The first thing they take from her is her clothes. 

A quiet attendant in charcoal scrubs directs her into a small chamber lined with lockers, each one engraved with initials in polished brass. Lindsey finds hers already waiting, her name stark against the pale wood. The woman’s tone is even, practiced. “All personal effects are logged. Clothing, jewelry, cosmetics, phone—everything.”

Lindsey hesitates before sliding her tote onto the bench. Her life—her feed, her fans, her familiar routines—already feels impossibly distant. 

One by one, she peels off the trappings she carried here: long, hanging silver crescent‑moon earrings; the claw clip holding up her long lavender hair; the amethyst and onyx rings on her fingers; even the black polish on her nails. She strips away her clothes as well: a pair of comfortable leggings, a dark teal sweater with a siamese cat, and worn black boots. Each item slips into a velvet‑lined tray the attendant seals and catalogs with clinical precision.

She stands nude as the attendant logs her belongings. She reminds herself what Oliver told her. This is her choice. At any point she is free to leave. She clings to this small truth like a lifeline as she is laid bare in the cool antiseptic and eucalyptus scented air of the intake facility. 

The Circle doesn’t advertise itself, it simply exists. She had taken two planes, business class, and a discreet car service to get here. She was intercepted at the airport by a man that was holding no sign, wearing no uniform, but she knew immediately he was Circle by the tell-tale crimson tie. They didn’t stop at baggage claim—her larger suitcase was already in the car, she realized, though she never saw it leave the carousel.

The main clubhouse, she learned after some persistent prodding as the car merged onto a coastal road, was much larger and sat on one of the more populated islands The Circle owned. The intake facility, however, was deliberately secluded from such distractions: a sprawling white-stucco estate set back from the road, its lines clean and understated. Inside, part boutique hotel and part private clinic, it was dressed in modern furniture in muted tones, with fresh flowers arranged with surgical neatness. Not ostentatious, but immaculately kept; the kind of building that radiates quiet wealth and deliberate control.

"Hair is artificially colored." The attendant mutters without looking up from the tablet as she types. “Natural hair color?” 

“Brown.” Lindsey replies, arms crossing awkwardly over her nude frame. The stylus ticks across the tablet.

"Eye color?" 

"Uh, blue." She clears her throat.

"Is this your correct date of birth?" She turns the tablet toward Lindsey. Lindsey nods. The attendant gestures with a gloved hand. "Step onto the scale, please." The platform is cool underfoot; a number blinks and fills the form. "One hundred fifteen pounds," she reads, typing it in. She slides the height bar to the crown of Lindsey's head. "Five foot three." She gestures again. Lindsey steps down from the scale, her skin goose bumped in the chilly air. "Arms at your sides." She circles, examining every inch of Lindsey's skin, recording any injuries, moles, scars. "Any tattoos?”

She shakes her head. “No.” The attendant pauses again to type. 

“Sign here. Initial there.” The tray seals with a soft click, and then everything is gone—locked away. She is provided a robe of satin crimson, delicately draped on a whalebone hanger inside her locker. “Shower’s through there.”

The bathing wing hums with low white noise. Steam coils faintly in the air. She steps into a stall where everything has been laid out in triplicate: exfoliating scrub, shampoo, conditioner, razor. No brands, no labels, nothing personal. She lathers, scrubs, rinses, her skin prickling under the harsh mitt, as though layers of herself are being scoured away. The water runs clean, leaving her hair stripped and light, her skin tingling and raw.

When she emerges the attendant reappears, gloves on, voice even. “Waxing station is next.” Lindsey’s stomach flips. But she follows, lying back under the bright lamp as warm wax smooths over her skin, then rips away with swift efficiency. Legs, underarms, bikini line—every strip stings, each one another quiet reminder that her body is no longer entirely her own here. They offer the option of a full Brazilian. She declines, her voice steadier than she feels.

Once finished, a set of silk, crimson pajamas is folded into her arms, with slippers to match. After she changes, there’s one more step. She is escorted to a narrow room with frosted glass walls, a tripod and camera set in front of a plain white backdrop."Hair behind your shoulders." the technician says, tone almost kind, though not quite. Lindsey pulls her hair back as instructed. The shutter clicks—front, side, profile.

Then the technician slides a glass pad toward her. "Right hand." The plate is cool against her skin; a band of cold blue light moves beneath each fingertip as the machine records the ridges. "Roll from nail edge to nail edge." She obeys. "Left hand." Another pass, another chirp, the data filling the form. The pad smells faintly of alcohol; the technician wipes it once and nods. "Alright, Ms. Fuller, you can step into the lounge through that door there." She points, handing Lindsey a crimson embossed folder with her name in silver calligraphy on the cover.

By the time she emerges, she feels scraped clean. Freshly scrubbed, waxed, photographed, fingerprinted. A body reset, uniform and anonymous. 

The lounge feels more like a spa than a dormitory—low couches upholstered in soft gray, walls paneled in dark walnut, lamps glowing beneath frosted glass shades. She glances at the other women already gathered—similarly dressed, faces bare, hair damp. They look like initiates in some strange, hushed order. Folders rest in each woman’s lap, silver names gleaming. The only sound is the hush of slippers against carpet and the faint rustle of folders as each woman flips through her packet.

Lindsey perches cross-legged on a couch’s edge, her pajama sleeve brushing the embossed folder in her lap. Her name gleams in silver script across the cover: FULLER, LINDSEY. She hasn’t opened it yet. The weight of it feels like a seal, and she isn’t sure she’s ready to break it.

At the front of the room, a woman in similar charcoal scrubs stands. Her voice is calm, measured, but leaves no room for argument. “The Intake House is neutral ground,” she says, her gaze sweeping the group. “For the next three nights, your training begins here. House rules are detailed in the folders,” the woman continues. “Lights out is eleven p.m. sharp. Meals are taken at set times. Staff will not engage with you beyond necessity—do not attempt conversation.” Her eyes scan the room, lingering on a few who shift uneasily.

“In the morning at nine, medical intake begins. Bloodwork, implant confirmation or insertion, pregnancy and STI screening. This is mandatory.” The statement lands like stone. She pauses, as if to let the clinical weight of it settle.

"You will meet your assigned Dom tomorrow afternoon," she continues, "but you will not move into their home until clearance is confirmed by both medical and governance panels." The words land heavy; Lindsey feels the idea settle like a stone. What kind of Dom will she be assigned? She thinks of Oliver, how his referral brought her here, and for a quick, disorienting beat she wonders whether she could be assigned to him at all, and what that would mean. 

Finally, she folds her hands behind her back. “Upon successful completion of the three-month training period, you will each receive seventy-five thousand dollars. The funds are held in escrow until the end. You may leave and cease training at any time, and the Circle will assist you in returning home; however, if you do not complete training, you will not receive the payment.”

The number hangs in the air like a bright lure, sharp enough to make Lindsey’s pulse skip. Seventy-five thousand. She’d never seen that much money in her life, not even across a year of hustling OnlyFans. It’s enough to shift the entire trajectory of her world—and yet, looking around at the other women, she wonders how many of them are already imagining themselves walking away with it, and how many are already calculating the ways they might fail.

The woman in gray gives a final, crisp nod. “You may retire to your assigned rooms now; you will find your room number inside your folder. Tomorrow begins promptly at nine. Do not be late.”

As the trainees rise, folders clutched tight, Lindsey moves with them down a wide corridor toward the sleeping quarters. The air hums with silence, every step heavier than the last. Three nights here, she thinks. Three nights before everything truly begins.