The shatterpoint chamber is a circular abyss, its walls a seamless curve of black neural panels pulsing with crimson light, reflecting my naked body as I’m suspended in a web of glowing neural tethers.
The onyx-studded collar around my neck feels like a noose, my nerves still raw from last night’s broadcast altar, nanites amplifying every sensation until my p***y drips onto the void below. The lunar colony’s elite watch through their cranial implants, their minds a roaring tide in my skull, hungry for my final breaking. Dr. Kain—my creator, my father—stands at the chamber’s center, his holo-mask a chaotic swirl of scarlet fractals, holding a neural spike that hums with bioelectric charge. The cameras’ red lights blink, broadcasting my surrender to the colony’s network.
“Night eight,” Ka
