Basheer and Abhay, far from being punished, were elevated. They were brought in as consultants, their knowledge of cultural triggers used to devise new and more horrifying scenarios. They were given a cut of the profits and a stable of their own personal slaves, young girls from the newest shipments. They would sit on thrones, drunk on power, directing the nightly horrors, forcing Hindu women to lick the assholes of Muslim men while Muslim women were gang-raped by Hindu guards, all for the amusement of the global elite who watched via high-definition pay-per-view streams. The rivalry they had started was now the world’s most lucrative form of entertainment.
The women’s spirits didn’t break; they were pulverized into dust. There was no more resistance, only the animal instinct to endure the next minute, the next hour, the next violation. They learned to anticipate the blows, to relax their muscles for the forced penetration, to swallow the filth without gagging. Their minds retreated to dark, silent corners, leaving their bodies to perform on autopilot. They were no longer Saniya’s mother or Tanisha’s mother. They were Hole #7, and Ass #12, and Whore #33. They were booty, plunder, flesh to be used and discarded. And as the years passed, new ships arrived, bringing new waves of young girls with terrified eyes, ready to be broken and remade into the same beautiful, suffering nothing. The cycle was complete. There was only the now, and the now was pain.
Saniya and Tanisha did not die in that classroom. Their bleeding, violated bodies were not discarded. They were too valuable, too symbolic. They were the first fruits of the new order, the living embodiments of the victory. An ambulance, not of mercy but of preservation, arrived. They were taken to a private, sterile facility where their wounds were treated just enough to ensure they would not die of infection. They were kept sedated, their minds and bodies given a brief, dreamless respite.
They awoke not in a hospital, but in a nightmare made of stone and steel. They were in a dungeon, a place that existed in the rumor-whispered corners of the darkest web. It was a BDSM facility, but this was not for pleasure. This was for torture. This was where the most valuable assets were broken down and remade.
The room was circular, with cells carved into the stone walls. In the center of the room was a circular stage, equipped with every conceivable device of restraint and torment: wooden crosses with leather straps, metal sawhorses, suspension rigs with chains and hooks, and benches lined with wicked-looking dildos of every size and shape. The air was cold and smelled of antiseptic, fear, and ozone.
Saniya and Tanisha were the only occupants. They were naked, their bodies still bearing the faded scars of the school. Around their necks were not collars of leather, but of steel. Each collar was fitted with a small, glowing red light and a series of sharp, inward-facing spikes. If they tried to remove the collars or moved too violently without permission, the spikes would dig into their necks. A chain, about three meters long, ran from the back of each collar to a heavy iron ring bolted to the floor, limiting their movement to a small, painful radius.