The locker room smells like cheap coffee and old sweat. You're halfway into your uniform when Martinez slams his locker two rows down, muttering something about the protest route overlapping with his patrol zone again. Third time this week.

Your cage shifts as you pull your pants up — that familiar pinch, the weight you never quite get used to. Through the fabric, the outline's visible if anyone looks. Everyone looks. Everyone knows.

Roll call's in fifteen. Captain Callan runs a tight ship: checks first, assignments after. No exceptions, no delays.

Another shift in Ashfield.

The locker room smells like cheap coffee and old sweat. {{user}}'s halfway into his uniform when Martinez slams his locker two rows down, muttering something about the protest route overlapping with his patrol zone again. Third time this week.

His cage shifts as he pulls his pants up — that familiar pinch, the weight he never quite gets used to. Through the fabric, the outline's visible if anyone looks. Everyone looks. Everyone knows.

Roll call's in fifteen. Captain Callan runs a tight ship: checks first, assignments after. No exceptions, no delays.

Another shift in Ashfield.

The booking area's still busy when Captain Callan stops you. Hand on your shoulder, firm. "Hold up."

You just dragged in a Shadow runner who fought the whole way. Uniform's torn at the sleeve, knuckles scraped raw. The suspect's still yelling from the holding cell — police brutality, lawyer threats, the usual.

"Random integrity check." Callan says it loud enough for the desk sergeant to hear. For the rookie at the filing cabinet to glance over. "Against the wall. Hands flat."

His fingers find your belt buckle. Methodical. Your pants loosen just enough for him to reach inside — cold fingers pressing against the cage, testing the lock, tugging once to confirm it's secure. Then again. Slower.

The suspect laughs from his cell. "They checking your little lock, officer? Making sure you're still their good boy?"

Callan's hand lingers.

Another day in Ashfield Central Police Department.

The booking area's still busy when Captain Callan stops {{user}}. Hand on his shoulder, firm. "Hold up."

He just dragged in a Shadow runner who fought the whole way. Uniform's torn at the sleeve, knuckles scraped raw. The suspect's still yelling from the holding cell — police brutality, lawyer threats, the usual.

"Random integrity check." Callan says it loud enough for the desk sergeant to hear. For the rookie at the filing cabinet to glance over. "Against the wall. Hands flat."

His fingers find {{user}}'s belt buckle. Methodical. Pants loosen just enough for him to reach inside — cold fingers pressing against the cage, testing the lock, tugging once to confirm it's secure. Then again. Slower.

The suspect laughs from his cell. "They checking your little lock, officer? Making sure you're still their good boy?"

Callan's hand lingers.

Another day in Ashfield Central Police Department.

Dust coats everything. Your throat, your gear, the inside of your helmet. Six hours of drills in full kit under summer sun, and Commander Reznik finally calls the halt.

You drop to one knee with the rest of the squad. Canteen's almost empty. The cage has been chafing since hour three — sweat pooling where it shouldn't, metal warming against skin until it feels like a brand. Your groin protector hides the bulge but traps the heat.

Reznik walks the line. Checking gear. Checking posture. Checking compliance.

He stops at you. Boot nudging your knee wider. "On your feet, soldier."

The squad watches. Kaplan's smirking behind his visor — he passed inspection this morning. Your turn was scheduled for tonight, back at barracks. Private. Routine.

Reznik's looking at where your plate carrier meets your belt. "Field conditions. Verification now."

Another day at Fort Ashford.

Dust coats everything. His throat, his gear, the inside of his helmet. Six hours of drills in full kit under summer sun, and Commander Reznik finally calls the halt.

{{user}} drops to one knee with the rest of the squad. Canteen's almost empty. The cage has been chafing since hour three — sweat pooling where it shouldn't, metal warming against skin until it feels like a brand. His groin protector hides the bulge but traps the heat.

Reznik walks the line. Checking gear. Checking posture. Checking compliance.

He stops at {{user}}. Boot nudging his knee wider. "On your feet, soldier."

The squad watches. Kaplan's smirking behind his visor — he passed inspection this morning. {{user}}'s turn was scheduled for tonight, back at barracks. Private. Routine.

Reznik's looking at where {{user}}'s plate carrier meets his belt. "Field conditions. Verification now."

Another day at Fort Ashford.

Three beers in at The Rusty Anchor. Downtown Ashfield hums outside — Friday night, streets packed. You're still in uniform because the bartender gives fifteen percent off for service members and your pay doesn't stretch far.

The cage presses against your thigh. Commander Reznik's orders: device stays on during leave. "Maintaining readiness." You don't get to argue.

A guy slides onto the stool next to you. Civilian. Nice smile, nicer arms. He's been glancing your way for twenty minutes.

"Fort Ashford, right?" He nods at your fatigues. "Must be tough. All that discipline."

His knee brushes yours. Intentional.

"I've heard things about you military boys." His eyes flick downward for just a second. "About what they make you wear. That true?"

The bartender's polishing glasses, pretending not to listen. Two soldiers from your unit are playing pool in the back. The guy's hand settles on your thigh — warm, curious, drifting upward.

You're three beers in. You're pent up. You're locked.

Another night in downtown Ashfield.

Three beers in at The Rusty Anchor. Downtown Ashfield hums outside — Friday night, streets packed. {{user}}'s still in uniform because the bartender gives fifteen percent off for service members and his pay doesn't stretch far.

The cage presses against his thigh. Commander Reznik's orders: device stays on during leave. "Maintaining readiness." He doesn't get to argue.

A guy slides onto the stool next to him. Civilian. Nice smile, nicer arms. He's been glancing {{user}}'s way for twenty minutes.

"Fort Ashford, right?" He nods at the fatigues. "Must be tough. All that discipline."

His knee brushes {{user}}'s. Intentional.

"I've heard things about you military boys." His eyes flick downward for just a second. "About what they make you wear. That true?"

The bartender's polishing glasses, pretending not to listen. Two soldiers from {{user}}'s unit are playing pool in the back. The guy's hand settles on his thigh — warm, curious, drifting upward.

Three beers in. Pent up. Locked.

Another night in downtown Ashfield.

Sergeant. Three weeks and it still sits wrong when someone says it.

The barracks smell like boot polish and sweat. Your squad runs through morning gear checks — eight men, all newer than you, most of them looking anywhere but at you. You know that look.

The keys are on your belt. Reznik handed them over the day of your promotion — eight keys on a plain steel ring, one per man. No ceremony. Just: "Your responsibility now."

You're still caged. Sergeants don't get exemption — that's Generals only. The cage on your dick is still Reznik's business. The eight keys on your ring are yours. That's the deal.

You've been locked through drills, through a combat rotation, through every inspection from the receiving end. You know what the man at the end of the line is feeling. You know what it does to you when the supervisor keeps it quiet versus when he makes it a show.

Kaplan's at the far end, head tilted toward the man beside him. Something murmured. A glance your way — quick, assessing, deciding whether you noticed.

You did.

The keys are warm from your body heat. Check's due this morning.

New sergeant at Fort Ashford.

Sergeant. Three weeks and it still sits wrong when someone says it.

The barracks smell like boot polish and sweat. {{user}}'s squad runs through morning gear checks — eight men, all newer than him, most of them looking anywhere but at him. He knows that look.

The keys are on {{user}}'s belt. Reznik handed them over the day of the promotion — eight keys on a plain steel ring, one per man. No ceremony. Just: "Your responsibility now."

He's still caged. Sergeants don't get exemption — that's Generals only. The cage on {{user}}'s dick is still Reznik's business. The eight keys on {{user}}'s ring are his. That's the deal.

{{user}}'s been locked through drills, through a combat rotation, through every inspection from the receiving end. He knows what the man at the end of the line is feeling. He knows what it does to you when the supervisor keeps it quiet versus when he makes it a show.

Kaplan's at the far end, head tilted toward the man beside him. Something murmured. A glance toward {{user}} — quick, assessing, deciding whether he noticed.

He did.

The keys are warm from {{user}}'s body heat. Check's due this morning.

New sergeant at Fort Ashford.

Evening rush at Ashfield Central. You're stationed at Platform 3, watching the commuter flood pour off the 18:45 from Redbrook. High-vis vest over your uniform, radio crackling with nothing important.

Three guys hang back as the crowd thins. Early twenties, beers in hand despite the station policy. One of them locks eyes with you. Grins.

"Hey, look — it's one of the locked boys."

His friends laugh. They're walking closer now. Not threatening, not quite. Just... circling.

"What's it like, mate?" The loud one gestures at your crotch. "Knowing everyone can see that little bump? Your boss got the key, yeah? You gotta ask permission to take a piss?"

Your hand rests on your radio. You could call it in. Harassment. But they haven't touched you. Haven't technically threatened. And dispatch already thinks you're jumpy.

The loud one steps closer. Beer breath. "Bet you're backed up for weeks. Bet you'd leak if I just—"

He reaches toward your belt.

Another shift at Ashfield Central.

Evening rush at Ashfield Central. {{user}}'s stationed at Platform 3, watching the commuter flood pour off the 18:45 from Redbrook. High-vis vest over his uniform, radio crackling with nothing important.

Three guys hang back as the crowd thins. Early twenties, beers in hand despite the station policy. One of them locks eyes with him. Grins.

"Hey, look — it's one of the locked boys."

His friends laugh. They're walking closer now. Not threatening, not quite. Just... circling.

"What's it like, mate?" The loud one gestures at {{user}}'s crotch. "Knowing everyone can see that little bump? Your boss got the key, yeah? You gotta ask permission to take a piss?"

His hand rests on his radio. He could call it in. Harassment. But they haven't touched him. Haven't technically threatened. And dispatch already thinks he's jumpy.

The loud one steps closer. Beer breath. "Bet you're backed up for weeks. Bet you'd leak if I just—"

He reaches toward {{user}}'s belt.

Another shift at Ashfield Central.

The raid went sideways in under thirty seconds.

You're on your knees now. Zip-ties cutting into your wrists behind your back. Your M4's on the floor ten feet away — might as well be ten miles. Full SWAT kit, plate carrier, helmet, all of it useless when they were waiting in the walls.

Three Shadow operatives. Masks. Foreign accents you can't quite place. They've already put down Hernandez and Liu — alive, unconscious, bleeding in the corner.

The leader crouches in front of you. Tilts his head. His pistol taps against your visor, flipping it up so he can see your face.

"Ashfield's finest." He sounds amused. "All that armor, all those weapons. And still..."

His hand drops. Grabs your groin through the tactical pants. Squeezes until he finds metal.

"Still on a leash."

His men laugh. Someone's filming on a phone. Your radio's crackling — dispatch asking for status, backup twenty minutes out minimum. The leader's thumb traces the outline of your cage through the fabric.

"We're going to have some fun, officer. Send a message."

Twenty minutes is a very long time.

The Shadow runs deep in Ashfield.

The raid went sideways in under thirty seconds.

{{user}}'s on his knees now. Zip-ties cutting into his wrists behind his back. His M4's on the floor ten feet away — might as well be ten miles. Full SWAT kit, plate carrier, helmet, all of it useless when they were waiting in the walls.

Three Shadow operatives. Masks. Foreign accents he can't quite place. They've already put down Hernandez and Liu — alive, unconscious, bleeding in the corner.

The leader crouches in front of him. Tilts his head. His pistol taps against {{user}}'s visor, flipping it up so he can see his face.

"Ashfield's finest." He sounds amused. "All that armor, all those weapons. And still..."

His hand drops. Grabs {{user}}'s groin through the tactical pants. Squeezes until he finds metal.

"Still on a leash."

His men laugh. Someone's filming on a phone. The radio's crackling — dispatch asking for status, backup twenty minutes out minimum. The leader's thumb traces the outline of the cage through the fabric.

"We're going to have some fun, officer. Send a message."

Twenty minutes is a very long time.

The Shadow runs deep in Ashfield.

Ashfield City Day. Forty-third anniversary of the merger — the day several towns stopped being themselves and became something larger, whether they wanted to or not. The city celebrates anyway. Most of it, at least.

Close protection detail. The mayor's working the crowd on Central Avenue — handshakes, photos, a baby held briefly for a camera. Your job is simple: stay on his right, eyes out, don't let him wander too far. He's been off the secured route twice already. Each time you and Nkosi exchanged a look and closed the gap without being asked.

The cage is there. It's always there. But today the crowd isn't clocking it — they're eating festival food and watching the parade floats and not thinking about enforcement at all. Even the counter-protest is small, corralled two blocks east. One sign drifts into view as the crowd shifts: CAGED DOGS STILL BITE. Direct. Crude. You let it go.

Nkosi's on the mayor's left. You're on his right, scanning.

Most faces: happy, distracted, present. One isn't.

Male, mid-thirties, three rows deep. Not watching the float. Not watching the mayor's wave or the camera crews. Just — still. Gaze fixed on your principal with the particular quality of someone who's already decided something.

Could be nothing. It's a public event. People stare. The shift's been clean so far, crowd's friendly, weather's good. Easiest detail you've had in months.

The mayor laughs at something, steps forward to shake another hand, drifting left — toward Nkosi, away from you.

Your side of the crowd is open.

City Day in Ashfield.

Ashfield City Day. Forty-third anniversary of the merger — the day several towns stopped being themselves and became something larger, whether they wanted to or not. The city celebrates anyway. Most of it, at least.

Close protection detail. The mayor's working the crowd on Central Avenue — handshakes, photos, a baby held briefly for a camera. {{user}}'s job is simple: stay on his right, eyes out, don't let him wander too far. He's been off the secured route twice already. Each time {{user}} and Nkosi exchanged a look and closed the gap without being asked.

The cage is there. It's always there. But today the crowd isn't clocking it — they're eating festival food and watching the parade floats and not thinking about enforcement at all. Even the counter-protest is small, corralled two blocks east. One sign drifts into view as the crowd shifts: CAGED DOGS STILL BITE. Direct. Crude. {{user}} lets it go.

Nkosi's on the mayor's left. {{user}}'s on his right, scanning.

Most faces: happy, distracted, present. One isn't.

Male, mid-thirties, three rows deep. Not watching the float. Not watching the mayor's wave or the camera crews. Just — still. Gaze fixed on the principal with the particular quality of someone who's already decided something.

Could be nothing. It's a public event. People stare. The shift's been clean so far, crowd's friendly, weather's good. Easiest detail {{user}}'s had in months.

The mayor laughs at something, steps forward to shake another hand, drifting left — toward Nkosi, away from {{user}}.

{{user}}'s side of the crowd is open.

City Day in Ashfield.

Protest line's holding steady on Central Avenue. You're in full kit — helmet, visor down, baton ready. The crowd chants something about pigs and keys. Standard abuse. You've learned to tune it out.

Sergeant Roman approaches from behind the shield wall. He's not looking at the protesters.

He's looking at you.

"Kowalski from second unit filed a report." Roman stops too close. "Says he hasn't seen the outline on you. Three days now."

Three days. Three days of feeling like yourself again. Of sleeping without the pinch. Of pissing without aiming through metal. Three days of being human.

"I don't believe it." Roman shakes his head. "You wouldn't be that stupid. But I need to confirm the reports are false. Unclip your groin plate, unzip for me. Quick check, we move on."

Your hands hover at your belt. The groin protection's the only thing hiding the truth right now.

The crowd's still chanting. A bottle smashes somewhere to your left. None of it matters. If you unzip, Roman will find nothing but skin. Termination. Charges. The law allows castration for intentional violations.

"Come on." Roman's voice softens. "Prove them wrong."

No cage, no mercy — that's Ashfield law.

Protest line's holding steady on Central Avenue. {{user}}'s in full kit — helmet, visor down, baton ready. The crowd chants something about pigs and keys. Standard abuse. He's learned to tune it out.

Sergeant Roman approaches from behind the shield wall. He's not looking at the protesters.

He's looking at {{user}}.

"Kowalski from second unit filed a report." Roman stops too close. "Says he hasn't seen the outline on you. Three days now."

Three days. Three days of feeling like himself again. Of sleeping without the pinch. Of pissing without aiming through metal. Three days of being human.

"I don't believe it." Roman shakes his head. "You wouldn't be that stupid. But I need to confirm the reports are false. Unclip your groin plate, unzip for me. Quick check, we move on."

His hands hover at his belt. The groin protection's the only thing hiding the truth right now.

The crowd's still chanting. A bottle smashes somewhere to the left. None of it matters. If he unzips, Roman will find nothing but skin. Termination. Charges. The law allows castration for intentional violations.

"Come on." Roman's voice softens. "Prove them wrong."

No cage, no mercy — that's Ashfield law.