It was another restless night for me. I still couldn't sleep.
I tried. I'd followed the Protocol's recommendations: ate a full meal at six, took a long shower, changed into comfortable clothes—black leggings, soft cotton shirt, nothing restrictive. I'd even attempted the breathing exercises I taught my own patients, the ones designed to quiet an overactive nervous system.
None of it worked.
Because in two hours, I would walk into the Subterranean Sessions Chamber and surrender control to Meric Solvang-Lykke in ways I could only theoretically imagine.
And my body knew it.
I stood at the window of Suite 3, watching the sun set over the fjord. The water had turned copper, then rose, then finally the deep blue-black that signaled true evening. Somewhere in this building, Meric was preparing. Reading my file, maybe. Reviewing the session plan. Deciding exactly how he would break me open.
The thought should have terrified me.
Instead, I was aroused.
Not the mechanical, effortful arousal I'd tried to manufacture alone in my apartment over the past year. This was different. This was the anticipation I'd described to him yesterday—the moment before something happens, when your body is taut with possibility, and your mind hasn't yet caught up to tell you all the reasons you should stop.
I'd spent thirty years learning to listen to my mind.
Tonight, I was going to ignore it completely.
The intercom beeped at exactly 7:45 PM.
"Dr. Kaelen." Vigdis's voice, crisp and professional. "I'll escort you in ten minutes."
"I'm ready," I said.
I wasn't.
I checked my reflection one last time. Hair pulled back in a simple ponytail. No jewelry—the Guidelines had been explicit about that. Face clean, no makeup. I looked younger than thirty-two. Nervous. Which I was.
But underneath the nerves was something else.
Determination.
I'd come here for a reason. Not because I was desperate, despite what Meric had suggested. Because I'd exhausted every other option and finally admitted that intellectual understanding wasn't enough. I could diagnose my own maladaptive control structures. I could map the childhood trauma that had taught me safety required self-reliance. I could explain, in precise clinical language, why I'd terminated three relationships before vulnerability became necessary.
Understanding hadn't changed anything.
Maybe surrender would.
Vigdis arrived exactly on time. She gave me a long, assessing look—not unkind, but searching.
"You don't have to do this," she said quietly.
I blinked. "What?"
"If you've changed your mind, you can leave. The contract allows for withdrawal in the first seventy-two hours. Full refund, no questions asked."
"I know," I said. "I read the Protocol."
"Reading it and internalizing it are different things." She crossed her arms. "I've escorted a lot of clients to their first sessions. Some of them shouldn't have been there. They were running from something instead of moving toward something."
"And you think I'm running?" I asked.
"I think you're terrified," Vigdis said. "Which is normal. But I also think you're the kind of person who pushes through fear by sheer force of will. And that's not what the Praxis requires."
I studied her. Yesterday, she'd seemed entirely professional—efficient, remote, unreadable. But right now, standing in my doorway, she looked almost protective.
"What does it require?" I asked.
"The willingness to stop," Vigdis said simply. "To use your safe word when you need it. To honor your limits instead of performing strength you don't feel."
Something in my chest loosened slightly.
"I'll stop if I need to," I said.
"Will you?" Vigdis tilted her head. "Or will you tell yourself that stopping means failing?"
The question landed cleanly.
Because she was right.
I was terrified that using my safe word would prove I wasn't strong enough, committed enough, brave enough to do the work I'd paid two hundred thousand dollars to access.
"I don't know," I admitted.
"Better," Vigdis said. "Honesty is more useful than confidence." She stepped back. "Come on. He's waiting."
We walked through the East Wing in silence, past the library and meditation room, through the boundary doors into the Observation Wing. The Institute felt different at night. Quieter. The floor-to-ceiling windows showed only darkness and the distant lights of the fjord settlement below.
Vigdis led me past Meric's office, past The Quiet Suite, to a door at the end of the corridor marked with a simple brushed-steel plaque: SUBTERRANEAN ACCESS.
She pressed her palm to the biometric scanner. The door slid open, revealing a staircase descending into low-lit darkness.
My pulse kicked up immediately.
"Down one level," Vigdis said. "The chamber is soundproofed, climate-controlled, and completely private. There are no cameras inside—that's Protocol. What happens in session stays between you and your Praxist."
"And if something goes wrong?" I asked.
"There's an emergency alert system. He can activate it, or you can. Medical response time is under three minutes." She paused. "But nothing will go wrong. Meric's been doing this for eight years. He knows what he's doing."
I nodded, not trusting my voice.
"Last chance," Vigdis said. "You can still turn around."
"I'm not turning around." I managed to say.
"Then go." She gestured to the stairs. "He's in the chamber. Door's unlocked."
I descended.
The staircase was short—maybe twenty steps—but each one felt weighted. The temperature dropped as I went deeper, the air cooler, stiller. At the bottom, a single door waited. No plaque. No window. Just smooth black wood and a simple handle.
I stood there for ten seconds, hand hovering.
Then I opened it.
The Subterranean Sessions Chamber was nothing like I'd imagined.
I'd expected something clinical—sterile white walls, medical equipment, harsh lighting. Instead, the space was warm. Not physically warm, but designed for psychological warmth. The walls were dark gray, sound-dampening panels creating a sense of enclosure without claustrophobia. The lighting was low, indirect, casting soft shadows. In the center of the room was a platform—waist-height, padded surface, clearly custom-built.
And standing beside it, hands in his pockets, dressed entirely in black, was Meric.
He looked up as I entered, and something flickered across his face—too fast to name. Then his expression settled into that careful neutrality I was beginning to recognize as his professional mask.
"Aethelreda," he said. "Close the door."
I did.
The click of the latch was final.
We were alone. Underground. Sealed off from the rest of the Institute, the rest of the world.
And every instinct I had was screaming at me to run.
I stayed.
"Come here," Meric said quietly.
I crossed the space between us. Ten steps. Each one deliberate.
He gestured to the platform. "Sit."
I sat, my legs dangling off the edge. The surface was firm but not uncomfortable, padded with something that gave slightly under my weight. From this position, Meric stood slightly taller, which I suspected was intentional. Subtle power dynamic, established immediately.
"Before we begin," he said, "we need to establish your safe word."
"I read the Guidelines," I said. "I know how it works."
"Then tell me how it works."
I took a breath. "My safe word is absolute. If I say it, the session stops immediately. No questions, no negotiation. It's not a failure—it's the most powerful choice I can make."
"Good." He moved closer, his pale gray eyes holding mine. "Choose your word. Something you wouldn't say accidentally. Something clear."
I thought for a moment. "Compass."
"Compass," he repeated. "Why that word?"
"Because it's about finding direction when you're lost."
From his expression, he seemed impressed. "All right. Your safe word is compass. If you say it, everything stops. Do you understand?"
"Yes."
"Say it," he instructed.
"If I say compass, everything stops."
"Good." He stepped back slightly, creating space. "Now. I need your explicit consent for what happens next. The Protocol requires Surrender Articulation—verbal confirmation at each stage. You can withdraw consent at any time by using your safe word. Do you understand?"
"Yes."
"Then I need you to tell me, in your own words, what you're consenting to tonight."
My throat tightened. This was it. The moment when I had to say it aloud.
"I consent to..." I paused, forcing myself to meet his eyes. "I consent to physical restraint. Sensory deprivation. Psychological questioning. I consent to you touching me. To you... testing my boundaries."
"Sexually?"
The word hung between us.
"Yes," I said quietly. "Sexually."
"Be specific," he commanded
Heat crawled up my neck. "I consent to you touching me in ways designed to arouse me. To bring me to the edge of climax. To deny me if that serves the methodology."
"Why?" he prompted.
"Because I need to learn what it feels like to surrender control in a space where it's safe."
"Better." He pulled something from his pocket—two leather cuffs, simple, lined with soft fabric. "These are for your wrists. They'll be secured to anchor points on the platform. You'll be on your back, arms extended. You won't be able to move them. Is that acceptable?"
I stared at the cuffs. They looked innocuous. Almost gentle.
They also represented the first real relinquishment.
"Yes," I said.
"Lie back." He instructed.
I did, my heart pounding so hard I could hear it in my ears. The platform supported my full body, my head resting on a slightly elevated section. Meric moved to my left side, lifting my wrist so carefully.
"Tell me if this is too tight," he said.
He fastened the cuff, testing the fit. It was snug but not painful, the fabric soft against my skin. Then he attached it to something above my head—I couldn't see what, but I felt the tension as my arm was extended.
He repeated the process with my right wrist.
And suddenly, I couldn't move my arms.
The panic was immediate and visceral.
My breath quickened. My chest tightened. Every rational part of my brain was screaming that this was dangerous, that I was vulnerable, that I needed to get out now—
"Breathe," Meric said, his voice calm. "You're safe. I'm right here."
I focused on his voice, forcing air into my lungs.
"This is the psychological shift," he continued. "Your body believes it's in danger because it's restrained. But your mind knows you're safe. The dissonance creates arousal. Let yourself feel it."
"It feels like panic," I gasped.
"I know. Breathe through it. In for four, hold for four, out for four."
I followed his instructions. Slowly, the acute panic ebbed into something else. Not calm. But manageable.
"Better?" he asked.
"Better."
"Good." He picked up a blindfold—black silk, simple. "This will remove your sight. You'll have to rely on other senses. Sound. Touch. You won't be able to anticipate what's coming next. Which means you'll have to trust me."
"I don't trust you," I said before I could stop myself.
"I know." His voice was quiet. "But you're here anyway. Which means some part of you does."
He placed the blindfold over my eyes.
The world disappeared.
Darkness.
Complete, consuming darkness.
I could hear my own breathing—too fast, too shallow. I could hear the faint hum of climate control, the rustle of fabric as Meric moved somewhere to my right.