It was one thing to watch from the safety of Lena's balcony and another to step onto the playing field myself. The decision to cross that line didn't come in a rush; it settled slowly, like fog lifting on a quiet morning. I woke up the day after witnessing the Red Room flogging with an aching curiosity humming under my skin, a pull toward the profound intimacy I had seen. Victor had offered to guide me when I was ready. Every fibre of my reporter's brain whispered caution, listing the countless reasons this was a terrible idea. Every fibre of my body, however, whispered, Why not?
That morning was a blur of caffeine and pacing, my thoughts a whirlwind of what-ifs and possibilities. I replayed every scene I'd ever watched, every conversation I'd had. I thought of Nadia and Rafael's calm authority, of Jennifer's gentle hand during aftercare, and of Leo's quiet admission of freedom. It wasn't about the act itself, I realized. It was about the trust, the carefully constructed safety net that allowed for true vulnerability. And it was this vulnerability, this sense of raw honesty, that drew me in more than any sensational headline could.
I found Victor in his office that afternoon, sun streaming in through floor-to-ceiling windows. He looked up from a stack of paperwork, an eyebrow arching when he saw me, a silent question in his piercing blue eyes.
"I'd like to try," I blurted, nerves flaring. The words were out before I could second-guess myself. "Something small. Nothing too intense. Just…something."
He set his pen down and folded his hands, his expression calm and unreadable. "You're sure?"
"Yes." My voice didn't shake. I was surprised at my certainty. The fear was still there, a tiny tremor in my stomach, but it was dwarfed by a powerful, undeniable longing to experience this world firsthand. I wanted to know what it felt like to let go, to trust.
He nodded slowly. "All right. Then let's talk. What interests you? What's off the table? Do you have any injuries or triggers?"
I swallowed, the questions feeling oddly clinical yet deeply personal. "I think…I want to feel restrained. Just my wrists. And maybe a blindfold. No nudity." Heat crept up my neck as I spoke the last part. "I need to keep control over that for now."
"Understood," he said calmly. "We'll keep you clothed. You'll choose a safe word. The traffic light colours are available—yellow to slow, red to stop. Or pick any word you like."
"Yellow and red are fine," I said, oddly comforted by their simplicity. They were already a part of the Elysium vocabulary in my head, a language of safety.
He continued, his tone methodical and reassuring. "Touch. Where is it okay? Where is not?"
"My wrists are fine. Hands. Shoulders. No…no sexual areas. Not yet." It felt strange to be so clinical, to be a stranger detailing my boundaries. But it also felt incredibly empowering. I was in control of my surrender.
"Good," he murmured, making notes on a small pad. He was a professional, a guide. This wasn't about him; it was about me. "Aftercare. What helps you feel calm? A blanket, water, quiet?"
"Tea," I replied without thinking. The word came out of me like a reflex. "And…I like physical contact. Hugs. But only if I ask."
"I can do that," he said, a smile ghosting his lips. "This will be a very simple scene, Cassie. You will sit in a chair. I will tie your wrists loosely in front of you with silk. I will blindfold you. I will touch your hands and arms, nothing more. You will focus on the sensations. If at any time you feel uncomfortable, you say yellow or red. If you are curious about something else, you may ask. Is this acceptable?"
"Yes." The word came out as a breath, a quiet vow.
He stood, extending his hand. "Then let's begin. Follow me."
He led me to a private room I hadn't seen before, lit by a soft lamp, walls draped in midnight blue velvet. A comfortable, overstuffed chair sat in the center, an island of calm in a sea of anticipation. He gestured for me to sit. My heart hammered in my chest as I settled into the cushions, the leather cool against my bare arms. He knelt in front of me, holding up a length of smooth silk. "May I?"
"Yes," I whispered. My pulse thundered in my ears, a rhythmic drum against my temples. This was it. The moment of crossing the line.
He wrapped the silk around my wrists, tying a bow I could probably wriggle out of if I needed to. The silk was cool at first, warming quickly against my skin. It wasn't tight, but it was present—a promise. He lifted a black blindfold. "Close your eyes," he instructed gently.
Darkness enveloped me as the fabric pressed over my eyes, erasing the world I knew. I felt a brief moment of panic, a flash of claustrophobia, but I inhaled deeply and released it. The darkness wasn't a prison; it was a sanctuary. "Colour?" he asked softly.
"Green," I said, and felt a smile twitch at my lips at the use of the word. It made me feel in control even as I surrendered.
He touched my hands first, his fingers tracing the line of my knuckles, the sensitive skin between thumb and forefinger. Every brush was magnified in the absence of sight. I inhaled sharply when he ran a fingertip lightly down my forearm; goosebumps rose. He circled my wrist with his thumb, not testing the binding but acknowledging it, a silent conversation between touch and sensation. My breath came faster, not from fear but from the heightened awareness coursing through me. The world narrowed to silk, fingers, and the sound of his breathing across from me.
"Good?" he murmured.
"Yes," I breathed. "Green."
He continued, alternating strokes and pauses, letting anticipation build. When he tapped my knuckles in a quick rhythm, my brain sparked with pleasure. When he flattened his palm over the pulse point at my wrist, heat flooded through me. I felt suspended—not in ropes but in sensation, as though the room had fallen away. For a moment, my thoughts drifted, my limbs heavy and light at once. I was aware of the silk restraining me and yet I floated beyond it. My mind was quiet for the first time in years, the constant stream of journalistic thought silenced. A gentle humming filled the edges of my senses.
"Colour?" Victor's voice, a soft rumble, anchored me.
"Green," I whispered, my voice thick with emotion I couldn't place.
He slowed his touch, rubbing warmth back into my hands. The humming receded, leaving a residue of calm. I realized I had been teetering on the edge of subspace—my first taste of the altered state I'd witnessed the man in the Red Room experience. It was milder, but the drift was there, the sweet, intoxicating pull of letting go.
When he untied the silk and removed the blindfold, I blinked against the soft light. Tears pricked unexpectedly at the corners of my eyes. I wasn't sad; I was moved. I was in awe of the experience, and of the man who had guided me through it with such care.
"You're shaking," he said quietly, his voice full of concern. "Would you like a blanket?"
I nodded. He draped a thick blanket over my shoulders and poured a cup of tea from a thermos. "Sip slowly," he instructed. He sat beside me on the floor, hands folded in his lap, giving me space and presence without crowding me.
We didn't speak for several minutes. I focused on the warmth of the tea, the weight of the blanket, the solidness of his form at my side. It grounded me in a way I hadn't anticipated, bringing me back to my body, to the present. Finally, I looked at him and smiled. "Thank you."
"You're welcome," he said, meeting my gaze. "How do you feel?"
"Floaty," I admitted. "But safe."
"Good," he murmured. "That's our goal. You did well. You communicated. You stayed in tune with your body. And you trusted." He squeezed my shoulder lightly. "If you decide to explore further another time, we'll build from here. But only if you want to."
The offer hung between us like a gift. The woman who had walked into this room had done so out of a desire to research. The one walking out carried a lingering warmth in her limbs and a deeper understanding of herself. My notebook lay unopened on the table. For once, I had no urge to document the moment in words. It was enough to live it. I tucked the silk into my bag like a talisman, a reminder that surrender could be exhilarating, that structure and trust made it possible. As I walked through Elysium's halls, every sense still heightened, I realized I was no longer just a witness to this world. I was now, cautiously, intentionally, part of it.