ling. Mei Ling sat suspended in her web of torment. Ten needles now glinted wickedly under the harsh lights, each an anchor of specific, unrelenting pain. The femoral needle in her thigh throbbed with a deep, grinding fire. The needle beneath her big toe sent sharp, nauseating jolts up her leg with the slightest tremor. Her collarbone needle pulsed electric agony into her neck and arm. The shoulder needle radiated a constant, blinding ache. Needles embedded near each nipple sent waves of searing sensitivity radiating across her chest with every ragged breath. Needles just above each kneecap made the joints feel locked in burning cement. Two needles high on her back, flanking her spine, stabbed deep aches into her core with every inhalation. Sweat plastered her hair to her scalp, dripped from her chin, and soaked the rough smock. Her breathing was shallow, rapid gasps, each one a conscious effort to avoid triggering the worst of the nerve fire. Her eyes were glazed, unfocused, fixed on some distant point on the ceiling, her jaw clenched so tight her teeth ached.



Kenzo stirred, stretching languidly. He pushed himself out of the chair, the scrape of its legs loud in the heavy silence. He walked slowly around Mei Ling’s suspended form, examining the needles like a disinterested curator. He stopped before her, his polished boots inches from her bare, shackled feet. He crouched down, bringing his face level with hers. His eyes, cold and devoid of any trace of the earlier mockery or even boredom, held only a flat, relentless purpose. "The bomb workshop," he stated, his voice low and utterly devoid of inflection. "Location. Now." He paused, letting the silence stretch, thick with the unspoken promise of the eleventh needle. "Or Sato finds a point that makes you lose control of your bowels. Imagine that humiliation. Choose." He held her pain-dilated gaze, waiting.



This time, Mei Ling didn’t curse. She didn’t spit defiance. She simply closed her eyes, shutting out Kenzo’s predatory stare. Inside, she focused everything on the raw, ragged edges of her will, building a fragile dam against the torrent of agony. She felt Kenzo shift, his presence looming closer. Then, his fingers closed delicately around the base of the needle embedded just below her left breast. He didn’t pull it out. He twisted it. Slowly. Deliberately. A fresh, white-hot lance of fire seared through her nerve endings, radiating outwards in vicious waves. "*ARGH!*" The groan tore from her clenched teeth, involuntary and sharp. He moved to the needle near her nipple, giving it a similar, cruel twist. Another agonizing jolt. Then he was at her collarbone, his fingers finding the needle there. Twist. A fresh electric shock shot down her arm. He moved methodically, almost languidly, around her restrained body – a twist to the needle above her knee, sending a burning lock through the joint; a flick to the needle in her toe, igniting a nauseating spark up her leg. It was a sick, silent piano, Kenzo the maestro, his touch on each needle key sending a unique, devastating chord of pain resonating through her broken frame. Mei Ling’s body jerked with each violation, sweat pouring down her face, her breath coming in desperate, ragged gasps as she fought to contain the screams, clinging to her inner silence.



Kenzo finally stepped back, wiping his fingers on a pristine white handkerchief he pulled from his pocket. He regarded her trembling, sweat-soaked form with a detached coldness. "You are remarkably stubborn," he stated, his voice flat. "But even granite cracks under persistent pressure." He gestured towards Sato. "*Prepare the eleventh point. The sacral plexus.*" Sato moved instantly, selecting a long, thick needle. He positioned himself behind Mei Ling. His cold fingers pressed firmly against the base of her spine, just above the curve of her buttocks, finding the vulnerable nerve cluster near her tailbone. Mei Ling tensed, a whimper escaping her lips. She knew what that meant – a strike there could cripple her legs, could cause uncontrollable spasms. Kenzo leaned in, his voice a chilling whisper directly in her ear. "Last chance, Mei Ling. The workshop location. Or Sato drives this needle deep. You will soil yourself. You will scream until your throat bleeds. And then… we start again with twelve."



The needle tip pressed against her skin, cold and sharp. The threat of utter, degrading loss of control was a physical weight crushing her chest. Her mind raced, clawing for purchase. Chen… the market… they must have moved by now. But the docks… Dock 7… the fish stall… only low-level dead drops. It was a calculated risk, a sliver of information that might be outdated, might be useless. It was the least devastating thing she could offer. Her voice, when it came, was a broken rasp, barely audible. "*No… please… no…*" She gasped, flinching as Sato applied more pressure. "*Dock 7…*" she choked out, the words thick with pain and shame. "*The… the fish stall… we dropped communique there…*"



Kenzo straightened up instantly, his eyes sharpening. He held up a hand, halting Sato. "Communique drops?" he pressed, his voice suddenly alert, devoid of boredom. "At Dock 7? The stall run by Old Man Feng?" Mei Ling nodded weakly, her head lolling forward. "*Hai…*" she whispered. Yes. It was the truth, but a stale one. Feng was likely already gone; the Resistance protocols demanded it after a high-level capture like hers. She prayed they had acted fast. Kenzo paced a few steps, his mind working visibly. "Names?" he demanded, turning back. "Who picked up the drops? Who ran the workshop?" Mei Ling shook her head minutely, the movement sending fresh agony through her neck. "*Bu zhidao…*" Don't know. Her voice was a thread. "*Only… only drops…*" She slumped further, the effort of speaking draining the last dregs of her strength. The needles pulsed, a constant reminder of the cost of even this small betrayal.



Kenzo stared at her for a long moment, his expression unreadable. He glanced at Sato, then back at the broken woman before him. "Remove the needles," he ordered, his voice clipped. "All of them." Sato moved with swift efficiency, his hands steady as he extracted each needle with clinical precision. Each removal brought a fresh gasp or groan, a release of localized torment followed by a deep, aching throb. As the last needle slid free from the nerve below her breast, Mei Ling sagged against the restraints, utterly spent, trembling uncontrollably. Kenzo stepped close again. He didn't touch her. "Dock 7," he repeated softly, almost to himself. Then his gaze locked onto her pain-glazed eyes. "If this is a trick, Ling…" He let the threat hang, cold and absolute, before turning sharply.



"Relay the message, Sato," Kenzo commanded, his voice regaining its crisp authority. "Dock 7. The fish stall. I want it raided now. Sweep the surrounding warehouses. Sweep everything." He pulled a cigarette from his pocket and lit it, the smoke curling lazily in the harsh light. "And take an hour break," he added, his tone shifting to casual indifference as he exhaled. "Bring some lunch when you're back." He waved a dismissive hand towards the door, the order delivered as casually as requesting takeout. "Sukiyaki. Extra beef." Sato snapped a sharp bow. "*Hai, Taichō!*" He turned and strode from the interrogation room, his footsteps echoing down the corridor.



Kenzo leaned back against the trolley, watching Mei Ling through the haze of his cigarette smoke. The silence stretched, thick with the lingering scent of antiseptic, blood, and tobacco. Her ragged breathing was the only sound. He didn't speak, didn't taunt. He simply observed her, his eyes calculating, assessing the depths of her brokenness, the validity of her confession. The minutes crawled by. Mei Ling kept her gaze fixed on the floor, focusing on the cold metal of her ankle shackles, the rough texture of the concrete beneath her bare feet – anything but Kenzo’s penetrating stare. The throbbing ache from the needle sites was a constant, unifying pulse now, a brutal counterpoint to the terrifying stillness.



Exhaustion eventually won. Mei Ling’s eyelids grew heavy, her head lolling forward despite the sharp protest from her neck. She drifted into a thin, uneasy doze, haunted by fragmented images of Chen Wei’s blood and Kenzo’s cold smile. She startled awake minutes later, heart pounding, only to find Kenzo still watching her, a fresh cigarette between his fingers. He offered it to her silently. She hesitated, then accepted, the familiar ritual a bizarre anchor in the nightmare. She took a shallow drag, the smoke burning her raw throat but offering a fleeting, bitter comfort. They smoked in silence, passing the cigarette back and forth until it was a stub Kenzo crushed under his polished boot. The hour stretched, punctuated only by the scrape of Kenzo’s lighter and Mei Ling’s shallow breaths as she slipped in and out of drugged, restless micro-sleeps, desperately hoarding every second of oblivion.



The heavy door finally scraped open. Sato entered, carrying a tray laden with two large, steaming ceramic bowls. The rich, savory aroma of simmering beef, vegetables, and soy broth filled the oppressive room, startlingly potent. He set one bowl and a pair of chopsticks on the trolley beside Kenzo, then placed the second bowl and another set of chopsticks on the edge of the trolley nearest Mei Ling. Kenzo immediately picked up his chopsticks, stirring the contents of his bowl, releasing more steam and fragrance. He plucked a slice of perfectly cooked beef, dripping with broth, and ate it with evident satisfaction. He looked at Mei Ling, then at her untouched bowl. A slow, mocking smile spread across his face. "You haven’t eaten, Ling?" he asked, his voice dripping with false concern. "You must be starving after your… exertions. Sato brought two portions. Surely you want yours?" He gestured towards her bowl with his chopsticks, his eyes glinting with cruel amusement. "Go on. Eat. You need your strength."



"Sato," Kenzo commanded, his mouth full, not looking up from his bowl. "Please… help our guest." Sato snapped to attention. "*Hai, Taichō!*" He picked up Mei Ling’s bowl and chopsticks. Stepping close to her restrained form, he carefully selected a piece of tender beef, a slice of mushroom, and a clump of noodles. He held the chopsticks steady before her lips. Mei Ling hesitated for only a second. The smell was overwhelming, her stomach clenching painfully with hunger beneath the agony. Her jaw ached fiercely, her temples throbbing, but the need for sustenance overrode the pain. She leaned forward slightly, opening her mouth. Sato deftly placed the food inside. The flavors exploded – savory, sweet, slightly salty – rich and complex. It was good. She chewed slowly, carefully, the movement sending sharp twinges through her jaw and neck, but she focused on the taste, the warmth, the simple, grounding act of eating. Sato waited patiently, then offered another bite. And another.



Mei Ling ate everything Sato offered. The tender beef, the slippery mushrooms, the soft tofu, the crisp vegetables, the chewy noodles soaked in the delicious broth. Each bite was a small victory, a reclaiming of a basic human function amidst the degradation. Sato fed her methodically, efficiently, his expression neutral, showing neither pity nor cruelty. The bowl emptied slowly, the warmth spreading through her core, a stark contrast to the cold ache radiating from her nerve points. Finally, Sato held the last bite – a piece of beef glistening with fat. She took it, chewing slowly, savoring the final burst of flavor. She felt full, a heavy, almost uncomfortable fullness in her battered stomach, but it was a tangible anchor to reality. Kenzo had already finished his own meal, setting his bowl aside with a soft clink. He watched her swallow the last morsel, his eyes narrowed.



Sato placed the empty bowl back on the trolley. He picked up a bottle of water, unscrewed the cap, and held it to Mei Ling’s lips. She drank deeply, the cool water washing away the lingering saltiness, soothing her raw throat. She drank until the bottle was half empty. Sato lowered it, recapping it and placing it beside her. Kenzo leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his gaze fixed on Mei Ling’s face, searching for cracks. "See?" he said softly, his voice a low purr. "Wasn’t so bad, if you cooperate, right Ling? A hot meal. Water. A small respite." He gestured vaguely around the torture chamber. "This doesn’t have to be endless agony. Give me the workshop location, the names… and the comforts can become… more frequent." Mei Ling met his gaze. Her eyes were hollowed by exhaustion and pain, but they held no flicker of response to his offer. She simply leaned her head back against the unforgiving chair, closing her eyes, focusing on the sensation of the food settling in her stomach, the cool water inside her, the precious, stolen moment of stillness. She savored the break, hoarding its fleeting comfort like a miser hoards gold, knowing it was the only currency she had left.

[Noctavya]

Chapter 7 : Depravity's Demand



Kenzo leaned back, the chair creaking under his weight, his gaze never leaving Mei Ling’s exhausted face. The silence stretched, thick with the lingering aroma of sukiyaki and the sharp tang of antiseptic. He studied her – the slight flush of nourishment in her cheeks, the way her breathing had steadied, the faint return of tension in her restrained limbs. A predatory smile touched his lips. "Ready for another session, Ling?" he asked, his voice deceptively soft, almost conversational. Mei Ling’s eyes snapped open, wide with dawning dread. The warmth of the meal curdled in her stomach. "Please…" her voice was a raw scrape, barely audible. "No more needles."



Kenzo chuckled, a low, grating sound devoid of humor. "*Good girl,*" he mocked, leaning forward again, resting his elbows on his knees. His eyes glittered with cold amusement. "If you cooperate… no more needles." He let the promise hang, a poisoned bait. Mei Ling stared at the gleaming instruments on the trolley, her mind recoiling from the memory of nerve fire. She clamped her jaw shut, locking the plea inside, her gaze fixed on the cold concrete floor between his polished boots. She wouldn’t beg again. Kenzo watched her stubborn silence, his smile fading into a flat line. He glanced meaningfully at Sato, who stood rigidly by the door, then back at Mei Ling. His voice dropped, turning crude, stripping away the last veneer of interrogation protocol. "Now… how ‘bout sucking our dicks?"



Mei Ling flinched as if struck. Her head jerked up, eyes wide with genuine shock. She’d endured violation, degradation, but this sudden, brutal directness felt like a fresh slap. She hadn’t expected him to discard the pretense so completely. Kenzo’s expression remained impassive, coldly pragmatic. "Sato and I have been interrogating you for hours," he stated, his tone matter-of-fact, as if explaining a necessary chore. "We need release." He gestured vaguely, encompassing the room, the situation. "The Emperor’s men require… maintenance. You understand efficiency." The unspoken reference to the jugun ianfu system hung in the air – the institutionalized rape factories where thousands of women were enslaved. This was merely an extension of that logic, stripped of paperwork. "Don’t act surprised," Kenzo sneered, seeing the revulsion twist her features. "This is not a vacation." He paused, letting the threat solidify, his voice dropping to a venomous whisper. "Or would you prefer those needles back? Lodged in your cunt, perhaps? Your eye?" The image was visceral, horrifying – the polished steel violating her most intimate flesh, piercing the fragile globe of her sight. Mei Ling gagged, bile rising in her throat. Disgust warred with primal terror. She squeezed her eyes shut, trembling violently, but her lips remained sealed, pressed into a tight, bloodless line. Silence was her only shield.



Kenzo watched her rigid stillness, the tremor running through her shackled limbs. He nodded slowly, a decision made. "Sato," he commanded, his voice regaining its crisp authority. "Uncuff her ankles. cuff her wrist behind her back." Sato moved instantly, kneeling to unlock the shackles binding Mei Ling’s feet to the chair. The metal clanked open. Mei Ling instinctively drew her legs up slightly, the sudden freedom jarring. Kenzo stood, unbuckling his belt with deliberate slowness, the leather rasping loudly in the tense silence. He didn’t look at her as he spoke, his focus on his trousers. "On your knees. Between us. Now." The order was flat, absolute. Sato stepped back, positioning himself slightly to Kenzo’s left, his own hand moving towards his belt buckle, his face an unreadable mask. The polished needles on the trolley gleamed under the floodlights, a silent, brutal reminder of the alternative. Mei Ling’s breath hitched. The warmth of the food felt like a lead weight. The ache in her body intensified. Slowly, agonizingly, she slid off the chair, her bare knees hitting the cold concrete with a jarring thud. She shuffled forward on her knees, the rough floor scraping her skin, until she was positioned between the two men, her head bowed, her wrists still bound tightly behind her back. The smell of sandalwood and tobacco mixed with the scent of her own fear. Kenzo’s shadow fell over her.



Mei Ling stared at the polished toes of Kenzo’s boots, inches from her face. The sheer, stomach-churning degradation of the demand – servicing both of them, willingly, on her knees – ignited a spark she thought the needles had extinguished. A wave of pure, cold fury washed over the fear, sharpening her senses. Her motherland. Chen Wei. The Resistance. The faces of those she fought for flashed behind her eyes. To open her mouth for these invaders? To serve them? A tremor ran through her, but it wasn’t fear now. It was revulsion so deep it felt like ice in her veins. Her jaw clenched, teeth grinding together. She lifted her head slowly, meeting Kenzo’s expectant gaze. Her eyes, shadowed and bloodshot, held no submission, only a smoldering, defiant hatred. "No," she rasped, the single word thick with contempt. "Never."



Kenzo’s expression hardened instantly, the predatory glint returning. He noted the shift, the sudden rigidity in her posture, the fire in her eyes where only exhaustion and dread had been moments before. Her refusal, laced with that unmistakable hatred, was a direct challenge. He didn’t waste words. A sharp jerk of his chin towards Sato. "*Needle. Temple.*" Sato moved with terrifying speed. He stepped behind Mei Ling, his hands clamping onto her head like a vice, fingers digging into her jaw and the crown of her skull, locking her head immobile, facing forward. Before she could even gasp, Sato’s other hand flashed – the thin, polished steel needle glinting for a fraction of a second. He drove it deep into the sensitive flesh just above her left temple, near the hairline. The pain was instantaneous and explosive – a white-hot lance of agony that seemed to pierce directly into her brain. Mei Ling’s body convulsed violently against Sato’s iron grip. "**ARGH!**" The scream ripped from her throat, raw and primal, echoing off the concrete walls. Sato held the needle steady for a beat, letting the agony resonate, then gave it a vicious, clinical twist. "**ARGH! STOP!**" Mei Ling shrieked, her vision blurring, tears streaming uncontrollably. Another twist. "**NO! PLEASE!**" The pain was beyond anything she’d known – raw, terrifying, threatening to shatter her mind. Sato pulled the needle out swiftly. Mei Ling sagged in his grip, choking, gasping for air, her body wracked with tremors. The echo of the agony still pulsed through her skull, a terrifying aftershock. They had found her breaking point. The needles. The threat of that specific, mind-shattering pain. Her defiance evaporated, replaced by pure, animal terror. Kenzo watched, a cold satisfaction settling on his features. He knew.



Mei Ling was still trembling, her breath coming in ragged, wet sobs, the ghost of the temple needle’s agony echoing in her skull. Kenzo’s voice cut through her haze, cold and precise. "*The cunt next.*" The words landed like physical blows. Mei Ling flinched violently, a fresh wave of terror washing over her. "**NO!**" she choked out, the sound raw and desperate. "**NO!!!!**" Her body bucked instinctively, trying to curl away, to shield herself, but Sato’s grip tightened, pinning her head firmly. Kenzo moved swiftly, dropping to his knees behind her. His arms snaked around her torso, locking her upper body against his chest in a crushing bear hug, his strength overwhelming her weakened struggles. "**Stop! Don’t!**" she screamed, thrashing wildly, her bound hands useless behind her back. Sato crouched low in front of her, his expression impassive, another needle already held ready. He reached between her spread legs. Mei Ling jerked her hips violently, trying to twist away. Sato’s free hand clamped onto her inner thigh, fingers digging in painfully, trying to hold her still. His other hand probed, seeking the hypersensitive bundle of nerves above her entrance. He missed his target, the needle scraping agonizingly against the raw, lacerated flesh of her labia. "**ARGH!**" Mei Ling shrieked, the pain sharp and nauseating. Both men bore down harder, Kenzo crushing her ribs, Sato pinning her thigh and hips. She couldn’t move. Sato adjusted his grip, his fingers finding the swollen, bruised nub. He positioned the needle’s point directly against it.



Sato drove the needle in. Not deep, but precisely into the hypersensitive cluster of nerves. The pain wasn’t the explosive white fire of the temple. This was different – a searing, intimate agony that radiated outwards in waves, concentrated in her most violated, vulnerable place. It was a violation beyond penetration, a cold, metallic invasion of her very core. "**ARGH!!!!!!**" Mei Ling screamed, the sound tearing from her throat, high-pitched and utterly shattered. Her body went rigid, then spasmed uncontrollably against the men holding her. Sato didn’t pause. He gave the needle a slow, deliberate twist. "**URHG!!!!!!!**" The groan was guttural, animalistic. The pain intensified, a deep, grinding throb mixed with sharp, electric jolts that seemed to shoot into her belly. Another twist. "**ARGH! STOP! PLEASE!**" Mei Ling sobbed, her head thrashing weakly against Kenzo’s chest, tears and snot streaming down her face. The agony was all-consuming, centered on that one brutalized point, amplifying every existing ache and laceration. She could feel the cold steel embedded in her raw flesh, feel every microscopic movement Sato made.



Sato twisted the needle a third time, holding it firmly in place. Mei Ling’s screams dissolved into ragged, agonized groans, "**Hnngh… nngh… urgh…**" Each exhalation was a shuddering gasp of torment. The pain was a living thing, pulsing in time with her frantic heartbeat, radiating heat and humiliation through her entire body. It was a unique, degrading agony – the cold precision of the needle violating the already brutalized, intimate core of her womanhood, amplifying the shame and the physical devastation a hundredfold. Sato held the pose, his face inches from her contorted one, watching her unravel with detached interest. Kenzo’s grip remained unyielding, his breath hot on her neck, a silent, immovable presence ensuring her utter submission. The floodlights glared down, illuminating the tableau: the broken woman pinned between her torturers, the glint of steel protruding obscenely from her most private flesh, her body convulsing with each fresh wave of refined, depraved suffering. The silence that followed her choked groans was heavy, broken only by her ragged breathing and the faint hum of the lights, thick with the promise of more to come. Kenzo waited, letting the full weight of the violation sink in, his eyes fixed on her pain-wracked face.



"Again," Kenzo commanded, his voice low and devoid of inflection. "Press it deeper." Sato didn't hesitate. A cruel, almost imperceptible smile touched his lips as he obeyed, applying steady, remorseless pressure to the needle still lodged in her clitoris. He pushed it deeper into the hypersensitive nerve bundle. Mei Ling’s body arched violently against Kenzo’s crushing hold, her spine bowing as a scream tore from her throat, raw and deafening: "**ARGH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!**" It echoed off the concrete walls, a sound of pure, unadulterated agony. Sato held it there for a beat, savoring the tremor that ran through her, then gave the needle a vicious, clinical twist. "**ARGH!!!!!!!!!!!!**" Another scream ripped out, higher, thinner, fraying at the edges into a desperate, animalistic keen. Her vision swam, darkness threatening to swallow the edges of the harshly lit room. Her muscles locked rigid, every fiber screaming in protest against the intimate torture. Outside the heavy door, the two guards exchanged a knowing glance. One nudged the other, nodding towards the muffled, yet unmistakable shrieks. "Taichō really makes her sing," he muttered, a hint of grim admiration in his voice. "Yeah," the other guard replied, lighting a cigarette. "He’s the best at breaking them. Slow. Methodical. Almost like a game."



Sato twisted the needle again, a slow, deliberate corkscrew motion that ground against the raw nerves. "**ARGHHHHHHHHHHHHHH! STOP! PLEASE!!!!!!!!**" Mei Ling’s voice shattered, dissolving into wet, choking sobs. Her body went limp in Kenzo’s arms, held up only by his brute strength and Sato’s unyielding grip on the needle. She hung there, trembling violently, tears and saliva slicking her face, her breath coming in desperate, shallow gasps that hitched painfully with each residual throb of agony radiating from the needle’s point. The world narrowed to that single, excruciating point of contact – the cold steel embedded deep in her inflamed, violated flesh, the relentless pressure, the grinding twist that seemed to tear something fundamental inside her. Kenzo leaned close, his lips brushing her ear. "So?"



"**Please... no more...**" Mei Ling gasped, the words barely audible, thick with tears and despair. The pain was a white-hot sun, obliterating thought, reducing her to pure, animal need for it to end. She needed time, a breath, anything to escape this intimate, soul-destroying fire. "Anything... just... stop..."



"Again," Kenzo commanded, his voice flat and cold, devoid of mercy.



Sato obeyed instantly. He didn’t twist this time. He jabbed the needle deeper, a sharp, brutal thrust. "**AERGHEEGHHHH!!**" The scream tore out of her, primal and ragged, her body convulsing like a speared fish against their combined hold. Kenzo’s patience, stretched thin by her defiance and the delay, finally snapped. "Enough games! You’ll do it? Or do I let Sato stick her again? "AGAIN!"



Sato twisted the needle once. "**URGH!**" Mei Ling’s head snapped back, cracking against Kenzo’s collarbone. Twice. "**ARGH!**" Her vision whited out. Three times. "**AAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH!**" The shriek was pure, unadulterated agony, echoing off the concrete, vibrating in her own shattered teeth. Sato held the twist, grinding the steel against the raw nerve cluster, his knuckles white with the force. Kenzo leaned in, his voice a venomous hiss in her ear. "AGAIN!"



"**STOP! PLEASE! STOP!**" Mei Ling screamed, the words tearing her throat raw. She bucked wildly, a final, futile spasm against their crushing grips. "**PLEASE!**"



Kenzo nodded. A curt jerk of his chin. Sato stopped. Instantly. The grinding pressure ceased. The needle remained, a cold, obscene intrusion, but the deliberate torture halted. Kenzo didn’t need to ask. The broken, animal terror in her screams, the way her body had gone utterly limp against him – she was broken. For now. "Good," Kenzo noted, his voice flat, devoid of triumph. It was merely an observation. Efficiency achieved.



They let go. Kenzo released the crushing bear hug. Sato withdrew his hands from her thigh and the needle’s base. Mei Ling slumped forward like a puppet with cut strings. Her knees hit the cold concrete hard, but she barely registered it. Her bound wrists behind her back offered no support. She curled inwards instinctively, folding over her knees, trying to make herself small, to shield the violated core where the needle still protruded. Her forehead pressed against the gritty floor. Sobs wracked her frame, harsh, wet gasps that shuddered through her entire body. The pain didn’t vanish. It pulsed – a deep, sickening throb radiating from the needle in her clitoris, echoing the dull aches in her shoulder, collarbone, and thigh. It was a symphony of agony, conducted by cold steel. She squeezed her eyes shut, tears carving hot paths through the grime on her face, her body trembling uncontrollably in the harsh light.



Kenzo stood. He watched her curl into that tight, protective ball, a pathetic, shuddering heap on the concrete. He didn’t speak. He didn’t touch her. He simply let her rest. Let the reality of her utter subjugation sink in. Let the residual agony from Sato’s "refinement" solidify its grip. His polished boots shifted slightly on the floor, the soft scrape loud in the silence broken only by her ragged, broken sobs. He exchanged a glance with Sato, who stood impassively near the trolley, wiping his hands on a cloth. The message was clear: Let her marinate in it. Time was another tool.



Ten long minutes passed. The harsh floodlights beat down. Mei Ling’s trembling subsided into exhausted shivers, her forehead still pressed to the cold floor. The needle remained, a cold, obscene weight anchoring her humiliation. Kenzo finally stirred. He walked a slow circle around her prone form, his footsteps deliberate. He stopped near her head, nudging her shoulder lightly with the toe of his boot. "Sato," he murmured, his voice deceptively soft, almost conversational. "She’s still not complying. Perhaps… her anal opening? Or a nipple?" He let the words hang, savoring the immediate, violent flinch that ran through her curled body. "We have such delicate points there too."



Mei Ling gasped, a raw, choked sound of pure horror. The thought of that cold, polished steel needle violating her anus, or piercing the already tortured, sensitive flesh of her nipple, tore through the fog of pain and exhaustion. It was a fresh abyss opening beneath her. "**Please…**" she whimpered, her voice a shredded whisper against the concrete. "**Stop…**" The plea was reflexive, born of sheer terror, dragging her back to full, agonizing consciousness. She felt utterly exposed, vulnerable beyond measure.



Kenzo didn’t press. He simply turned and walked back to the interrogation chair. He slumped into it with a weary sigh, as if the whole affair was tedious. He pulled out a cigarette, tapped it on the armrest, and lit it with deliberate slowness. He took a long, deep drag, exhaling a plume of smoke that curled towards the ceiling. His eyes, cold and assessing, never left her trembling form on the floor. "You know what I want, Mei Ling," he stated flatly, the smoke curling from his lips. "The choice remains yours. Service… or the needle." He took another slow puff. "Choose wisely. Sato’s precision is… exquisite." The unspoken threat hung heavier than the smoke. Mei Ling squeezed her eyes shut, the image of sinking her teeth into him flashing through her mind, a savage fantasy of defiance. But the cold, persistent throb radiating from the steel still embedded in her clitoris was a brutal, undeniable counterpoint. It wasn’t just pain; it was the promise of infinitely more.



Slowly, painfully, Mei Ling raised her head from the concrete. Sweat and tears streaked her face, her eyes red-rimmed and hollow. She shifted her weight, her movements stiff and awkward, pushing herself onto her knees. Her bound wrists behind her back forced her into an unnatural posture, her back arched, her shoulders straining. She shuffled forward, inch by agonizing inch, towards Kenzo’s chair. Her progress was excruciatingly slow, each shift sending fresh jolts from the needle sites, but there was a strange, almost exotic grace in her brokenness – the famed Shanghai Spider, reduced to crawling on her knees. Kenzo watched, his expression impassive, but his eyes tracked her every move. He didn’t speak. He simply unbuttoned his trousers, freeing his already erect cock, letting it rest against his thigh, glistening slightly in the harsh light. Mei Ling’s shuffling slowed as she neared, her gaze fixed on the floor just before his feet. Her breath hitched, ragged and shallow.



Her head was now level with his groin. She could feel the heat radiating from him. Inches away. She braced herself, closing her eyes tightly, a tremor running through her. She leaned in, her movements hesitant, almost imperceptible. The first touch of his cockhead against her lips was electric, a jolt of revulsion mixed with a terrifying, involuntary awareness. She flinched, a small gasp escaping her. Then, with a shuddering breath that sounded like surrender, she opened her mouth and took him in. The feeling was exquisite for Kenzo – the ultimate degradation of his most formidable adversary, broken and compliant. "Good," he murmured, his voice thick with satisfaction. He placed a hand lightly on the back of her head, not forcing, just guiding. "Don’t think about biting it," he warned softly, his thumb tracing the shell of her ear. "Remember… Sato can hurt you. Real good. Again. And again." It was as if he’d plucked the defiant thought straight from her mind. "Do it better," he commanded, his tone hardening. "Suck like you mean it… or… Sato!" The name was a whip-crack.



The threat of Sato, of the needle twisting again, was immediate, visceral. Mei Ling’s eyes snapped open wide with terror. She sucked with sudden, desperate urgency, her head bobbing frantically. Her bound hands clenched uselessly behind her. She focused solely on the rhythm, on the taste, on avoiding the slightest misstep that might summon Sato and his polished steel. Her movements became frantic, almost feral, driven by pure, animalistic fear. Kenzo leaned back in the chair, a low groan escaping him as he watched her, his fingers tightening slightly in her hair, his gaze fixed on the top of her trembling head.



"Slower, Ling," Kenzo commanded, his voice a low rumble, thick with arousal but laced with absolute control. He tugged gently on her hair, forcing her frantic pace to ease. "Don’t rush." His thumb brushed her temple. "Like you suck your lover." The instruction was obscene, a demand for simulated intimacy amidst torture. Mei Ling flinched, a choked sob vibrating against his shaft. But she obeyed. She slowed. Her movements became deliberate, almost languid. She drew him deep, held him there with a hollow-cheeked suction, then pulled back slowly, her tongue tracing the underside before repeating the agonizingly unhurried rhythm. Her eyes squeezed shut, tears leaking silently down her cheeks, mixing with saliva and sweat. Kenzo’s breathing deepened, his hips lifting slightly to meet her slow, grinding strokes. Time stretched, thick and suffocating. Fifteen long minutes passed, marked only by the wet sounds, Kenzo’s deepening groans, and the oppressive hum of the floodlights. Mei Ling’s jaw ached, her throat burned, but she maintained the torturous, degrading pace, her mind a numb void focused solely on survival.



Finally, Kenzo’s body stiffened. His hand clamped hard on the back of her head, forcing her down as he thrust upwards. A guttural cry tore from him as he pulsed hotly into her throat. Mei Ling gagged violently, her body convulsing against the restraint of his grip. He held her there, buried deep, until the last shudder passed. Then he released her. She jerked back, gasping for air, thick ropes of semen spilling from her lips onto her chin and the filthy smock. She choked, retching, desperately trying to spit the bitter taste onto the floor between gasping breaths, her body heaving with revulsion. Kenzo watched her dispassionately as he tucked himself back into his trousers, fastening them with crisp efficiency. He stood, towering over her kneeling form. "Sato," he stated flatly, his voice devoid of any lingering pleasure. "Your turn." He stepped aside, gesturing towards the chair he’d vacated.



Sato moved without hesitation. He walked past the trembling, spitting Mei Ling, his polished boots clicking on the concrete. He lowered himself into the interrogation chair, his posture rigid, his expression as impassive as ever. He unbuttoned his own trousers, freeing his erection. His gaze, cold and expectant, fixed on Mei Ling. Kenzo leaned against the trolley, lighting another cigarette. "Continue," he ordered Mei Ling, exhaling a plume of smoke. "Sato requires servicing. Don’t make him wait." The command hung in the air, heavy with the unspoken threat of the needles still protruding from her body and the fresh horrors Sato himself could inflict. Mei Ling stared at Sato’s exposed cock, then at Kenzo’s indifferent face, the taste of Kenzo’s seed still thick and vile in her mouth. The abyss yawned wider. She shuffled forward on her knees, her movements leaden with despair, towards the new tormentor in the chair.



Sato’s cock was modest in length but rigid, jutting from a thicket of coarse, untrimmed black hair that spread across his lower abdomen. A faint, musky odor of sweat and stale urine clung to him, starkly different from Kenzo’s sandalwood cologne. Mei Ling forced herself to lean in, her bound hands clenched behind her back. Her stomach churned at the proximity, the intimate foulness assaulting her senses. She hesitated, her lips trembling, revulsion twisting her features into a mask of pure disgust. "Slow… remember," Kenzo murmured from the shadows, his voice a soft, chilling echo that seemed to pluck the thought straight from her mind. She flinched, the memory of his earlier command – and the needle’s agony – crashing over her. With a choked sob, she opened her mouth and took the rigid tip between her lips.



She started sucking, her movements jerky and reluctant at first. Tears welled in her eyes, spilling over and tracing hot paths down her bruised cheeks, mingling with the sweat and grime. She focused on the rhythm Kenzo had demanded – slow, deliberate, hollowing her cheeks with each pull. The coarse hair scratched against her chin and nose with every bob of her head. The taste was bitter, earthy, utterly repulsive. She gagged, her throat convulsing, but forced herself to continue, her body trembling with the effort of suppressing her nausea. Sato remained utterly still, his hands resting on the arms of the chair, his breathing shallow and controlled, his dark eyes watching her detachedly, like a scientist observing an experiment.



Kenzo watched the tableau, a faint, cold satisfaction in his eyes as Mei Ling serviced his subordinate with the same broken compliance she’d shown him. The harsh lights gleamed on Sato’s polished boots and the needles still embedded in Mei Ling’s shoulder, thigh, and the obscene steel protruding from her clitoris. Her muffled sobs and the wet, rhythmic sounds filled the sterile room. Kenzo took a slow drag from his cigarette, the ember glowing bright in the dim corner. "Good," he stated flatly, the word devoid of warmth. "Maintain the pace. Sato appreciates… thoroughness." The promise of continued agony if she faltered hung unspoken in the heavy air. Mei Ling squeezed her eyes shut, surrendering to the rhythm, her world reduced to the repulsive taste, the scratch of hair, the burn of tears, and the cold dread of what came next.



Sato lasted ten minutes. His rigid posture, his impeccable stillness, the mask of detached obedience – it all held until the very precipice. His knuckles whitened on the chair arms, a tremor ran through his thighs, and his spine arched almost imperceptibly. Then, with a sudden, choked gasp that shattered his usual silence – "***Argh!***" – his hips jerked upwards, forcing himself deeper into Mei Ling’s mouth as he pulsed violently. His release was thick and copious, flooding her throat. Mei Ling instinctively wrenched her head back, gagging violently, thick ropes of semen spilling over her chin and onto her stained smock. She retched, desperately trying to spit the vile taste onto the concrete floor between ragged, choking gasps, her body convulsing with revulsion.



"Good," Kenzo noted, his voice clipped and utterly devoid of inflection. He stubbed out his cigarette with finality. Sato, already tucking himself away, his face a carefully reconstructed mask of impassivity save for a faint flush high on his cheeks, stood and smoothed his uniform. Kenzo didn’t look at Mei Ling, still coughing and shuddering on her knees. "Take her back to her cell," he ordered, raising his voice slightly towards the door. The two guards who had been waiting outside stepped in immediately. "We start again tonight."



The guards entered and moved swiftly. Mei Ling didn’t resist. She didn’t speak. She barely registered the rough hands hauling her upright by her bound arms, the fresh jolts of agony from the needles as they jostled her. Respite. That was the only thought cutting through the haze of pain, humiliation, and disgust. A few hours in the cell’s relative darkness, away from the lights, the needles, the demands. She needed it. Desperately. She hung limply between the guards as they half-dragged, half-marched her from the room, leaving Kenzo and Sato amidst the lingering scent of smoke, sweat, and violation.

[Noctavya]

Chapter 8 : The Brief Respite



The guards dumped Mei Ling unceremoniously onto the cold concrete floor of her cell. The sudden impact sent fresh waves of agony radiating from the ghostly memory of the needles – her shoulder, thigh, collarbone, and the raw, violated flesh between her legs all throbbed in unison. Mercifully, Sato had extracted the steel before they’d dragged her out, each withdrawal a sharp, sickening tug that left behind a deep, hollow ache. Her wrists, freed from the cuffs, felt unnervingly light, the skin raw and abraded. A bucket of tepid, greyish water sloshed beside her. She understood. Cupping trembling hands, she scrubbed furiously at her face, her chin, her neck, trying to erase the vile, clinging residue, the bitter taste still coating her tongue. The water turned murky.



A tin cup of lukewarm water appeared just inside the bars. She gulped it down, the liquid barely touching the parched desert of her throat. Moments later, the medical examiner arrived – the same stoic, silent man from before. His expression remained impassive as he took in her trembling form, the fresh bruises blooming on her pale skin. "Pain killer," she rasped, the words scraping like sandpaper. "Please." He met her desperate plea with cold, detached eyes. "Interrogation still in session," he stated flatly, his tone devoid of sympathy. Before she could protest, he gripped her arm, not roughly but firmly, and plunged a syringe into the muscle of her upper arm. The sting was sharp, brief. He withdrew the needle, turned on his heel, and left without another word. The cell door clanged shut, the lock engaging with a heavy, final sound.



Alone. Utterly alone. The strange injection left a cold trail up her arm, but offered no relief. The urgent pressure in her bladder was undeniable. Shuffling painfully to the bucket, she lowered herself, wincing as the movement pulled at the deep bruises on her inner thighs and the raw, swollen tissues beneath. The stream was hot, stinging, a humiliating necessity performed in the echoing silence. Finished, she crawled back to her corner, dragging the thin, scratchy blanket with her. She wrapped it tightly around her shoulders, pulling it over her head like a shroud, trying to vanish into the scratchy wool. Curled into a tight, protective ball, knees drawn to her chest, the dam broke. Deep, wracking sobs shuddered through her frame – silent tears at first, then harsh, gasping cries that echoed off the bare walls. The images flooded her: Kenzo’s detached cruelty, Sato’s cold penetration, the polished gleam of the needles, the obscene violation, the taste, the smell, the utter, soul-crushing degradation. Humiliation burned hotter than the lingering physical pain.



Exhaustion, deeper than any she had ever known, finally overwhelmed the tide of anguish. The sobs subsided into shuddering breaths, then into shallow, hitching gasps. Her body, pushed far beyond its limits, surrendered. The harsh lights of the corridor bled through the blanket’s coarse weave, painting red patterns against her closed eyelids. The throbbing aches from her wounds became a distant drumbeat. Consciousness dissolved into a thick, merciful blackness, pulling her under into a sleep devoid of dreams, a temporary escape from the nightmare that waited just beyond the cell door. The silence of the cell was absolute, broken only by her ragged, slowing breaths.





Chapter 9 : A Night with Sato



The guards came without warning. The cell door clanged open violently, floodlights blinding Mei Ling as she jerked awake from her shallow, nightmare-filled sleep. No clinical detachment this time – one guard yanked the blanket off her with a grunt, the other jammed his rifle muzzle painfully into her ribs. "Up! Now!" he barked, his voice thick with an unfamiliar, raw aggression. Disoriented, trembling, Mei Ling scrambled to her knees, the cold concrete biting into her skin. "Please," she gasped, the urgent pressure in her bladder sharp and undeniable. "I need to... the bucket..." The guard who'd prodded her sneered, shoving her towards the door. "No time. Hurry!" Before she could protest, he snapped a cold metal cuff around her left wrist, the other end held tightly in his grip, and hauled her stumbling into the corridor. The rough treatment, the palpable shift from cold professionalism to open hostility, sent a fresh spike of fear through her exhaustion.



They didn't take her back to the familiar interrogation room. Instead, they dragged her down a different corridor, colder and echoing louder, to a heavy steel door. Inside, the space was starkly different. Harsh lights glared down on a large, polished metal table bolted to the center of the concrete floor. The walls were bare except for a massive, imposing Rising Sun flag painted directly onto the concrete behind the table. A metal tray holding unfamiliar, sinister-looking instruments gleamed beside an ominous, boxy mechanical device bristling with dials and thick wires – a large electrical battery. The familiar interrogation chair was pushed against a far wall, unused. Sato stood waiting beside the table, his posture rigid, his expression utterly unreadable. "Strap her to the table," he commanded, his voice flat and devoid of inflection. The guards didn't hesitate. They hauled Mei Ling forward, ignoring her weak struggles, and forced her onto the cold metal surface. Leather straps were cinched brutally tight around each wrist and ankle, stretching her spread-eagled, utterly vulnerable, the cold seeping into her bones. Her chest rose and fell rapidly, the new room's sterile chill feeling deeper, more menacing than the clinical horror of before.



Sato moved closer, his polished boots clicking on the concrete. He looked down at her, his dark eyes giving nothing away. "Miss Mei Ling," he stated, his tone unnervingly calm. "I will preside over the night session. Kenzo Taicho has been summoned to the General's residence." The news hit Mei Ling like a physical blow. Kenzo absent? Relief warred instantly with terror. She knew Kenzo's patterns, his cruel games, the terrifying rhythm of his torture. Sato was an enigma – silent, efficient, and utterly unpredictable. Was this good? A reprieve from Kenzo's psychological torment? Or bad? Did Sato harbor a deeper, more brutal sadism, freed from his superior's calculated control? His impassive face offered no clue. He simply turned to the tray of instruments, his hand hovering over a long, wicked-looking probe connected to the battery by thick, insulated cables. The silence stretched, thick with dreadful anticipation.



Sato gestured to the guards flanking the door. "You will remain. Assist as required." His voice was flat, an order devoid of inflection. Both guards snapped a sharp "Hai, Lieutenant!" Their boots shifted almost imperceptibly on the concrete, ready. Mei Ling’s mind, sharp even through the haze of exhaustion and residual pain, registered the precaution. No Kenzo. Sato brought muscle. He’s wary. Or he intends something requiring extra hands. She filed the observation away, a tiny shard of potential leverage in her shattered world. Sato turned back to her, his gaze sweeping over her body stretched taut on the cold metal. A flicker of something – not lust, but a cold appraisal – crossed his features. "Tonight," he began, his voice dropping to a low murmur that somehow carried in the sterile room, "we will get to know more about each other." A pause. "And thank you... for earlier. Your... service." The pause before 'service' was deliberate, heavy with mocking degradation. "It was... Great.. I must admit... one of the best... you know your trait well"



He stepped closer, the harsh light casting deep shadows across his angular face. "Kenzo Taicho," Sato continued, almost conversationally, his eyes fixed on the gleaming probe, "was different. Methodical. Subtle. Psychological." He picked up the probe, testing its weight. "I," he stated, turning the cold metal tip towards her exposed inner thigh, "am more... old fashioned." The implication hung heavy in the air: raw, physical pain. Brutal efficiency. Mei Ling braced, her muscles tensing against the leather restraints, her eyes squinting against the blinding floodlights. Her body, stretched taut on the table, showed only faint bruises, the tiny puncture wounds from the needles almost invisible. She looked pristine, untouched. The agony was internal, a deep, throbbing memory in her nerves and her violated flesh, but no permanent damage was visible. Sato’s gaze swept over her again, as if reading her thoughts. "It has been two days," he stated flatly. "You are still not damaged. Permanently. Pain, yes. Humiliation, certainly. But far from harmed." He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to a chilling whisper. "We could do this for a very long time, Miss Mei Ling. Weeks. Months. Your body will endure. Your mind…" He let the threat trail off.



Sato moved to the large electrical battery, a hulking, ominous presence beside the table. He picked up the twin rods attached to its thick cables. They were substantial, heavy steel, each ending in a broad, flat contact plate, far larger and more menacing than the slender probes used before. "This," he announced, holding them up for her to see, "delivers a much deeper current. More… profound." He gestured sharply to the guards. "Apply the conductive gel. Generously." The guards snapped to attention, their earlier hostility replaced by a grim eagerness. One snatched a large tub of thick, clear gel from the tray. He scooped out a glistening handful and began slathering it roughly onto Mei Ling’s skin – her arms, her shoulders, her stomach, her thighs. The gel was cold, viscous, and smelled faintly medicinal. It felt invasive, violating, as his calloused hands spread it over her breasts, down her ribs, coating her skin in a slick, shimmering layer. "Inside her cunt too," Sato commanded, his voice devoid of inflection. The guard didn’t hesitate. He scooped more gel and, with brutal efficiency, shoved two thick fingers deep into her vagina, twisting and spreading the cold substance inside her raw, sensitive tissues. Mei Ling gasped, arching her back involuntarily against the restraints, a fresh wave of humiliation washing over her. "And her backside," Sato added calmly. Mei Ling’s eyes flew open wide, pure terror flashing in them. "*No!*" she choked out, but the guards were already moving. One grabbed her hips, lifting them slightly off the cold metal. The other guard scooped more gel and casually, almost dismissively, smeared a thick glob over her anal opening, pushing a fingertip just inside. The cold intrusion was brief but deeply violating. Her hips were lowered back onto the table with a thud. She lay there, slick and glistening from the gel, utterly exposed, trembling with fear and revulsion.



Sato stepped back to the battery, his movements deliberate. He flipped several heavy switches. A low, ominous hum filled the room, vibrating through the metal table and into Mei Ling’s bones. The lights seemed to flicker momentarily. He adjusted a large dial with a heavy clunk. "I will need your communications code, your encryption details today, Miss Mei Ling," Sato stated, his voice cutting through the hum. He picked up the twin rods, their broad contact plates gleaming under the harsh lights. He held one in each hand, the cables trailing behind him like the tails of monstrous serpents. He stepped towards the head of the table, his eyes locked on hers. "You think the needles were your weak point… maybe…" A cold, almost imperceptible smile touched his lips. "We’ll about to find out." He paused, his gaze boring into her, seeming to read the frantic calculations, the desperate fear in her mind. "Now… I like it manual," he continued, his voice dropping to a low, chilling murmur. "I like to hold the wheels, as the Americans said. I like to steer the electricity… to where I want it." He raised the rods slowly, the humming growing louder, the air crackling with potential energy. Mei Ling stared at the approaching plates, the terror threatening to paralyze her. Then, a spark of defiance, raw and desperate, flared within her. She gathered her breath, her chest heaving. "*Fuck you!*" she spat, her voice hoarse but laced with venom. "*Japanese dog!*" The insult hung in the charged air. Sato’s expression didn’t change, but his eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly.



He didn't hesitate. With terrifying speed, he slammed the broad contact plates against her body – one flat onto her slick, gel-covered left breast, the other onto her inner thigh, high up near her groin. The jolt that ripped through Mei Ling was beyond anything she had ever experienced. It wasn’t a sharp sting; it was a massive, convulsive hammer blow of pure energy. Her entire body instantly locked into a rigid, agonizing arch, every muscle contracting violently against the leather restraints. A guttural, inhuman scream tore from her throat, raw and ragged, echoing off the bare concrete walls. The current surged, a deep, bone-rattling vibration that felt like it was liquefying her insides. Her vision whited out, replaced by blinding, searing pain that obliterated all thought, all sense of self. The smell of ozone and singed gel filled her nostrils. Time ceased to exist; there was only the endless, shattering agony.



Sato held the rods firm, his face a mask of cold concentration. He watched her body spasm uncontrollably, her screams dissolving into choked, wet gasps. Then, with deliberate slowness, he dragged the plate on her breast downward, grinding it over her ribs and across her gel-slicked abdomen. The current followed the path of the metal, a wave of fresh, excruciating fire blazing across her skin and deep into her core. He simultaneously lifted the thigh plate slightly, repositioning it higher, pressing it cruelly against the soft, vulnerable flesh of her lower belly, just above her pubic bone. The dual assault – the dragging burn and the renewed, focused jolt – forced a fresh, strangled shriek from Mei Ling’s raw throat. Her body thrashed like a speared fish, the restraints biting deep into her wrists and ankles. Sato’s eyes remained fixed on her contorted face, studying the precise effect of each movement, each adjustment of the current’s path. He was steering the agony, sculpting it.



The current cut off abruptly as Sato took the pad off her body. Mei Ling collapsed back onto the cold metal, gasping, her body twitching uncontrollably in the aftermath. Every nerve screamed. Her skin felt scorched beneath the gel. Sato leaned close, his breath hot against her ear. "The code," he demanded, his voice a low, dangerous rasp. "The cipher key. Now." Mei Ling sucked in air, her vision swimming. The pain was all-consuming, a tidal wave threatening to drown her. But beneath it, a stubborn ember flickered. She remembered Chen Wei’s face, the network, the bombs hidden across the city. She focused on the taste of her own blood where she’d bitten her tongue. She shook her head weakly, a tiny, defiant movement. Sato straightened up, his expression hardening. He raised the rods again, the hum of the battery swelling back to life, louder this time. The guards shifted, their eyes wide, anticipating the next wave. Sato’s gaze swept over her trembling form, settling on her face. "Very well," he murmured, almost to himself. The plates descended again – one aimed directly at her solar plexus, the other hovering near her armpit, poised to deliver agony along a major nerve pathway. The air crackled. Mei Ling braced, her muscles locking in terrified anticipation. The seconds stretched, unbearable. Then, Sato slammed the contacts home.



"ARGHHHH!" Mei Ling’s scream ripped through the room, raw and ragged. The needles yesterday? That was a stinging insect bite compared to this roaring beast tearing through her core. Sato hadn’t lied. This battery was a monster, its power dwarfing yesterday’s toy. He wielded the pads like a maestro’s baton, conducting her torment. Pressing them close together meant a searing, focused inferno concentrated in a small patch of flesh. Spreading them wider sent a broader, thrumming wave of agony coursing through her limbs, less intense in any one spot but more pervasive, more inescapable. He alternated, experimenting, learning her body’s responses, mapping her pain thresholds with chilling precision. "ARGH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" The shriek tore from her as Sato pressed both cold, gel-slicked plates directly onto her nipples. The current exploded through the hypersensitive nerves, a white-hot lance of pure torment that arched her spine impossibly high off the table, her scream dissolving into a choked, silent rictus of agony. Her vision tunneled, darkness threatening at the edges.



Sato held the pads firm for a long, excruciating moment, watching her body convulse, her mouth open in a soundless scream. Then, with deliberate slowness, he dragged the right pad down her ribcage, the current leaving a trail of searing fire in its wake, while simultaneously lifting the left pad slightly and repositioning it against the side of her neck, just below her jawline. The dual assault – the dragging burn across her ribs and the sudden, paralyzing jolt to her neck and head – forced a guttural, animalistic groan from her throat. Her limbs thrashed against the restraints, the leather straps biting deep. Sato’s eyes were cold, analytical, completely detached. He wasn’t just inflicting pain; he was dissecting her resistance, probing for the breaking point with clinical brutality. He adjusted the dial again, the hum deepening, vibrating the table beneath her. He moved the neck pad down, pressing it firmly against her collarbone, while sliding the other pad lower, grinding it over her hip bone. The current surged anew, a deep, bone-rattling thrum that felt like it was shaking her apart from the inside. Tears streamed uncontrollably down her face, mingling with the conductive gel. The smell of ozone and singed gel was overpowering. Sato leaned in, his voice cutting through the electrical roar and her ragged gasps. "The code," he repeated, the demand flat, absolute. "Fuck you!" Mei ling gasped as she tried to inhale "Fuck you, you... Japanese dog!" Sato’s expression didn’t flicker. He simply pressed the pads harder, the current intensifying, focusing the agony into two white-hot points of pure, shattering torment. Her scream this time was a raw, tearing sound, echoing off the bare concrete walls, a testament to the raw power he commanded. The harsh overhead lights flickered violently, dimming for a split second as if the building itself recoiled from the surge he unleashed, plunging the scene into a momentary, terrifying darkness before flaring back to life.



The heavy steel door slammed open with a jarring crash, startling Sato mid-jolt. He instinctively ripped the pads away from Mei Ling’s tortured flesh, the current cutting off abruptly. Kenzo Yamamoto stood framed in the doorway, his uniform immaculate, his expression unreadable as he surveyed the scene: Mei Ling twitching violently on the table, slick with gel, her skin flushed and angry; Sato frozen beside her, rods in hand; the two guards snapping rigidly to attention. Sato recovered instantly, snapping off a sharp salute. "*Taichō!*" Kenzo stepped inside, his polished boots clicking on the concrete. His gaze swept over Mei Ling’s shuddering form before settling on Sato. "You may resume, Sato," Kenzo stated, his voice cool and detached. He walked calmly to a metal stool pushed against the wall, sat down, and crossed his legs. "You're the lead interrogator tonight. I'll just sit and... evaluate." "*Hai!*" Sato saluted again, his face reverting instantly to its impassive mask. He turned back to Mei Ling with unnerving composure, seemingly oblivious to his captain’s presence mere feet away. He raised the rods, the hum of the battery swelling back to life. "The code!" he barked, his voice regaining its flat command. He slammed the broad contact plate against the tender, gel-slicked sole of Mei Ling’s right foot. "ARGHHHH!" The jolt shot up her leg, locking her muscles, her scream tearing from her raw throat. Sato lifted the pad. "The code!" he demanded again, instantly pressing the other pad high into her left armpit, against the hollow point he seemed to favor. Her clean-shaven armpit, an anomaly Sato had noted earlier, glistened obscenely under the lights. The current surged, focused and brutal, tearing a choked gasp from her. Sato withdrew it. "THE CODE!" His voice was a whip-crack. He pressed the pad dangerously low, just below her pubic bone, hovering near her exposed cunt, the metal plate humming with lethal potential. Mei Ling braced, trembling violently, her eyes wide with terror fixed on the poised instrument.



Sato held the pad near her groin, the current humming audibly, the air crackling. His eyes, cold and focused solely on Mei Ling, showed no flicker of awareness towards Kenzo observing silently from his stool. "TALK!" Sato stated, his voice devoid of inflection. Mei Ling squeezed her eyes shut, her jaw clenched tight against the scream threatening to erupt. She shook her head weakly, a tiny, desperate movement. Sato’s expression hardened. He didn't hesitate. With brutal efficiency, he drove the pad firmly against the soft, vulnerable flesh just below her pubic mound, avoiding direct contact with her labia but pressing hard enough to send the deep current surging into the nerve-rich region. "AAAAAGH!" The scream ripped from her with visceral force, her body arching impossibly high off the metal table, every muscle straining against the leather straps. The agony was blinding, centered deep in her pelvis, radiating outwards like liquid fire. Sato held it firm, his gaze locked on her contorted face, studying the precise moment her defiance shattered into pure, animal suffering. Kenzo watched impassively from his stool, one hand resting lightly on his knee, his expression unreadable, observing Sato’s technique, the prisoner’s reaction, the efficiency of the torment.



Sato lifted the pad after a long, agonizing five seconds. Mei Ling collapsed back, gasping, choking, her body wracked with violent tremors. Sweat and gel slicked her skin. Sato stepped back slightly, lowering the rods but not turning off the battery. Its ominous hum filled the heavy silence. He glanced down at Mei Ling, her eyes unfocused, her breath coming in ragged, wet sobs. "You see?" Sato addressed her, his tone almost conversational, yet chillingly devoid of empathy. "This is pointless. The pain will only deepen." He gestured subtly towards Kenzo, acknowledging his presence for the first time since resuming. "Taichō is here. He sees your stubbornness. He sees your weakness. He sees how long you can truly endure." Sato paused, letting the words sink in, letting the threat of Kenzo's silent observation amplify the pressure. "Give me the code. End this. Now."



Mei Ling’s head lolled weakly on the cold metal. The pain was a universe, vast and consuming. Sato’s words buzzed like distant flies. Weakness? The insult cut through the fog of agony. A spark ignited deep within the wreckage of her will. It wasn't courage; it was pure, distilled fury. Her eyes snapped open, focusing with sudden, terrifying clarity on Sato’s impassive face inches away. Her lips peeled back from her teeth in a snarl. "Fuck you," she rasped, the words thick with venom. "Fuck your mum." Sato blinked, a flicker of surprise breaking his mask. Mei Ling found her voice, raw and shredded but gaining strength fueled by utter contempt. "Fuck your dog!" Her gaze shifted past Sato, locking onto Kenzo sitting calmly on his stool. "Fuck your fucking taicho!" The Japanese curse ripped out, harsh and guttural. The code was vital. Drop points could be changed. The code? That unlocked everything. Lives depended on it. Millions. Her defiance crystallized. "FUCK YOUR EMPEROR!" she screamed directly at Kenzo, the ultimate blasphemy echoing off the walls.



Sato reacted instantly, his face hardening into stone. Before Mei Ling could draw another breath, he slammed both broad contact plates onto her breasts with brutal force. The gel ensured perfect contact. The deep, bone-jarring hum surged into a deafening roar. The current hit Mei Ling like a freight train. It wasn't just agony; it was annihilation. Her body convulsed violently, lifting completely off the table, straining against the leather restraints with terrifying force. Every muscle locked in a rigid, excruciating spasm. A soundless scream tore from her gaping mouth, her eyes rolling back until only the whites showed. The intense electrical firestorm consumed her nervous system utterly. Her limbs jerked in violent, uncontrolled spasms. Sato held the pads firm, his knuckles white, his expression utterly cold, watching the life-force being brutally shocked out of her. The overhead lights flickered wildly again, plunging the room into strobing flashes of light and shadow.



After precisely seven seconds of maximum current, Mei Ling’s convulsions ceased abruptly. Her body went utterly limp, collapsing back onto the metal table with a heavy thud. Only the faintest tremor ran through her limbs. Her head lolled to the side, eyes closed, mouth slack. She was completely unconscious, utterly broken. Sato lifted the pads. The sudden silence was profound, broken only by the fading hum of the battery and Mei Ling’s shallow, ragged breathing. Sato glanced impassively at Kenzo. "*Taichō*," he stated flatly, "she is unconscious." Kenzo remained seated on his stool, his expression unchanged. He studied Mei Ling’s motionless form for a long moment, then gave a single, slow nod. "Keep going. The code is important. She'll held out off course, don't beat yourself too hard Sato" his words reinvigorates Sato.



Sato placed the rods on the trolley and retrieved a small brown bottle. He uncapped it, releasing a pungent, eye-watering chemical stench that cut through the lingering ozone. Kneeling beside the table, he waved the open bottle vigorously beneath Mei Ling’s nostrils. Her head jerked reflexively. A choked, gagging gasp tore from her throat as the ammonia fumes assaulted her senses. Her eyes flew open, wide and unfocused, streaming tears instantly. She coughed violently, her whole body spasming weakly against the restraints. "*Welcome back,*" Sato stated, his voice devoid of warmth or mockery, merely factual. He recapped the bottle and set it aside. Mei Ling blinked rapidly, trying to clear her blurred vision, the searing agony in her breasts and pelvis flooding back instantly, amplified by the jarring return to consciousness. She whimpered, a low, broken sound.



Sato didn’t touch her again immediately. He walked calmly back to the battery unit. His hand rested on the large voltage dial. With deliberate care, he turned it counter-clockwise, reducing the setting significantly. The deep hum softened noticeably. He watched the dial’s indicator settle at a lower mark. This wasn’t mercy; it was recalibration. Maximum voltage risked permanent damage or death before yielding the cipher key. A lower setting promised prolonged, controllable agony – a scalpel instead of a hammer. Sato picked up the rods again, the pads gleaming wetly. He turned to face Mei Ling, his gaze locking onto her terrified eyes. He raised the rods slowly, deliberately, letting the softer hum fill the charged silence. Mei Ling stared at the approaching metal, her breath hitching in ragged, panicked gasps. The terror was absolute, primal. Sato paused, the pads hovering inches above her trembling abdomen. "The code," he demanded, his voice low and relentless. "Now."



Mei Ling squeezed her eyes shut, shaking her head violently from side to side. "No!" she choked out, the word thick with despair and defiance. Sato acted instantly. He pressed the broad contact plate firmly against the soft, clean-shaven hollow of her left armpit. The current surged – lower voltage, but the contact was intimate, invasive. The pain wasn't the explosive firestorm of before; it was a deep, grinding thrum, like a drill bit boring into bone and nerve. "**Nnngh!**" Mei Ling gasped, her body stiffening. Sato held the pad steady, unwavering. The seconds stretched. Five. Ten. The agony intensified steadily, building pressure inside her shoulder, radiating down her arm and up her neck. It was a relentless tide, drowning her senses. Her jaw clenched, teeth grinding audibly. Sweat poured down her temples. Fifteen. The low hum was a constant backdrop to her ragged, tortured breathing. The pain became a living thing, coiling deep within her, eroding her resolve grain by grain. . A low, continuous moan escaped her lips. Sato watched her face intently, noting the tremors intensifying, the tears streaming freely, the way her fingers clawed uselessly against the restraints. He maintained the pressure, unwavering. The endurance drain was cumulative, insidious.



He finally lifted the pad. Mei Ling sagged, gasping, her body slick with sweat and gel. Before she could draw a full breath, Sato shifted smoothly. He pressed the second pad firmly against her right breast, centering it over the swollen, hypersensitive nipple. The lower voltage surged again. "**ARGH!**" The cry was sharp, involuntary. The agony was focused, intimate – a deep, pulsing burn concentrated in the already brutalized flesh. Sato held it firm. Five seconds. The pain built, layer upon layer, merging with the lingering ache in her armpit into a suffocating blanket of torment. Her back arched weakly. Ten seconds. Sato lifted the breast pad. Instantly, without pause, he drove the other pad against her left temple, just above the hairline where the needle had pierced earlier. Two seconds. Brutal. Precise. "**AAAAHHHH!**" The scream was pure, shattered glass. White-hot agony detonated inside her skull, blinding, consuming. Her vision whited out. Her body convulsed violently, every muscle locking. Sato lifted the pad exactly at two seconds. Mei Ling collapsed back, utterly limp, her mind reeling in a void of fragmented pain and disorientation. Her eyes rolled, unfocused. She whimpered, a broken, animal sound. Sato stood silently, observing her shattered state, the rods humming softly at his sides. The brief respite was over.



Sato stepped forward, positioning himself deliberately between her spread legs. He lowered the rod in his right hand, letting the broad contact plate hover menacingly just above her exposed vulva, slick with gel and sweat. The hum vibrated the air inches from her most violated flesh. He didn't touch her yet. His eyes, cold and devoid of any shred of humanity, locked onto her unfocused ones. "The code," he stated, his voice flat, absolute, cutting through her daze. It wasn't a question. It was the final demand. The metal plate hovered, humming with lethal promise, poised to deliver agony directly into her core. Mei Ling stared up at him, her breath shallow hitches, her body trembling uncontrollably. The sum of the prolonged torture, the relentless assault on her nerves, the crushing humiliation, the terrifying proximity of the humming metal – it formed a suffocating weight. Her jaw worked soundlessly. Sato leaned forward slightly, the pad dipping fractionally closer. "Now."



Mei Ling’s lips parted. A ragged breath escaped, forming not words, but a fragmented, venomous whisper, forced out syllable by agonizing syllable: "Fu...c...k... y...o...u..." The defiance was weak, brittle, barely audible, yet it echoed with a core of unbroken hatred. Sato’s impassive mask cracked. Not with anger, but with a chilling, predatory satisfaction. A thin, cruel smile touched his lips. He saw it – the desperate defiance masking utter vulnerability. The final barrier crumbling. He drove the contact plate down with brutal, clinical force, pressing it firmly against her swollen clitoris and the raw, lacerated folds beneath. The lower-voltage current surged instantly, a deep, penetrating thrum that bypassed skin and muscle, lancing directly into the hypersensitive nerve cluster. Mei Ling’s body arched off the table like a drawn bowstring, every muscle locking rigid. Her mouth gaped wide in a silent, airless scream. Five seconds. The current pulsed relentlessly, a focused, intimate violation that ignited pure electrical fire deep within her pelvis, radiating outwards in waves of excruciating sensation. It wasn't just pain; it was a grotesque parody of sensation, hijacking nerves meant for pleasure and twisting them into instruments of shattering torment.



On the fourth second, the rigid strap creaks hard. Mei Ling’s body erupted into violent, uncontrollable spasms. Her hips bucked wildly against the pad, jerking upwards in frantic, desperate arcs. Her thighs slammed against the leather restraints, the straps biting deep into her flesh, creaking loudly under the sudden, savage strain. Her back twisted, her shoulders wrenched against the cuffs, her head snapped side to side. It was a grotesque, involuntary dance of pure neurological overload, muscles firing randomly against the relentless electrical current invading her core. A guttural, primal sound tore from her throat, building rapidly into a deafening, ear-splitting shriek that ripped through the interrogation chamber: "**ARGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!**" It was a sound beyond words, beyond humanity – pure, distilled agony given voice. Her eyes rolled back, showing only the whites. Drool flecked her chin. Sato held the pad firm, unmoved by the horrific convulsions, his cruel smile fixed as he watched her nervous system disintegrate under his precise, calculated assault. The lights overhead flickered violently again, plunging the scene into stuttering flashes of light and shadow, illuminating her thrashing form in stark, nightmarish tableaus.



The shriek died abruptly as Sato lifted the pad at the precise five-second mark. Mei Ling collapsed instantly, boneless, onto the cold metal. Only the faintest tremors ran through her limbs, aftershocks of the brutal electrocution. Her breathing was shallow, rapid gasps. Tears streamed silently down her temples, mingling with sweat and gel. Sato straightened, observing her shattered state with detached interest. He glanced towards Kenzo, who remained seated on his stool, his expression unreadable, a silent monument to institutionalized cruelty. Sato turned back to the trolley, his hand hovering near the brown ammonia bottle. The silence stretched, thick with ozone and the fading echoes of her scream. The code remained unspoken, a fragile victory buried beneath layers of unimaginable pain. But Sato’s posture was clear: the interrogation was far from over. The rods hummed softly, ready.



Kenzo shifted slightly on his stool. The movement was small, deliberate. His voice cut through the charged silence, low and chillingly calm. "Sato." Sato froze, instantly attentive, turning fully to face his commander. Kenzo’s gaze remained fixed on Mei Ling’s motionless form. "Let's... enjoy her for a while." The words hung in the air, dripping with depraved implication. Sato’s impassive mask didn’t waver. He snapped to attention, a sharp, precise movement. "*Hai! Taichō!*" he barked, the acknowledgment echoing crisply off the concrete walls. He immediately recapped the ammonia bottle and placed it firmly back on the trolley. Without hesitation, he strode to Mei Ling’s head, uncapped the bottle again, and waved it vigorously beneath her nose. The pungent fumes hit instantly. Mei Ling’s head jerked violently. A choked, gagging gasp tore from her throat as her eyes flew open, streaming tears, consciousness flooding back with a jarring rush of renewed agony. She coughed, weakly thrashing her head away from the source of the vile smell.



The harsh overhead lights flickered violently once, twice – then plunged the room into utter darkness. The deep hum of the generator ceased abruptly, leaving only the ragged sounds of Mei Ling’s breathing and the faint drip of condensation somewhere in the sudden, oppressive silence. Sato cursed softly in Japanese. Footsteps shuffled near the door – the guards reacting to the unexpected blackout. Kenzo’s voice, calm and authoritative, cut through the gloom. "*Bring the emergency lamp. And prepare Room Three.*" Orders were barked outside. Moments later, a weak beam of light pierced the darkness as the door opened. Two guards entered, one holding a dim kerosene lantern that cast long, dancing shadows. Sato moved efficiently in the low light, unlocking the heavy restraints binding Mei Ling’s wrists and ankles. The leather straps fell away. Mei Ling moaned weakly, unable to move her limbs. The guards stepped forward, grabbing her roughly under her arms. They hauled her limp body off the metal table. Her bare feet dragged uselessly across the rough concrete floor as they pulled her towards the door. Sato followed closely, the kerosene lantern’s beam illuminating their grim procession down a short, dank corridor.



The guards hauled Mei Ling into a smaller, adjacent chamber – Room Three. The air was stale and colder. A single, modest bulb hung from a frayed cord in the center of the room, casting a weak, yellowish pool of light onto a large, scarred wooden table bolted to the floor. Heavy iron rings were fixed to each corner. The guards dumped Mei Ling unceremoniously onto the table’s surface. Her torso sprawled across the rough wood, her legs dangling over one edge. One guard roughly grabbed her right wrist, pulling her arm towards the nearest corner ring. A heavy iron cuff snapped shut around her wrist, securing it tightly to the ring. Her left arm was similarly pulled and shackled. Her legs remained free, dangling limply. Red, angry welts bloomed across her breasts, abdomen, armpits, and groin – stark maps marking where Sato’s electrodes had pressed. Mei Ling’s head lolled to the side, her cheek pressed against the cold wood. She blinked slowly, her vision gradually clearing. The terrifying immediacy of the electrodes faded, replaced by the deep, throbbing ache radiating from every nerve ending and the chilling vulnerability of her position. Kenzo stood silently in the doorway, watching her slowly regain focus, a predator assessing his prey in a new cage.



As if commanded by Kenzo’s silent presence, the two guards exchanged a knowing glance and wordlessly exited Room Three, pulling the heavy door shut behind them. They knew Room Three’s purpose well. Kenzo stepped fully inside, the weak bulb casting sharp shadows on his face. Sato remained near the door, impassive, a silent sentinel. Kenzo’s eyes were fixed on Mei Ling’s exposed form pinned to the table. He couldn't hide the raw urgency coiling within him. "Shall we, Sato?" Kenzo asked, his voice thick with anticipation. He didn’t wait for an answer. His hands moved to his belt buckle. The rasp of leather and metal echoed loudly in the small room as he swiftly unbuckled his belt, unbuttoned his trousers, and pushed them down over his hips. His erection sprang free, hard and demanding. He positioned himself between Mei Ling’s dangling legs, his hands gripping her hips roughly, pulling her pelvis towards the edge of the table. He pressed the thick head of his cock firmly against her swollen, raw, and painfully sore opening. Mei Ling flinched violently at the contact, a gasp escaping her bruised lips.



Mei Ling felt the blunt pressure against her violated flesh. The instinct to scream, to curse, to thrash surged through her. But a sliver of cold clarity pierced the haze of pain and terror. Might as well let them, the thought crystallized with brutal pragmatism. The pain… fighting will only bring more needles… more electrodes… I need to survive… survive to protect the code… survive to see them burn. She drew a shaky breath, forcing her body to go utterly still. She didn’t curse. She didn’t plead. Forcing her head to turn sideways on the rough wood, she stared fixedly at the grimy concrete wall inches from her face. Her jaw clenched tight. Kenzo grunted, thrusting his hips forward with brutal force. He drove himself deep into her sore, unprepared channel. Mei Ling’s eyes squeezed shut, her breath hitching in a strangled gasp as agony ripped through her lower abdomen. Kenzo began moving immediately, setting a harsh, relentless rhythm, his hands digging into her hips, pinning her to the table. His thrusts were deep, jarring, each one sending fresh waves of pain radiating from her bruised pelvis and inflamed tissues. She remained silent, her body rigid, her face pressed against the wood, enduring the violation as her mind clung fiercely to the thought: Survive. Protect the code. Sato watched from the doorway, his expression unreadable in the dim light.



The assault felt interminable. Kenzo pounded into her with single-minded intensity, his breath harsh grunts punctuating the wet slap of flesh against flesh. Mei Ling focused entirely on the wall. She traced a hairline crack in the concrete with her eyes, following its jagged path upwards. She counted the faint stains on the plaster – three rust-colored, one dark grey. She imagined the molecular structure of the wood grain pressed against her cheek. Anything to detach, to shield her core self from the brutal physical reality unfolding below. The pain was constant, a deep, grinding ache layered over the sharp agony of his entry, but it was… different. Manageable, almost, compared to the searing, nerve-shredding precision of Sato’s needles and electrodes. It was a blunt trauma, a violation she could compartmentalize, unlike the intimate, soul-scorching agony inflicted before. Kenzo’s rhythm grew frantic, his thrusts losing coordination as he neared climax. He slammed into her one final time, burying himself to the hilt with a guttural groan, his body shuddering against hers. His grip on her hips tightened painfully before he slumped forward, panting heavily against her bound arm. He remained lodged inside her for a long moment before pulling out abruptly, leaving her feeling raw and exposed. He stepped back without a word, pulling his trousers up, his expression one of grim satisfaction mixed with fatigue.



Kenzo gestured dismissively towards Sato as he buckled his belt. Sato moved forward without hesitation. He positioned himself between Mei Ling’s legs, his movements efficient and devoid of any emotion beyond detached purpose. He pushed her legs wider apart, ignoring the fresh trickle of blood mixing with Kenzo’s release. He entered her without preamble, his thrusts deep, measured, and relentless. Sato’s assault was colder, more clinical than Kenzo’s raw aggression. He maintained a steady, grinding pace, his hands resting lightly on her hips, observing her reactions dispassionately. Mei Ling kept her face turned away, her eyes fixed on the wall. Her body, however, betrayed her. The prolonged, rhythmic friction, combined with the residual adrenaline, the lingering chemical effects of the aphrodisiacs, and the sheer physiological overload of the torture, triggered an involuntary response. A low moan escaped her lips, unbidden, as a deep tremor ran through her pelvis. Her hips jerked weakly against Sato’s thrusts. Then, with shocking suddenness, her core muscles clenched violently. An intense, shuddering orgasm ripped through her, purely biological, utterly divorced from any conscious pleasure. Her back arched off the table, straining against the iron cuffs. A gush of fluid soaked the wood beneath her hips – a reflexive squirt born of exhausted nerves and overwhelmed physiology. Sato didn’t pause, didn’t react beyond a slight tightening of his grip. He maintained his steady, mechanical rhythm.



Sato continued for another ten minutes, his endurance seemingly limitless. Mei Ling’s body trembled uncontrollably in the aftermath of the orgasm, slick with sweat and fluids. Her mind remained locked onto the distant wall, a fragile sanctuary amidst the degradation. She felt utterly hollowed out, a vessel emptied of everything but the core directive: Protect the code. Survive. Sato finally reached his climax with a sharp, controlled thrust and a low grunt, his body stiffening momentarily before pulling out. He stepped back, adjusting his uniform trousers with swift, economical movements. Mei Ling lay utterly still, her breathing shallow and ragged, her eyes wide and unseeing, fixed on the grimy wall. The deep throb between her legs was a dull ache now, almost insignificant compared to the symphony of agony resonating from her tortured breasts, her raw armpit, her skull. Kenzo moved back into view, standing beside Sato near the table’s edge. He looked down at Mei Ling’s broken form, a flicker of something akin to appraisal in his cold eyes. He didn’t speak. He simply nodded to Sato. The message was clear: the respite, such as it was, was over.



Kenzo glanced towards the heavy door. "*Call in the guards,*" he commanded Sato, his voice flat, devoid of inflection. Mei Ling’s breath hitched. A new wave of dread washed over her, colder than the concrete beneath her. Guards? Her mind reeled. She understood instantly. A fresh layer of depravity, stripping away any last shred of dignity. "*You...sick... bastard!*" The words rasped out, low and venomous, scraping her throat raw. Kenzo didn’t bother replying. He didn’t even look at her. Sato strode to the door, unlocked it, and barked a sharp command. The two guards entered immediately, their faces impassive masks trained on Kenzo. They didn’t need explicit orders. Their commander’s intent was unmistakable. They moved without hesitation, stepping towards the table where Mei Ling lay shackled. One grabbed her hips, the other her shoulders, lifting her bound body easily, like a rag doll. They positioned her roughly on the edge, legs spread wide, her raw, swollen flesh fully exposed. The first guard fumbled with his trousers, his erection already apparent. He pushed Mei Ling’s legs higher, pinning them against her chest, and drove into her with a grunt.



Tears streamed silently down Mei Ling’s temples, carving paths through the grime and sweat. She shut her eyes tight, retreating deeper into the wall within her mind. The first guard pounded into her with brutal, rhythmic thrusts, his breath harsh in the small room. Each jarring impact sent fresh waves of pain radiating from her bruised pelvis. He lasted perhaps ten minutes, finishing with a groan and a final, deep thrust before pulling out, leaving her slick with his release. The second guard took his place instantly, his movements equally impersonal, equally rough. He gripped her hips tightly, ignoring the angry welts from Sato’s electrodes, and slammed into her sore, overused channel without preamble. Mei Ling couldn’t suppress the low whimpers that escaped with each thrust. She felt utterly defeated, a vessel used and discarded. When the second guard finished, pulling out with a satisfied sigh, she sagged against the table, her body trembling violently. She felt hollowed out, scraped raw. Surely, it was over. Surely, they were done.



Kenzo stepped forward again. He hadn’t moved far. His eyes were dark pools of predatory satisfaction. He pushed the second guard aside dismissively. Mei Ling forced her eyes open, meeting Kenzo’s gaze directly. Her expression was pure, unadulterated hatred, a venomous fire burning through the haze of pain and exhaustion. Kenzo didn’t care. He didn’t flinch. He simply unbuttoned his trousers once more, his erection still prominent. He positioned himself between her legs, gripping her hips hard enough to bruise, and thrust back into her with renewed vigor. This second round was shorter, fueled by raw dominance rather than lingering desire. He grunted, driving deep, his gaze locked onto hers, savoring the hatred she radiated. He finished quickly, pulling out abruptly. Without pause, he gestured sharply to Sato. Sato moved forward, his expression unchanged. He took Kenzo’s place, entering her with the same cold efficiency as before. His thrusts were deep, measured, relentless. Mei Ling stared blankly at the ceiling, the hatred in her eyes fading into numb exhaustion. By the time Sato reached his climax, shuddering silently as he emptied himself inside her, a small, dark rivulet of blood began to trickle down her inner thigh, mingling with the fluids staining the wood beneath her hips – a testament to the prolonged friction and the brutal damage inflicted earlier by the ribbed metal dildo. Darkness surged at the edges of her vision, a merciful oblivion pulling her under. She lost consciousness just as Sato withdrew, her body going utterly limp against the unforgiving wood.

[Noctavya]

Chapter 10 : Intermezzo



The harsh scrape of metal on concrete jolted Mei Ling back to consciousness. Her eyelids fluttered open to the familiar damp stones of her cell ceiling, the single bare bulb casting its sickly yellow glow. The examiner knelt beside her, his movements precise as he administered two syringes of morphine into her bruised inner arm. The sharp sting barely registered beneath the ocean of agony radiating from her pelvis. He followed with antibiotic injections, his gloved hands impersonal as machines. When he produced the familiar tin of cooling gel, Mei Ling didn't flinch as he applied it to her ravaged genitals, the brutalized flesh between her legs, the needle-punctured map of her breasts. The gel's numbing relief was a distant mercy, like sunlight glimpsed through deep water. She lay utterly still, naked and exposed on the thin mattress, indifferent to her vulnerability. Her mind had retreated to a silent fortress behind her eyes, walls built of fractured code sequences and the coordinates of hidden arsenals.



Food appeared – lukewarm rice gruel and a canteen of tepid water placed near her head. The examiner gathered his kit without meeting her gaze, the cell door clanging shut behind him with finality. Mei Ling didn't move toward the sustenance. She stared at the weeping patch of mold in the corner where wall met floor, her breathing shallow. Exhaustion, deeper than bone, heavier than iron, settled upon her like volcanic ash. Thoughts fragmented – Li Na, Chen’s steady hands assembling detonators, the acrid smell of cordite in a safe house attic. She let them drift away like smoke. Survival now was inertia. A silent vow crystallized in the hollow core of her being: Endure. Stall. Every hour I bleed here buys them time. The Resistance needed days, perhaps only hours, to relocate the bomb workshop, fortify the dead drops, vanish into the city’s veins. Hope was a razor-thin sliver – rescue, or the clean finality of a bullet. She clung to it.



Darkness pressed in as she finally succumbed. Sleep wasn’t rest; it was a drowning. Visions flickered – Kenzo’s polished boots grinding into concrete, Sato’s needle glinting like a star in the interrogation room’s hellish light, the guards’ impersonal thrusts. Yet beneath the horror, a cold current flowed: the intricate sabotage protocols only she possessed, the fail-safes woven into the city’s infrastructure like hidden tripwires. Her unconscious mind replayed the sequences, reinforcing the mental vaults. Her body lay broken on the thin pallet, but deep within the marrow, defiance calcified. The Kempeitai had broken her flesh, violated her spirit, but the core directive held – protect the code. Protect the fight.



Morning light, grey and tentative, seeped through the high barred window. Mei Ling woke to the familiar ache, a symphony of pain conducted on her nerves. She didn’t open her eyes immediately. She listened. Distant shouts from the courtyard. The rumble of a truck engine. The scrape of a boot heel down the corridor. Routine. She had bought them night. She would buy them today. Kenzo would come again. Sato would bring his needles, his electrodes, his cold precision. Let them come. Her lips, cracked and swollen, moved silently against the rough blanket: Endure. Stall. Survive. The war within the walls had only just begun.





Chapter 11 : The Real Rest



The next morning dawned with unsettling normalcy. The examiner slid a tray through the slot: thick wheat noodles swimming in pork bone broth, a steaming tin of bitter coffee, a bottle of water, and—bizarrely—a small dish of fresh-sliced pear glistening with morning dew. Mei Ling stared at the offering, her knuckles white where they gripped the thin blanket. Mockery? The thought hissed through her exhaustion. She imagined Kenzo savoring this theater—the illusion of care before the electrodes flared again. Every bite of the hearty noodles, every sip of coffee tasted like ash, her jaw aching from yesterday’s forced service. She ate mechanically, her body screaming with every shift—the deep throb in her pelvis, the fire in her breasts where Sato’s needles had danced, the raw ache in her throat. The sweet pear felt like poison on her tongue.



Lunch deepened the surreal quiet. Steaming jasmine rice arrived alongside fragrant stir-fried greens and minced pork fragrant with ginger and garlic, accompanied by weak tea and a thimble-sized cup of warm rice wine. No boots echoed in the corridor. No jangle of keys at her door. Only the distant, muffled sounds of the Kempeitai headquarters carrying on without her. Mei Ling devoured the meal, the flavors momentarily overwhelming her dread-fueled nausea. Afterwards, she hobbled to the bucket in the corner, the simple act of relieving herself a fresh agony that drew tears she refused to shed. She returned to her pallet, coiled like a spring on the thin mattress, every nerve screaming for the blow that didn’t fall. The silence pressed in, heavier than Kenzo’s fists.



Hours bled into the grey afternoon light. Mei Ling traced the cracks in the ceiling plaster, her mind a battlefield. Was this respite a trap? A softening before Sato returned with refinements to her nerve clusters? Or had yesterday’s brutal breaking, her ultimate degradation, finally satisfied Kenzo’s hunger? She remembered the blood trickling down her thigh, the darkness claiming her. Perhaps they thought her too damaged for further interrogation today. The cold pragmatism of her training surfaced: Use it. She stretched gingerly, testing her limits. The morphine’s edge had dulled, leaving the raw symphony of her injuries clearer—the torn flesh between her legs, the bruised ribs, the punctured map of her skin. But beneath the pain, a sliver of strength returned, honed by survival.



As dusk painted the high window bars purple, the cell door finally clanged open. Mei Ling flinched, bracing for Sato’s needles, Kenzo’s cold eyes. But it was only the examiner, his face impassive as ever. He carried no trolley of horrors, only another tray—simple congee and tea. He placed it silently near her, then knelt. Mei Ling offered her arm without protest, her gaze fixed on his impassive face as he administered the evening morphine and antibiotics. His touch was clinical, devoid of malice or pity. As the needle slid free, Mei Ling’s eyes narrowed. This wasn’t mercy. It was preservation. Kenzo wasn’t done. The feast, the silence, the medical care—it was all preparation. The real interrogation, she knew with icy certainty, would begin tomorrow. Her fingers curled into the thin mattress. Let him come.





Chapter 12 : A New Desperation



The next morning, Mei Ling awoke to the examiner’s rough grip dragging her upright. No morphine greeted her this time—only the brutal symphony of her injuries screaming to life as she was marched through sterile corridors. They stopped before an unfamiliar steel door. When it hissed open, the air carried the sharp tang of antiseptic and something colder, metallic. Inside stood a gleaming gynecological chair, its stirrups raised like the legs of a waiting spider. Guards shoved her toward it without ceremony. Her wrists were shackled to the chair’s top corners, arms stretched taut above her head. Leather straps cinched her knees apart, ankles locked into the cold metal stirrups, leaving her utterly exposed. The position was obscenely clinical—her bruised thighs spread wide, the swollen, needle-torn flesh between her legs fully displayed under the surgical lamps. Dark bruises mottled her inner thighs, a stark contrast to the angry red abrasions around her labia. A thin, dried trickle of blood traced a path down her left thigh from yesterday’s violation.



Kenzo stood silhouetted against the blinding surgical lights, Sato beside him adjusting a tray of gleaming instruments. Mei Ling’s breath hitched—not at the cold steel, but at the absence of familiar horrors. No electrodes, no needles. Instead, Sato lifted a long, thin speculum, its polished jaws glinting. Kenzo stepped closer, his gaze tracing her exposed flesh with detached curiosity. "We require deeper access, Ling," he stated, his voice devoid of inflection. Sato moved between her strapped legs, the speculum hovering. Mei Ling thrashed instinctively, the leather straps biting into her skin. A guttural sound tore from her throat—half sob, half snarl. The speculum wasn’t torture; it was invasion. A violation of the last untouched sanctuary within her broken body. Her hips jerked uselessly against the restraints. "**No!**" The word ripped out, raw with a terror deeper than pain.



Sato’s hand pressed firmly on her lower abdomen, pinning her pelvis flat against the cold leather. The chill of the lubricated metal touched her entrance. Mei Ling froze, every muscle locking rigid. Her eyes squeezed shut, tears welling but not falling. She felt the cold jaws part her swollen outer lips, then press inward. The stretch was excruciating against her raw, torn tissues—a white-hot agony that stole her breath. Sato twisted the mechanism. The speculum opened with a soft, precise click, spreading her inner walls wide, exposing the tender, inflamed depths usually hidden. The surgical lights glared down, illuminating every detail—the bruised cervix, the delicate, abraded folds still glistening faintly with residual ointment. Kenzo leaned in, his shadow falling across her splayed flesh. "Exquisite view," he murmured, almost to himself. His gloved finger traced the air inches above her exposed cervix. "Now… let’s see what secrets you harbor here."



Sato reached for another instrument—a slender probe with a mirrored tip. Mei Ling’s chest heaved. This wasn’t about pain. It was about knowledge. They were mapping her, searching for vulnerabilities buried in her very biology. The probe glinted as it descended. Her mind raced—not to defiance, but to the intricate sabotage protocols coded into her memory. If they broke her here, in this intimate mapping… the Resistance wouldn’t have hours. They’d have minutes. Her breath caught, not in fear, but in a new, desperate calculation. Stall. Endure. Protect. The probe touched her cervix. She didn’t scream. She held utterly, terrifyingly still.



Sato worked with cold precision, adjusting the speculum, angling the mirrored probe. Kenzo watched, his expression unreadable. Minutes stretched. Mei Ling focused on the ceiling’s water stain, tracing its jagged edges with her eyes. Her body trembled, but her mind clung to the sequences: dead drops rerouted, explosives relocated, safe houses evacuated. Every second Sato probed was a second bought. Finally, Sato withdrew the instruments. The speculum clicked shut. Mei Ling gasped as the pressure released, the raw ache flooding back. Sato wiped his tools meticulously. "She’s good, Taicho," he stated flatly. "No internal damage beyond the abrasions. Healing potential is… adequate." Kenzo nodded, stepping back from the glaring light.



"Good," Kenzo said, his voice low. He removed his gloves, tossing them onto the instrument tray. He leaned close, his breath warm against Mei Ling’s ear, a grotesque parody of intimacy. "Now, Ling… speak the code. The General demands results. We can’t protect you anymore." His tone was almost regretful, as if the torture had been a twisted favor. Mei Ling simply shook her head slowly, side to side against the cold leather headrest. She knew. This denial wasn’t defiance; it was a trigger. A new level of agony awaited. Kenzo sighed, a sound of weary frustration. "Please… Ling," he murmured, his hand brushing her sweat-damp hair. "You’ve won our respect. Stronger men have been reduced to ashes in these rooms. You survived three days. It should be enough time. You’ve bought them enough." His words slithered past her ears. "Nobody expected anyone to last… not even you. Especially you. What we do to women caught was already legendary." Mei Ling treated his voice as white noise, a distant hum beneath the pounding of her own heart. Her gaze remained fixed on the ceiling, tracing the cracks where damp plaster met concrete. Endure. Stall. Survive. The war within the walls was far from over.



Kenzo straightened, his momentary facade of sympathy vanishing. "Sato," he commanded, his voice sharp. "Prepare the tray." Sato moved with silent efficiency, assembling instruments on the sterile metal surface. Scalpels gleamed under the surgical lights alongside syringes filled with clear, ominous fluids. Pliers, pinsets, cotton balls soaked in disinfectant, bottles labeled with symbols Mei Ling couldn't decipher – all arranged with chilling precision. A small medical burner hissed to life, its blue flame dancing. Mei Ling instinctively squeezed her eyes shut, but morbid curiosity betrayed her. A single glance confirmed her deepest dread. They weren't just mapping her anymore. They were preparing to dismantle her. Her breath hitched, a raw gasp escaping her bruised throat. "Please," she rasped, the word thick with desperation. Her mind scrabbled for any reprieve, any delay. "Can't I… just suck your dick? You can rape me after?" The offer tumbled out, frantic, degrading – the only currency she had left. "Anything… please… not this." She sounded unhinged, bargaining with her own violation to escape the gleaming steel.



Kenzo chuckled, a dry, humorless sound. He picked up a scalpel, testing its edge against his thumb. "I'm sorry, Ling," he said, his voice devoid of any warmth. "Game time is up." He gestured vaguely towards the door, as if indicating the unseen pressures beyond the room. "The General is furious. Every hour you held out, every scream you swallowed, gave the Resistance precious time." He met her wide, terrified eyes. "And yes, they used it well. They've vanished deeper than we ever imagined." He sighed again, a sound of genuine exasperation mixed with chilling pragmatism. "So… apologies are meaningless now. Given the choice?" He leaned closer, the scalpel catching the light. "We'd much rather you talked. We could spare you this agony. We could simply… use you. For amusement. For relief." His gaze flickered over her exposed body, strapped and vulnerable. "It wouldn't be painless, no. But it wouldn't be this." He tapped the scalpel lightly against the gleaming tray. The implication was horrifyingly clear: rape was preferable to dissection. Kenzo wasn't offering mercy; he was applying brutal logic to shatter her last defenses, framing torture as the consequence of her own stubbornness. "Your silence," he concluded softly, his eyes cold and final, "forces our hand."



Sato stepped forward, holding a syringe filled with a viscous, amber fluid. Kenzo nodded. "Begin." The word hung in the sterile air, heavy and absolute. Sato grasped Mei Ling’s restrained arm, searching for a vein amidst the bruises and puncture wounds. Mei Ling’s muscles locked rigid, a silent scream building in her chest. Her eyes darted wildly from the needle to Kenzo’s impassive face to the array of gleaming instruments. The blue flame of the burner flickered, casting long, dancing shadows across the cold metal jaws of the speculum still resting nearby. The sterile smell of antiseptic suddenly choked her. There were no more delays. No more bargains. The cold steel descended, and the true price of her silence began.



"You'll need strength, Ling," Kenzo murmured, his voice low and strangely detached as Sato plunged the needle into her straining vein. Mei Ling gasped, a sharp inhale as the thick fluid burned its way into her bloodstream. "We injected a stimulant. To keep you awake." He leaned closer, his breath ghosting over her sweat-slicked temple. "It’s painful, I know. Staying conscious. The last operative? Fainted eight times." A flicker of something almost like weariness crossed Kenzo’s features. "We just… can’t be bothered with that anymore. I’m sorry, Ling." The apology was soft, chillingly sincere, yet utterly devoid of compassion – a veiled threat wrapped in exhaustion. Mei Ling felt the drug ignite within her like liquid fire. Her senses snapped into hyper-clarity – the harsh glare of the surgical lamps etched every scratch on Sato’s instruments, the antiseptic sting in her nostrils became overpowering, the throbbing agony in her pelvis sharpened into a thousand distinct, screaming points. Kenzo wasn’t lying. The world crystallized into terrifying focus.



Kenzo’s hand rested lightly on her sweat-damp hair, his touch incongruously gentle against the horror unfolding beneath the lights. "Ling… please," he breathed, his voice thick with a desperate intensity that bordered on pleading. "Both Sato and I… we talked. You have our admiration." His gaze locked onto hers, searching for any crack in her resolve. "There’s no shame in breaking now. Truly. Nobody… nobody… lasted this long." The words weren’t just pressure; they were a confession, an admission of her terrifying endurance wearing down even their ruthless pragmatism. His thumb brushed her cheekbone, a grotesque parody of comfort. "Let it end." The plea hung in the electrified air, underscored by the soft click as Sato lifted a gleaming scalpel from the tray, its edge catching the light like a shard of ice.



Mei Ling’s breath hitched. The stimulant roared through her veins, banishing fatigue, amplifying every sensation into exquisite torment. Kenzo’s earnest plea, Sato’s poised scalpel, the cold metal pressing against her spread thighs – it fused into a single, suffocating wave. Her mind screamed the sabotage protocols, the dead drops, the hidden timers – a frantic shield against the inevitable violation. She squeezed her eyes shut, not to block the sight, but to focus inward, clinging to the razor’s edge of defiance. Stall. Endure. Survive. The scalpel touched her skin just above the pubic bone, a line of cold fire. Sato’s hand was steady. Kenzo’s breath warmed her ear. The war within the walls reached its terrible crescendo.



"**Do your worst,**" Mei Ling spoke suddenly, her voice unnervingly clear and resonant, cutting through the sterile air in flawless, unaccented Japanese. It wasn’t a plea. It was a challenge, thrown down like a gauntlet. She opened her eyes, meeting Kenzo’s startled gaze. The defiance was brittle, a thin veneer over abject terror, but it was there. She knew what followed would shred her sanity. She feared the scalpel carving permanent ruin into the tender pathways Kenzo called her "love channel." She feared Sato’s clinical precision turning her into a broken, leaking ruin. She wasn’t superhuman. The dam holding back her secrets felt paper-thin; one agonizing cut too deep, and it would burst, unleashing everything – codes, names, the fragile heart of the Resistance itself. Endure this, she commanded herself silently, at least… when I truly can’t… the option to break remains. It was a grim bargain with her own limits. Her mantra crystallized, a desperate anchor: "One more hour. One more day. One more week."



Kenzo recoiled almost imperceptibly, the raw, unexpected defiance a shock in the carefully controlled theater of pain. A flicker of genuine surprise, quickly masked by cold fury, flashed in his eyes. Mei Ling’s flawless Japanese, ringing with a clarity that mocked his previous assumptions, shattered the script. It wasn't the broken whimper he'd anticipated; it was a gauntlet thrown onto the sterile metal tray beside Sato's scalpel. The challenge hung in the air, thick and electric, momentarily freezing the room. Sato’s hand, poised with the blade, paused. Kenzo’s jaw tightened, the tendons standing out like cords. The plea, the facade of weary admiration, vanished. "As you wish," he hissed, the words sharp as shards of glass. He nodded sharply to Sato. The scalpel descended, not in a slow exploration, but in a swift, precise incision just above her pubic bone. A line of white-hot fire seared through Mei Ling’s hyper-aware senses. She didn't scream. Not yet. A choked gasp tore from her throat, her body arching uselessly against the restraints, her eyes wide and fixed on the blinding light above, seeing nothing but the agony blooming beneath Sato’s steady hand.



For the next two hours, questions ceased. Words became superfluous. The sterile room descended into a meticulous, agonizing choreography focused solely on the exposed, vulnerable flesh between Mei Ling’s strapped thighs. Sato worked with detached precision, Kenzo orchestrating with chilling calm. Scalpel blades flashed, making shallow, stinging cuts along the delicate outer folds of her labia – precise, controlled, designed for maximum torment without threatening immediate death. Each slice was followed by the cruel application of potent, industrial-strength alcohol poured directly onto the open wounds. The liquid fire ignited nerves Mei Ling didn't know existed, sending convulsive, involuntary shudders through her entire frame. Screams ripped from her throat, raw and guttural, echoing off the tiled walls in a relentless, inhuman chorus. Her pubic hair, singed away by the blue flame of the medical burner held agonizingly close, filled the air with the acrid stench of burning keratin, leaving her completely bare, every detail cruelly illuminated. The exposed flesh, already bruised and torn, pulsed an angry red under the surgical glare.



Kenzo took over, his movements deliberate, almost ritualistic. He selected long, sharp pinsets. He soaked a wad of cotton in the vile alcohol, ignited it in the burner’s blue flame until it glowed fiercely, then, using the speculum Sato had repositioned to hold her painfully open, he shoved the burning ember deep into her vaginal canal. Mei Ling’s scream shattered into a piercing, animalistic shriek that scraped her throat raw. Her body bucked violently against the restraints, tendons straining like cables. Before the agony could fully crest, he withdrew the smoldering cotton, only to replace it with the cold, sharp pinch of pinsets grasping and twisting the tender inner flesh he’d exposed. He alternated – the searing intrusion of the flaming mote, the sharp, tearing agony of the pinsets plucking at sensitive nerves, the relentless pressure of the speculum forcing her wider, exposing more raw surfaces to the instruments and the air. Shallow cuts reopened on her outer labia, fresh alcohol poured onto them, reigniting the fire. Time dissolved into a kaleidoscope of blinding pain: burn, pinch, stretch, cut, burn again.



Outside the thick steel door, the two guards stood rigidly at attention. The symphony of agony emanating from within was relentless – not cries, but full-throated, primal screams that rose and fell in terrifying crescendos, punctuated by choked gasps and ragged, desperate sobs that sounded barely human. The sounds clawed at their nerves. They exchanged a single, fleeting glance, eyes wide with a mixture of horror and morbid fascination, before quickly looking away, staring fixedly at the opposite wall. Neither dared to imagine the specific horrors unfolding just meters away; the sheer intensity of the suffering, the sheer inhumanity of those screams, was enough to chill their blood and tighten their grips on their rifles. The air in the corridor felt thick with the echoes of torment. Inside, under the pitiless lights, Kenzo and Sato continued their silent, brutal work, the instruments gleaming red in the unforgiving glare.

[Noctavya]

Chapter 13 : The Collapse



"Two hours... two fucking hours," Kenzo hissed, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his gloved hand. His voice rasped with exhaustion and simmering fury. He stared down at the ruin strapped to the table. Mei Ling’s eyes were slits, glazed and unfocused, drifting in and out of consciousness despite the potent stimulant coursing through her veins. Her breath came in shallow, hitching gasps. Sweat plastered her hair to her skull, dripped from her chin, mingled with tears and saliva on the cold metal beneath her. Her entire body trembled constantly, a fine, uncontrollable tremor born of shattered nerves and utter exhaustion. Her exposed cunt was a grotesque landscape: a bruised, swollen mess of raw, weeping flesh. Shallow, precise cuts crisscrossed the delicate outer folds, edges ragged and inflamed. Deeper burns, angry red blisters and charred patches, marked where the flaming cotton had kissed her inner walls. The speculum still held her obscenely open, revealing the inflamed, torn tissues inside, glistening wetly with blood, pus, and the viscous residue of the alcohol poured repeatedly onto the wounds. The acrid stench of burned flesh, singed hair, and antiseptic hung heavy in the air, thick enough to taste. "Hai, Taicho," Sato sighed, his own posture slightly slumped, the detached mask finally showing cracks. He meticulously cleaned a pair of blood-slicked pinsets, his movements slower now, lacking their initial crisp efficiency. "Her system fights the stimulant. She is... nearing physiological collapse."



Kenzo leaned heavily on the metal table edge, the adrenaline surge fading, leaving behind only bone-deep weariness and gnawing frustration. He watched Mei Ling’s chest rise and fall erratically, her eyelids flutter weakly. The defiance in her voice earlier felt like a lifetime ago. This broken creature seemed incapable of holding secrets anymore, let alone uttering words. "Enough," he muttered, the word thick with defeat. He gestured dismissively towards the speculum. "Remove it. Clean her... superficially." Sato nodded, moving with weary precision. He released the locking mechanism. The jaws clicked shut, withdrawing from her torn flesh. Mei Ling whimpered, a low, animal sound deep in her throat, her body flinching violently at the sudden release of pressure. Sato swabbed roughly at the worst of the mess with a large gauze pad soaked in antiseptic – a gesture devoid of care, meant only to prevent immediate infection. The harsh fluid stung the open wounds anew, drawing another choked gasp from Mei Ling’s raw throat. Kenzo watched impassively, his gaze distant. The gamble had failed. They had pushed her body to the absolute limit, inflicted agony designed to shatter the strongest mind, and still, the secrets remained locked away behind those glazed, unseeing eyes. The cost etched onto her ruined flesh was immense, and it had bought them nothing but exhaustion and the General’s impending wrath.



Sato finished the crude cleaning, tossing the bloodied gauze onto the tray with a grimace. Mei Ling’s breathing had deteriorated further, becoming shallow, rapid gasps punctuated by alarming pauses. Her skin was clammy, pale as parchment under the harsh lights, her pulse fluttering wildly beneath Kenzo’s fingertips when he pressed them briefly to her neck. Panic, cold and sharp, sliced through Kenzo’s fatigue. This wasn’t defiance or endurance anymore; this was physiological collapse. If she died now, the General wouldn't just be furious; he'd have Kenzo crucified. "Call the doc!" Kenzo barked, his voice cracking with sudden urgency. "Now! Fast!" One guard snapped to attention, scrambling for the door intercom, barking orders into the receiver. Kenzo turned back to Mei Ling, slapping her cheek lightly, trying to rouse her. "Ling! Stay with us!" Her head lolled limply. Only a faint, rattling wheeze escaped her lips. The stimulant had failed. Her systems were shutting down. Kenzo felt a cold sweat break out on his own brow. This fragile, broken woman, who had endured unspeakable horrors, was slipping away right under his hands, taking every shred of potential intelligence with her. Failure tasted like bile in his throat.



The infirmary doctor arrived within minutes, flanked by two orderlies carrying a stretcher. His usual stoic demeanor vanished the moment he saw Mei Ling strapped to the table. His eyes widened, darting from the array of gleaming, blood-smeared instruments to the horrific state of her lower body. He paled visibly, his lips pressing into a thin, horrified line. He didn't speak – dared not utter a word of condemnation – but his hands trembled slightly as he swiftly assessed her vitals. "Unstrap her!" he commanded the guards, his voice tight with suppressed emotion. "Gently! Move!" The guards fumbled with the leather restraints. As they lifted her limp, trembling body onto the stretcher, a low moan escaped her, her head rolling to the side. The doctor immediately pressed a vial of smelling salts under her nose. Mei Ling jerked violently, her eyes snapping open wide with terror, a raw, guttural scream tearing from her throat – a sound of pure, unadulterated agony and primal fear. "Sedative! Now!" the doctor snapped to an orderly, who swiftly administered an injection into her arm. The scream choked off into a desperate sob, then faded as her eyelids fluttered shut again, her body going slack against the canvas.



For the next four hours, the sterile infirmary became Mei Ling’s fragile sanctuary. The doctor worked with grim efficiency, his earlier horror replaced by focused professionalism. Morphine flowed into her veins, dulling the screaming agony to a deep, throbbing ache. Cooling antiseptic gels were meticulously applied to the burns and cuts, followed by sterile dressings. Strong painkillers supplemented the morphine drip. Fluids were administered intravenously to combat dehydration and shock. They treated her with the urgency reserved for critical battlefield wounds – not out of compassion, but necessity. Mei Ling drifted in a twilight state, surfacing only to fragmented moments of awareness: the sting of antiseptic, the coolness of gel, the blessed numbness spreading from the IV site, the blurry face of the doctor leaning close, his expression unreadable. Each time consciousness flickered, sheer, mindless terror seized her – the memory of cold metal, searing fire, Kenzo’s pleading voice morphing into a command to inflict more pain. She would thrash weakly, incoherent pleas bubbling from cracked lips – "No... please... stop... not again..." – before the sedatives pulled her back under into merciful oblivion. The doctor monitored her closely, adjusting dosages, ensuring she remained stable but deeply sedated. The priority was survival, stabilization. The interrogation, for now, was over. The war within her body raged on, fought with syringes and bandages.





Chapter 14 : Brief Respite



Mei Ling swam upward through layers of thick, muffled darkness. Light pressed against her eyelids—not the interrogation room's brutal floodlights, but a softer, diffused glow. A rhythmic beeping pulsed nearby. Her mouth felt stuffed with cotton, her limbs impossibly heavy. She blinked slowly, vision swimming into focus: white ceiling tiles, the scent of antiseptic overpowering the lingering phantom stench of burning flesh. She was lying on a narrow infirmary cot, covered by a thin sheet. A single metal handcuff encircled her left wrist, chaining it loosely to the bed frame. Medical garb—coarse, grey cotton—covered her torso. IV lines snaked into her right arm, the morphine drip still feeding a dull, blessed numbness into her veins. Every muscle screamed a deep, bone-weary ache; her lower body throbbed with a distant, muffled fire beneath layers of analgesics. Time felt suspended, liquid. Hours? Days? Panic flickered weakly—had they started again?—but the morphine smothered it before it could ignite.



The infirmary doctor, standing near a metal supply cabinet, noticed her flickering eyelids. A sigh escaped him—not of annoyance, but profound relief. He moved swiftly, not towards her, but to the wall intercom. His voice was low, urgent: "Subject Mei Ling is conscious." Mei Ling’s heart stuttered against her ribs. No. Not yet. Please. She tried to curl inward, a feeble instinct, but the handcuff and her own shattered body held her pinned. The morphine haze warped sound; footsteps approached, sharp clicks echoing too loudly on the linoleum floor. Kenzo Yamamoto filled her blurred vision, leaning over the cot. His uniform was immaculate, his face drawn but clean-shaven. "Ling," he murmured, his voice startlingly soft, almost gentle. "Welcome back." The unexpected tone, devoid of its usual cutting edge, felt more terrifying than any shout. Mei Ling flinched violently, a choked sob tearing from her raw throat. "No... stop..." she rasped, her voice a ruined whisper, eyes wide with raw, unprocessed terror. "No more... please..."



Kenzo didn't recoil. He didn't smirk. He simply watched her frantic, drug-dulled struggle against the cuff and the sheets. "Shh," he hushed, the sound unnervingly calm, almost soothing. His hand hovered near her shoulder but didn't touch her. "It's over now. For a while." He straightened slightly, his gaze sweeping over the IV lines, the bandages peeking from beneath the sheet. "Rest. Regain your strength." The words hung in the sterile air, heavy with unspoken implication. The reprieve wasn't mercy; it was logistics. She was broken machinery, temporarily taken offline for essential maintenance before being pushed back into the grinding gears. Kenzo’s eyes, however, held a strange, weary calculation—a flicker of something resembling grudging respect beneath the cold pragmatism. He turned to the doctor. "Monitor her vitals. Report any significant change immediately." Without another glance at Mei Ling’s trembling form, he strode from the infirmary, leaving behind the scent of soap and leather, and the chilling echo of his temporary ceasefire. The heavy door clicked shut. Mei Ling stared at it, the morphine’s false peace warring with the icy dread solidifying in her gut. Rest wasn't a gift. It was the eye of the storm.