The augmentation chamber is a sterile vault, its walls lined with humming biotech panels that pulse with green light, reflecting off the chrome table where I’m strapped, spread-eagle, naked except for the onyx-studded collar locked around my neck.
My body is still raw from last night’s mind-link, my p***y slick and aching, the elite’s neural feedback still echoing faintly in my skull. Dr. Kain—my creator, my father—stands over me, his holo-mask swirling with emerald fractals, his gloved hands calibrating a robotic arm tipped with a glowing implant injector. The air smells of antiseptic and my own arousal, and the cameras’ red lights blink, broadcasting to the lunar colony’s elite through their cranial implants.
“Night six,” Kain says, voice clinical yet laced with possession, amplified
