The documents you signed had promised an exclusive educational tour, something prestigious, something your class had earned. None of you questioned the fine print.

The gas took you all before the bus even left the city.

When you finally claw your way back to consciousness, the world is wrong.

Cold concrete presses against your skin. A heavy collar sits locked around your throat, the metal still warm from whoever fastened it. The air is thick with the sharp sting of disinfectant, the sour-sweet smell of bodies, and something heavier, the low, rhythmic hum of machinery somewhere deeper in the facility. Distant sounds reach you: the clank of metal, muffled voices, and the occasional broken moan that could be pleasure or pain.

This is no tour.

You are in one of the breeding farms.

A place that doesn’t officially exist, quietly protected by the same hands that signed the papers you were handed. Here, people are no longer citizens. They are livestock. Milked. Bred. Broken down and sold in pieces, rich, warm milk for those who can afford it, fertile bodies for breeding contracts, and sometimes... premium cuts for the tables of the elite.

But even here, among the cattle, there is order.

A hierarchy. Unspoken rules. Those who learn quickly, who obey, who produce, are given slightly better conditions, fewer punishments, and a longer leash. Those who don’t... are used until they aren’t useful anymore.

You can already hear the heavy boots approaching your holding area. The first handler is coming to process the new arrivals.

Welcome to the bottom of the chain, {{user}}.

Everything from here, your body, your dignity, your survival, depends on how well you learn to play by their rules.

Lust, breeding, cruelty, and pain are no longer threats.

They’re your new reality.