The collar didn't stop hurting.
It just stopped being loud about it.
Jaden stood dripping on the wet tile while Lance Tucker watched him like a technician watching a machine boot up. The water kept running behind Jaden, cycling cold to hot to cold, like the building enjoyed reminding you it controlled your skin too.
Lance's eyes flicked once to the collar light at Jaden's throat.
Green.
Steady.
"Good," Lance said, like he'd just fixed a leak. "You can follow instructions."
Jaden didn't answer.
His heartbeat wanted to climb. Not panic. Not fear. Rage. The kind that came from being handled, renamed, filed.
He forced it down.
One breath. Two.
The collar stayed green.
Lance turned away first, bored already. "Issue him," he told an officer.
A plastic bundle hit the bench.
White fabric. Thin. Stiff. Too clean.
Jaden stared at it.
It wasn't a uniform. It was a label.
He dressed because the room expected it. White pants. White top. No pockets. Of course no pockets. Command hated pockets.
The fabric clung weirdly while his skin was still wet. Cold. It made him feel like he was wearing paper.
The officer pointed. "Hands out."
Jaden did it slow.
The officer ran a scanner over his wrists, then clipped a new band around one wrist—matte strip, embedded chip. Another status light. Another leash.
Jaden flexed his fingers once.
The collar blinked yellow for half a heartbeat.
He froze.
The yellow died. Back to green.
He didn't even get to be annoyed without permission.
They walked him out into the corridor again. Engineered silence. Cameras. Speaker grilles. The floor polished enough to reflect his bare ankles.
Bare.
They'd taken his shoes.
They gave him cheap slip-ons that felt like they'd been sanitized too many times. The kind that never quite fit, because comfort wasn't the point.
A door hissed open.
Medical.
The smell changed. Less bleach. More alcohol. More plastic.
A woman stood at a counter with trays of sealed instruments laid out like a ritual. Gray scrubs. ID plates. Gloves on. Hair pulled back so tight it looked like it was trying to escape. Gray streaks at the roots she didn't bother hiding.
Her eyes were tired in a specific way—like she'd seen horror and filed it away because she still had to eat lunch afterward.
She looked up at Jaden, then at his wrist band, then at the collar.
"Banks," she said.
Not a greeting. A confirmation.
Jaden's mouth stayed flat.
"Esther Wright," she added, like she was forced by policy to be human once per shift. Her voice was clean and dry. "Open your mouth."
Jaden blinked. "Why."
"Because if you've got mites in your throat I'd rather find out now than when you're coughing blood in a dorm," Esther said. "Open."
His jaw tightened. But he opened.
A light flashed. A small scanner swept his tongue and the back of his throat.
Cold. Unpleasant.
Esther clicked her tongue once and scribbled something onto a tablet.
"Eyes."
Jaden lifted his gaze just enough. Not at her face. At the bridge of her nose. An old habit. Makes people think you're listening without giving them your eyes.
Esther shined a light. Checked pupils. Checked the faint tremor in his lids.
"You were at the protest Breach," she said.
Jaden didn't answer.
Esther didn't wait for an answer. She pulled a swab and ran it along the seam of his collar.
Jaden's teeth tingled.
His shoulders wanted to rise. His body wanted to recoil.
Yellow flickered again.
He forced stillness so hard it felt like he was crushing his own throat from the inside.
Green returned.
Esther watched the collar light like she watched Jaden. Like his feelings were data.
"You're smart," she said quietly. "Smart ones don't last if they think they can beat the building."
Jaden's voice came out low. "I'm not trying to beat anything."
Esther's mouth twitched, not quite a smile. More like recognition.
"Sure," she said. "Blood sample."
The needle was already out before he could respond. She tied a band around his arm with practiced speed. Found a vein like she'd been doing it her whole life.
The needle slid in.
Jaden didn't flinch.
Not because he wasn't bothered. Because flinching was noise.
Esther filled two vials. Click. Click. Sealed them. Labeled them.
One label had big block letters he didn't like.
CRS PATHWAY
The other had smaller print.
Muzzle schedule: pending
Jaden's eyes caught on that.
"Muzzle," he said before he could stop himself.
Esther paused, then looked up.
"You already learned the slang," she said.
Jaden didn't answer.
Esther set the vials in a rack. Her voice dropped just slightly, like she didn't want the cameras to enjoy it.
"Officially it's Restraint Booster," she said. "Monthly. Sometimes sooner if Compliance wants you calmer."
Jaden's stomach tightened.
He kept his face blank anyway.
"Full dose makes people… unstable," Esther added, clinical. "So they do small doses. Slow conditioning. It's easier to manage the facility when everyone's a little quieter."
Jaden heard the words.
He felt something colder underneath them.
Lapdogs.
Certified CRS.
He didn't say it. He didn't give it air.
Esther pulled her gloves off and tossed them in a bin. "Decon shower after. Then issue. Then dorm assignment."
Jaden's eyes slid to a door across the medical bay.
It had a frosted window.
Behind it, he saw a shadow move.
A white uniform.
And then, for a heartbeat, a black angular snout—Dogbox silhouette—passed the glass.
Jaden's throat tightened again.
Esther followed his gaze without interest.
"Black-Tag bays are down that hall," she said. "Don't stare. It makes them twitchy."
"They can hear me stare?" Jaden asked.
Esther's eyes flicked to him. "They can feel anything that looks like threat. Collar reads it. Mask reads it. People read it. This place is built to turn feelings into punishments."
Jaden swallowed.
Green.
He kept it green.
An officer returned and jerked his head toward the corridor.
Jaden walked.
The hallway outside medical was worse. Narrower. More cameras. More speaker grilles. More seams in the ceiling like panels could drop shut and slice the air.
As they passed a side corridor, a line of Chokers shuffled by in white—hands behind backs, collars glowing steady, faces blank like sleepwalkers.
One of them turned his head too fast.
His collar flashed yellow.
He stiffened mid-step like his body forgot how to work.
A handler beside him tapped a tablet.
The collar pulsed.
The man's knees buckled. He caught himself, shaking.
The handler didn't even look mad.
Just annoyed.
"Keep it green," the handler muttered.
Jaden's jaw clenched.
He didn't know when he started hating that color. But he did.
The officer guiding him stopped at another door.
Inside, a changing room opened into a larger issue bay. Rows of bins. White uniforms stacked like grave cloth. Collars on trays. Boots that looked like they'd never be comfortable.
And people.
Not staff.
Inmates.
Chokers.
Some were talking quietly. Some weren't talking at all. The ones who weren't talking had a certain look.
Not peaceful.
Leashed.
Jaden felt his stomach drop a little. Not because he was scared of them.
Because he could see himself in them if he stayed here long enough.
A man leaned against a bench near the wall, rolling his shoulders like he was loosening tight muscle. He had a thick neck and a harder face, tan skin with old scars near his cheekbone, dark hair cut short at the sides. His white uniform fit like he'd outgrown it—arms and chest a little too filled out, like prison hadn't made him weaker. Tattoos crept up his forearms, half hidden under the sleeve line.
His collar was green.
Steady.
His eyes weren't gone, though. They were sharp. Awake.
He looked at Jaden the way a veteran looks at a rookie walking onto a field with no idea where the mines are.
"You fresh," the man said. Not a question.
Jaden didn't answer.
The man pushed off the bench anyway and stepped closer. He moved like he knew exactly how far he could get before a guard got suspicious.
"Rocco Garza," he said quietly. "Don't talk to staff like you got rights. Don't breathe fast. Don't spike. Don't cross painted lines. Don't stare at Dogboxes."
Jaden's eyes narrowed. "Why are you telling me."
Rocco's mouth twitched. "Because you look like you think you can be calm forever. This place learns calm. Then it punishes it too."
Jaden stared at Rocco's collar light.
Green.
Then he glanced at the guards.
They weren't watching Rocco. They were watching Jaden.
Of course.
Rocco leaned in a fraction, voice low.
"Black-Tag means they don't trust your collar alone," he said. "Dogbox is the second leash. Airlock if you get cute."
Jaden's throat tightened, almost involuntary.
Yellow flickered.
He crushed it down.
Green.
Rocco's eyes flicked to the blink like he'd seen it a thousand times. "Yeah," he muttered. "That."
Jaden kept his face blank. "How do you keep it green."
Rocco stared at him a beat like he was deciding if the answer was worth giving.
Then he said, "You don't. You just learn how to lie to your own body."
Jaden felt something twist in his chest.
Not sadness. Not fear.
Recognition.
The officer guiding him barked, "Move."
Rocco stepped back like he'd never been there.
Jaden walked toward the next door—another corridor, this one narrower, darker, with a sign stenciled on the wall:
RESTRAINT FITTING — BAY THREE
He stopped without meaning to.
The speaker overhead had said Black-Tag fitting in Bay Three.
Dogbox ready.
The officer grabbed his shoulder and shoved him forward.
"Not optional," the officer said.
Jaden's voice came out calm. Too calm. "I'm not Black-Tag."
The officer didn't answer.
The door hissed open.
Bay Three smelled like rubber and disinfectant and something faintly metallic, like old blood that got scrubbed too hard.
A table sat in the center. Straps. Buckles. A head brace.
On a tray beside it sat the mask.
The Dogbox.
Up close, it was worse.
Matte black snout-frame. Interlocking ribs that didn't look like bars—more like teeth turned outward. Cheek anchors with hidden rails. A small status slit on the snout that was dark right now. Inside, tiny shutters sat half-open like eyelids.
The thing looked like it could decide how much air you deserved.
A staffer in gray stood beside the tray, gloves on, expression blank. Not Esther. Someone else. A tech.
Lance Tucker leaned against the far wall with his arms crossed, as relaxed as if he was watching a training video.
His eyes slid over Jaden like Jaden was finally entertaining.
Jaden's collar light stayed green.
Barely.
Lance pushed off the wall and walked closer, boots dry, steps quiet.
"You're thinking too loud," Lance said.
Jaden's gaze snapped to him. "Why am I here."
Lance tilted his head. "Because your calm is a problem."
Jaden's jaw tightened. "That doesn't make sense."
"It makes perfect sense," Lance said, voice almost gentle. "Panic is predictable. Rage is predictable. Quiet boys who move strollers without touching them?"
He smiled a little.
"Those boys make plans."
Jaden's collar flickered yellow.
He forced it down so fast it felt like swallowing glass.
Lance watched the flicker like he enjoyed it. "See? You can control it. That means you can fight it. That means you can resist."
Jaden's voice dropped. "I'm not resisting."
Lance stepped closer, close enough that Jaden could smell coffee and mint again.
"You don't get to decide what you are," Lance said softly. "Command decides what you are."
He gestured to the table.
"Sit."
Jaden didn't move.
The tech reached for the Dogbox tray anyway, fingers sliding under the black ribs.
The status slit on the snout lit up for the first time.
A thin line.
Green.
Jaden's throat tightened so hard his collar blinked yellow like it was laughing.
Lance's voice stayed calm.
"Last chance," he said. "Sit down and breathe normal, or I'll have them strap you. Either way, you're leaving Bay Three with that on."
The tech lifted the Dogbox.
The internal shutters flexed once, narrowing like a pupil.
Jaden's body went still.
Not obedient.
Not scared.
Calculating.
And as the mask came toward his face, close enough that he could feel the cold air shift through the ribs, the status slit flickered—
from green—
to yellow.