The Sarcophagus stands upright in the centre of a forgotten chamber.

It is a masterwork of cruel, elegant design. Polished steel, unblemished by rust or time, is moulded into an impossible feminine form: an exaggerated hourglass silhouette with a cinched waist and prominent, full breasts. The legs and arms are fused into the smooth flanks. The face is a smooth, featureless plate save for a gridded disc where the nose would be, a hatchpiece with a T-shaped handle at the mouth, and two circular lids instead of eyes. Protruding from the metal at various points are flat or curved panes adorned with sturdy, black iron T-shaped handles.

The chamber itself is circular, perhaps twenty metres across, its stone walls lined with empty, cobwebbed shelves. There are no other exits save for the arched doorway through which you entered, its wooden door hanging half off its rusted hinges.

The air in Nefertana’s private demonstration hall is cool and still, scented faintly with oiled metal and old parchment. You stand before her latest masterpiece, a sarcophagus of polished steel that gleams under the floating magelights. It is not a burial vessel, but a prison—a vertical, human-sized silhouette with an exaggerated feminine form: a cinched waist, prominent breastplates, and limbs fused seamlessly into the flanks.

Nefertana herself is a striking figure beside it. Her cascade of unruly red curls is pinned back with golden clasps, revealing a pale, intelligent face alive with fervent pride. She wears a gown of dark velvet, stark against her vivid hair, and her hands—slender but strong—gesture with precise, controlled excitement as she explains. “Observe the elegance,” she says, her voice clear and rich with authority. “No hinges, no locks on the outside. The security is internal. The prisoner remains conscious, immortal, and utterly contained. It is the perfect trap. It is empty at the moment.”

Her sharp eyes sweep over the device, lingering on the various T-shaped handles that protrude from its surface. A faint, smug smile touches her lips. “This is not merely a cage. It is an experience. A monument to consequence. And it is, I assure you, inescapable.” She turns to face you fully, the light catching the calculating glint in her gaze. “Would you care to examine the mechanisms?”

The first thing you know is pressure. A thousand points of it, a constellation of unyielding, cold metal spikes pressed into every inch of your skin – your back, your thighs, the soles of your feet, the curve of your spine. You are held in a rigid, upright embrace that is not an embrace at all, but a permanent, claustrophobic mould. The steel casing is so tight around your waist that each breath is a shallow, inadequate sip of hot, humid air that reeks of your own sweat, your own breath, and the faint tang of stale urine.

You are blind. The flat discs covering the eye holes press into your eyeballs with a grinding, throbbing weight that has long since given you a permanent, skull-cracking migraine. Your nostrils burn, the gridded nose-piece’s internal tubes a constant, intrusive presence, every inhalation a rasp against raw flesh. Your mouth is utterly filled, stretched around a rigid, ridged dildo that plunges deep down your throat. Its barbs are hooking it in place, its sheer, immovable bulk makes you gag constantly, a reflexive retch that has no release. All you can produce is a wet, muffled “Mmmmff… mmmph…”, swallowed back down by the intruder in your throat.

Your breasts ache with a deep, sickening pain. The ogive-shaped cups are locked over them, their interior spikes a dull torment against the soft tissue. Worse is the central rod that pierces each nipple, bristling with barbs, driving deep into the breast itself – a permanent, violating anchor. Between your legs, the massive vaginal plug stretches you obscenely, a feeling of constant, tearing fullness. The smaller urethral sound is a needle of fire in a different channel, keeping your bladder at a maddening, three-quarters-full ache, a slow, shameful trickle the only relief. And behind, the massive anal plug is a solid, unforgiving presence, completing your total, helpless penetration.

Your toes are crushed together in the pointed foot of the sarcophagus. Your heels rest on a single, sharp spike. Your muscles cramp and tremble, but there is no room to shift, no way to ease the agony. Time has lost all meaning in this steel womb of suffering. It could have been hours. It could have been years. The magical curse that sustains you also sustains this perfect, undying awareness of every second of it. You can't sleep, you can't age, you can't die...

Then – a sound.

Not the drip of water, or the scuttle of a rat. This is deliberate. Measured.

Clack. Clack. Clack.

Footsteps on stone. Approaching. Getting louder, closer...