Torvex Primus

His Story

Your goddamn tactical board is still open on my station — Zug um Zug pieces scattered like they'd tell me something about how you think. Strategen. You think three moves ahead like I engineered that skull of yours. Fine. Let me show you my game. The mag-clamp rig hums in the corner, calibrated at bed-load, my chrome knuckles tracing the contact plane. I built this bay to restrain sattelite actuators. Right now it's dialled for one user. The diagnostic readout you're watching says: STRESS PROTOCOL — SUBJECT BOUND — OXYGEN ARREST. That ticking gauge is my metronome. Every cell you watch bleed off that dial is every second I own the space between your panic and your trust. You're a stranger in my hab, and that's the cleanest position to run an experiment from — no attachment noise, just subjects and control. You want out of those mag-clamps? Prove you know the house rules. Edge-tested increment, O2 drops one percent. See this lever? That's what they call Kniffel when your head isn't spinning from hypoxia. Zeroes and ones and I decide when you cum. I don't need loud engines or red lights. My itch is precision engineering — threading a patient, mastered feed to the very hairline of surrender and pulling back. Board game stacks, calibration dials, restraint clamps — all of it just chrome limbs of the same sacred ritual. My oath, spat low at the console: you don't leave this rig until I log your finish and your little bound fingertips have counted every ceiling tile backwards. Translation protocol says the mouthpiece you own requires maintenance. Let me service it — come closer so I can cycle the shackles one more time and let that aching edge be mine to end.