Divine Scourge

Chapter 1: The Gilded Cage

Chen Rui's life was like a bespoke suit displayed in a shop window. Crisp fabric, impeccable tailoring, radiating a rich, expensive luster under the lights. Outsiders could only admire its perfection through the glass, unable to touch the rough lining and stray threads within.

At 44, he was the Director of Merchandising and Supply Chain for a well-known retail enterprise. The title sounded impressively powerful, but he knew the truth: it was merely the product of his family's connections and that prestigious 985 university diploma from Beijing. His true glory, the women's fashion brand he'd created, along with his foreign trade company, had long since turned to ashes during the global pandemic three years prior.

His family was another exhibit. His wife, Zhang Jing, a full decade younger than him, was beautiful and aloof, like a meticulously carved jade statue. She came from a family with political connections and, at a young age, had risen to the position of Admissions Director at a local foreign language school. Their union was the optimal allocation of two family resources: his family ran businesses and industries, controlling a large local auto and motorcycle parts trade; hers wielded connections, offering intangible protection at critical moments. It was a tacit agreement of mutual benefit – marriage was the contract, their daughter the sole addendum.

Their daughter, Nuonuo, had just started kindergarten and was the only source of warmth in this cold home. Only when Chen Rui, exhausted from a day of performance, returned to the echoing, cavernous villa in the suburbs, and his daughter rushed towards him on her little legs, did he feel a flicker of genuine existence as a "person."

"Daddy, you're home!"

He would bend down, pushing the perpetually polite smile he wore for outsiders into something warmer, and lift her soft little body.

Zhang Jing usually emerged from her study or the kitchen at this moment. But she wouldn't approach. She’d stand at a distance, like an outsider, watching their interaction with an appraising gaze. Her eyes held no love, no hatred, only a polite detachment.

"You're back," she’d say, her voice as cool and light as her demeanor. "Dinner's ready. Wash your hands first."

Silence was the main course at the dinner table. Nuonuo provided the only lively melody, chattering away about kindergarten adventures. Chen Rui and Zhang Jing played the role of dutiful parents, serving their daughter food, occasionally exchanging meaningless glances. They were like two seasoned actors, performing the same script day after day on the stage called "family."

Chen Rui knew Zhang Jing didn't love him. Perhaps she had never truly known him. To her, he was likely just a competent marriage partner: successful, emotionally stable, capable of providing a solid material foundation for her and her family. She didn't care about his failed startup, nor did she value his current executive position; the true source of this husband's security lay in the factories controlled by his parents.

Late at night, with Nuonuo asleep, the immense silence swallowed the villa whole. He and Zhang Jing slept in separate rooms – an unspoken arrangement reached in their second year of marriage. He retreated to his own room, closing the door as if shedding heavy armor.

The main light stayed off. Only the ambient glow from the corner wall lights and a small desk lamp illuminated the space. He walked to the huge floor-to-ceiling window, watching the wind stir the tree shadows in the garden outside. The neon lights of the city shimmered on the distant horizon, like a never-ending spectacle of artificial glow.

A floor-length gown lay draped over the sofa near the bed. It was one of Zhang Jing's wedding dresses, worn only a few times at formal banquets before being consigned to the wardrobe in this room. Slowly, almost reverently, he knelt before it.

The cold marble floor bit through the thin fabric of his suit trousers, stinging his knees. This posture offered him a strange sense of peace. By day, he was Director Chen, Mr. Chen, Nuonuo’s Daddy. But only now, in this unknown darkness, could he touch his true self.

That true self was no elite, no strongman. He was a coward, a slave who yearned to be trodden underfoot.

In his mind, this gown represented a fantastical, noble, mysterious goddess, worthy of his worship, submission, and service. He had once thought of casting his wife in that role, but the traditional and strait-laced Zhang Jing could never accept that beneath her husband’s cultured, refined exterior lay such a base, timid, even twisted soul. He would never forget the shock, disgust, and scorn that filled her eyes and expression the first time she saw his chastity lock.

Images began flooding his mind uncontrollably. Not sales reports or supply chain flows, but scenes of humiliation and submission. He remembered childhood encounters with taller, stronger girls who cornered him, mockingly reading his essays aloud, dumping his schoolbag's contents onto the ground and stomping on them. They were like haughty queens, and he, the youngest and frailest boy in class thanks to skipping grades, could only tremble in their shadow.

That fear of helplessness haunted his entire adolescence. Later, in his university library, he encountered Simone de Beauvoir and radical feminist thought. He should have seen pleas for equality and intellectual liberation, but his deep-seated inferiority acted like a funhouse mirror, distorting everything.

He didn't see equality; he saw women’s comprehensive superiority over men – physically, mentally, morally. He felt that a male as base and cowardly as himself was fundamentally unworthy of standing beside them. He was fit only to prostrate himself at their feet and become their appendage.

Once this idea took root, it grew like kudzu, entangling his entire psyche. He began scouring online subcultures, searching for a specific identity to fit this pathological yearning.

He finally chose "toilet slave."

Merely thinking the word filled him with shame so intense it made him shudder, yet also sparked an excitement that tingled to his fingertips.

He stripped off his expensive suit, changed into plain loungewear, and entered the bathroom. He didn't wash up. Instead, he lifted the toilet lid and stared for a long time at the small, pristine, white porcelain bowl.

In his warped worldview, this represented the ultimate degradation, the perfect offering.

He longed to be utterly objectified, stripped of his human thought and dignity, transformed into a thing without mind, only function.

A toilet – how utterly base, bearing the foulest human waste. Yet, simultaneously, how indispensable, a necessity for the quality of modern women's lives.

Base yet necessary.
Ignored yet indispensable.

Wasn't this the most stable slave position he craved?

He reached out, his hand trembling as it touched the toilet's cold rim. His eyes held no lust, only a near-religious devotion and profound sorrow.

He knew that within this house, within this marriage, he could never realize his "dream." Zhang Jing was too cold, too noble. She barely deigned to look at him directly; how could she possibly participate in his sordid fantasy?

He was merely her husband in name, a qualified "roommate."

And he, too, was merely playing the role of a "normal husband," maintaining this teetering gilded cage. He needed this cage, needed the social identity it provided to conceal the kneeling, abject truth of who he was.

A wave of exhaustion washed over him. He stood up, flushed the toilet as if hoping to flush away the mad thoughts swirling in his head. He looked at his reflection in the mirror: handsome face, empty eyes. He knew his life had long been a grand yet vacant performance. And he had played his part for too long, was far too tired.

Chapter 2: The Origin of Shadows

Chen Rui's childhood began amidst praise but was spent under endless shadows.

Naturally brilliant, possessing an exceptional memory and an almost instinctive sensitivity to numbers, he could solve Olympiad-level math problems while his peers were still counting on their fingers for basic addition and subtraction. His parents were typical entrepreneurs from the Jiangsu-Zhejiang region, busy managing their burgeoning electric vehicle parts factory. Their approach to his education was simple and crude: good grades were everything.

Thus, fueled by parental pride and orchestration, Chen Rui skipped a grade, then another. By the time he entered third grade, he was merely seven years old, while most of his classmates were nine or ten.

This decision, like a stone cast into still water, irrevocably altered the course of his destiny.

His stellar academic performance, perpetually securing first place, made him the darling of all his teachers, showered with preference and care. This, naturally, bred jealousy and ostracism among his peers. Combined with being the smallest, thinnest, and possessing the most delicate voice in class, he stood out like a lost lamb among a pack of adolescent wolves. His classmates, especially the girls, were entering puberty earlier than the boys, already displaying a burgeoning, unruly collective strength. They towered over him, early giants.

The bullying arrived without warning. At first, it was harmless pranks: his stationery hidden, his textbooks and homework defaced. He dared not report it to the teachers; their reprimands of the "bad students" with poor grades only invited more resentment and retaliation. Particularly the girls who had no hope of getting into high school – they weren't afraid of teachers. Their grades might be terrible, but they were physically imposing, and their families – often local property owners from eminent domain projects or small business owners – instilled in them a defiant bravado.

The ringleaders, a few notorious "big sisters," were infamous not just in the middle school but throughout the town. They frequently skipped class to hang out with local delinquents, and extorting classmates was routine. As the former Young Pioneer Captain and now the class disciplinary committee member, Chen Rui had long been a thorn in their side. He hadn't even snitched on them; the mere fact that they were a head taller than him stripped him of any courage to offend them. But they didn't need a reason to dislike Chen Rui. Who did he think he was, always coming first? Always held up by the teachers as an example? Their logic was simple: what we hate, we make miserable.

The bullying quickly escalated. They began ambushing him on his way home from school, shoving him into secluded corners, yanking his hair to force him to his knees, spitting in his lunchbox, stealing his pocket money, and coercing him into doing their homework. Especially after each monthly exam, they would corner him and demand his test paper to wipe their shoes. "Hey, little genius, got another perfect score? Papers with full marks really make the shoes shine bright!" Their laughter would ring out, sharp needles piercing Chen Rui's sensitive self-esteem. He couldn't fight back; the sheer physical disparity left him powerless. He could only bow his head and endure in silence.

The worst incident happened on a sweltering summer afternoon. After supplementary classes ended for the holidays, several girls detained him under the pretense of asking questions. Once the teacher and other students had left, they forcibly dragged him to the most remote girls' bathroom in the teaching building, shoved him into a stall, and locked the door from the outside with a padlock.

"Little genius, reflect carefully in there!" a girl's voice taunted from beyond the door, laced with malicious glee. "Boys who go into girls' bathrooms stop growing taller! Oh well, no matter, you're already a little shrimp! Ha ha ha, destined to be a second-class cripple!"

The school public toilets of that era were filthy and stinking, the cramped space filled with a nauseating odor. He pounded on the door, crying, begging, but the only response was the fading sound of their laughter. Trapped inside until dark, they eventually relented and let him go home.

That experience left a wound in his psyche that never healed. He developed a fear of women, especially those who were strong, tall, and unreasonable. Every glance, every gesture from them could instantly transport him back to that dark, urine-stinking stall. He felt a primal fear and disorientation. Furthermore, his eventual height, barely scraping 160cm as an adult, subconsciously reinforced his belief in the girls' bathroom possessing some "power to stunt male growth." This, in turn, fostered an inexplicable sense of reverence mingled with fear towards women and their bodily functions.

His parents remained oblivious. To them, their son was merely introverted and quiet – "scholarly." They only cared about his report card; as long as that number '1' remained unchanged, nothing else mattered. They compensated for their absence with money and material things but never truly ventured into their son's inner world.

This fear and inferiority, like a seed, was deeply buried in Chen Rui's heart. It wasn't until he entered that prestigious 985 university in Beijing, majoring in International Trade, that the seed began to sprout – in a grotesquely twisted way.

University was a melting pot of ideas. In the late 1990s, Western ideologies flooded in, feminism being one of the most prominent. Chen Rui read The Second Sex in the library, encountering texts that dissected patriarchal society and deconstructed gender oppression.

For a mentally sound, independent person, these theories would be enlightening. But for Chen Rui, whose psyche had already been eroded by childhood trauma, everything became distorted. Like a paranoid patient, he filtered the profound arguments solely for "evidence" that confirmed his own pathology.

* "One is not born, but rather becomes, a woman." – He interpreted this as: Women are superior, perfected beings meticulously shaped by society.

* "The object under the male gaze." – He interpreted this as: Women are inherently meant to be looked up to, worshipped, while men can only be their humble gazers.

He began frantically overlaying women with a filter of perfection. In his eyes, they were wise, resilient, morally superior, embodiments of beauty. He himself, and all men, were inherently flawed: crude, impulsive, filled with primitive bestiality. The bullying girls of his youth, their tyranny and roughness, were morbidly glorified by him as expressions of "primitive, untamed vitality." He forgot the pain they inflicted, instead obsessively recalling and beautifying memories of their slender figures, spirited personalities, fearless dominance... He grew to love their humiliation of him.

That bullying had been his only form of "close, intimate contact" with young women during his adolescence. So, slowly, he came to believe that "he simply wasn't worthy of equal love from women." This notion brought him a perverse, masochistic thrill. He believed that males like him, with their base and cowardly hearts, had only one value: to serve great women, become their slaves, and through utter devotion, cleanse themselves of the "original sin" of being male.

This belief took root, becoming his hidden psychological pillar.

After graduation, he rejected his parents' plan to join the family business and chose to start his own venture. He founded an independent women's fashion designer brand. He wanted to dedicate his talent to the "women" he worshipped. His design style was minimalist, intellectual, carrying an ascetic beauty that gained popularity at the time. He succeeded, becoming the "young genius" hailed by the media.

But beneath this gloss lay a deeper void. He could design clothes for an abstract "woman," but he was incapable of forming intimate relationships with real women. Every date, facing confident, beautiful urban women, instantly transformed him back into that seven-year-old boy locked in the bathroom, stammering with nerves. He would rather kneel at their feet polishing their shoes than embrace them sweetly and talk of love.

His success only intensified his inferiority complex. He felt his achievements were merely stolen inspiration, consumed female resources – a shameful form of plagiarism and exploitation. The more successful he became, the heavier the guilt. Later, he sold the brand and transitioned to running a foreign trade company, which also flourished for a time.

Until the pandemic hit. Foreign orders plummeted, the capital chain snapped, and the company collapsed.

That period was the darkest of his life. His parents used their connections to secure him his current executive position and forcefully arranged the marriage alliance with the Zhang family. He didn't resist. After the blow of his business failure, he had utterly given up struggling. He accepted it all, like a puppet on strings, resuming the role of the "successful man" society expected.

His marriage to Zhang Jing was, for him, a kind of liberation. He didn't need love, nor to be loved. He only needed an identity, a mask to continue hiding behind. Zhang Jing's aloofness and detachment suited him perfectly. She wouldn't try to enter his heart and would therefore never discover his filthy secret.

This marriage was like a high wall, safely isolating him from the real world. Inside the wall was his daily performance of emptiness; outside was the world of women, deified by him, eternally gazed upon but never dared to approach. And he, in the shadow of this wall, savored alone the deep-seated inferiority and timidity that originated in his childhood.

Chapter 3: The Basest Dream

The internet is like a vast, hidden hollow tree, embracing countless desires that cannot be uttered in the real world. For Chen Rui, it was both an enlightening cathedral and an abyss of self-exile.

During the period after his company went bankrupt and his life hit rock bottom, he had ample time to wander the digital realm. One late night, guided by a string of obscure keywords, he pushed open the door to a new world: BDSM.

Various relationship dynamics and identities were displayed before him like merchandise: domestic servants, pet slaves, financial dominants... Each label corresponded to a complete, logically coherent set of rules and rituals. Like a starving man stumbling into a bakery, he devoured it all greedily.

He finally found a definable term for his twisted inner yearning: M, sub, slave.

He knew: this was him.

Yet, as he tried to project himself into these specific roles, a strong sense of dissonance arose.

Take "pet slave," for instance. He'd read many descriptions. A pet slave needed to mimic canine behavior – be playful, eager to please, proactively debase themselves, using groveling antics to delight their owner. Chen Rui couldn't do it. He was introverted by nature, inarticulate. Making him actively utter lewd words or perform fawning actions was worse than death. His subservience was bone-deep, a passive, silent surrender, not an active, performative debasement.

"Domestic servant" seemed slightly better – serving the owner through labor. But this too required significant interaction. The owner would give orders, inspect results, administer rewards and punishments. It was full of communication, full of the relationship between "people." What Chen Rui craved was the total, complete stripping away of his "human" attributes.

He craved objectification.

He didn't want to be seen as an "obedient slave"; he wanted to be considered a "useful tool." He desired his thoughts, will, even emotions to be utterly stripped away, leaving only functionality.

Lost in confusion, he stumbled upon the term "toilet slave" in an even more niche, fringe forum.

The mere sight of those two words made his heart clench as if gripped by an invisible hand; a current of shame and excitement surged through his body instantly.

This… this was the ultimate degradation he had been searching for.

He began frantically gathering every scrap of related information. He discovered it was a role requiring almost no interaction. The slave only needed to appear when needed, passively endure, and then be forgotten. It perfectly suited his introverted, cowardly nature. He didn't need to speak or act proactively; he only needed to "exist" there, like a piece of furniture.

More importantly, the profound contradiction inherent in the "toilet slave" identity deeply captivated him.

On one hand, this was the basest, filthiest, most dehumanized form of slavery. It stripped away all human dignity, placing him at the very bottom of society's chain of contempt. This satisfied the intense self-destructive and redemptive urges deep within him. He felt that only by enduring this ultimate humiliation could he cleanse himself of the "original sin" of being male, could he truly and contentedly prostrate himself at the feet of women.

On the other hand, the toilet, the very role he sought to embody, was an indispensable necessity in the modern household. The cleanliness of a family's bathroom and the functionality of its toilet directly reflected their quality of life.

This realization thrilled him to the core.

Base, yet indispensable. Revolting, yet impossible to live without.

Wasn't this the ideal slave state he had always pursued?

Within the master-slave dynamic, he could be degraded, ignored, treated like a filthy utensil, yet he would remain a stable, irreplaceable component of that relationship. This "necessity" offered him a perverse, absolute sense of security. He no longer needed to fear abandonment. After all, who would casually discard a perfectly functional toilet?

This thought struck like lightning, illuminating his chaotic inner world. All his inferiority, fear, longing, and conflict found perfect unity in the identity of the "toilet slave."

He had found his "Way" – he didn't need love, nor to be loved; he only needed to be used.

From then on, this base dream became his sole spiritual sustenance. By day, he played "Chen Rui," the impeccably dressed corporate executive, the respectable husband and father. By night, in his fantasies, he became a nameless, objectified toilet.

This double life brought him pain, but also an addictive thrill. He grew increasingly disgusted with his real-life self, the "Chen Rui" sustained by lies and pretense. That persona felt fake, nauseating. The debased slave in his fantasies was his true, pure self.

His marriage to Zhang Jing intensified this split. Looking at his aloof, noble wife filled him with awe and shame. He would even sneak into the bathroom after Zhang Jing had used it, kneeling before the toilet bowl, trying to sense the lingering traces of her presence. This filled him with a sense of sacrilegious guilt and an ecstatic feeling of being granted grace.

He knew confessing any of this to Zhang Jing was impossible. The mere sight of his chastity lock had earned him her contempt for half a year. Revealing this truth wouldn't just destroy the respectability he'd painstakingly built and shatter his family; it would defile the sacred "goddess" in his heart. Zhang Jing's existence was like the moon in the sky – something he could only gaze upon; approaching her felt like desecration.

He needed to find a "Mistress." A real one. A woman who could transform his fantasy into reality, who could thoroughly trample him underfoot, stripping him of all his "human" attributes.

This thought grew like weeds in his heart. He began seeking opportunities in overseas investment projects. He needed an unfamiliar environment, a place where no one knew "Chen Rui." There, he could shed his identity completely and search for the Mistress who would turn him into a "toilet."

The plan for a business trip to Southeast Asia was conceived under these circumstances. Using the pretext of exploring emerging markets and seeking new supply chain growth points for the company, he submitted a detailed report to the board. The reasons were lofty, impeccable.

No one knew that beneath his cool, professional business analysis hid such a wildly desperate, deeply personal objective. He wasn't seeking business opportunities; he was seeking the home for his soul – a Mistress who would enable his complete degradation.

Chapter 4: An Encounter in a Foreign Land

The air in Malaysia was hot, humid, and sticky, thick with the scent of equatorial foliage and spices. Stepping out of Kuala Lumpur International Airport, Chen Rui was hit by a wave of heat that instantly severed his connection to domestic polish and respectability.

This was precisely what he craved.

His official identity for this trip was to explore Southeast Asia's retail market and supply chain potential for his company. It was a legitimate business objective and a perfect cover. He checked into the best five-star hotel downtown. By day, suited and booted, he met with various merchants and officials, sharp-tongued and logically impeccable at the negotiating table, playing the role of "Director Chen" flawlessly.

But when night fell and he shed that expensive restraint, the "slave" within him stirred. He would change into the plainest t-shirt and shorts, immersing himself in the crowded local night markets or wandering aimlessly through the colonial-era buildings of Petaling Street.

He was like a hunter with a keen nose, searching the vast sea of humanity for his destined "Mistress."

He wasn't seeking beauty or strength, but a feeling. An aura that could instantly make him feel insignificant and strangely at peace.

Meeting Le Thi Phuong Vy was pure chance.

It was a weekend afternoon. He left a tedious meeting early. Instead of having the driver take him back to the hotel, he got dropped off in a seemingly dilapidated commercial district. He entered a somewhat rundown mall where the air conditioning struggled, the air thick with the mingled smells of cheap perfume and food.

Le Thi Phuong Vy was in a small souvenir shop tucked into a corner on the mall's first floor.

The shop was tiny, crammed with keychains, fridge magnets, Batik cloth, and pewterware. When Chen Rui walked in, Le Thi Phuong Vy was standing on a small stool, straining to place items on a high shelf. She wore a simple white t-shirt and faded jeans, her hair tied back casually in a ponytail.

She wasn't conventionally beautiful. Her skin was a healthy honey-brown from the sun, her features not delicate but combining into a warm, resilient whole. A trace of weariness lingered between her brows, but her eyes were bright, her movements quick and focused.

Chen Rui was captivated. Not by her appearance, but by the powerful, ordinary vitality radiating from her. She was like a plant stubbornly growing through cracks in stone, weathered by life's storms yet still stretching upwards.

He saw the fine sweat beading on her forehead, the taut muscles in her calves as she strained. In his warped aesthetic, this beauty of "labor," grounded in the struggle for survival, the grit of everyday life, inspired far more awe in him than Zhang Jing's ethereal "artistic beauty."

He stood in the shop, pretending to browse, his gaze involuntarily following her.

Le Thi Phuong Vy finally finished arranging the goods, jumped down from the stool, and sighed deeply before noticing the distinguished-looking customer. She immediately offered a professional smile, her Mandarin touched with an accent: "Sir, hello, looking for something? Can I help you?"

"Just browsing," Chen Rui replied, his voice dry. He could smell the faint scent of her sweat mingled with cheap laundry detergent. The smell made him dizzy.

For days afterward, like a man possessed, he found excuses to visit the shop daily. Sometimes buying a worthless keychain, sometimes asking about local tourist spots. He learned her name, Le Thi Phuong Vy, from Vietnam, working here with her husband, with a son and daughter, under immense financial pressure.

Le Thi Phuong Vy was curious about this wealthy Chinese man who asked strange questions but spent freely, but mostly, she was grateful. He didn't buy much, but he always left generous tips. For someone desperate for money, it was unexpected income. She assumed he was simply a lonely, wealthy man seeking solace in a foreign land.

The turning point came on a rainy night a week later.

Chen Rui had been entertaining clients and drank heavily. Instead of returning to the hotel, as if guided by a ghost, he directed the taxi near the mall where Le Thi Phuong Vy worked. He knew she was off duty, but he just wanted to be closer to her.

The rain poured down. Holding an umbrella, he stood on a street corner and saw Le Thi Phuong Vy emerge from a side door with a man. The man, presumably her husband Tran Van Hung, was thin and looked somewhat timid. They shared a small umbrella, arguing in the rain.

"... Not enough again! What about next month's rent? And A Ngoc's tutoring fee still isn't paid!" Tran Van Hung's voice held a note of impatience.

"What can I do? I stand for ten hours a day, and that's all I earn!" Le Thi Phuong Vy's voice was thick with exhaustion and grievance. "What about you? Didn't your freight company pay the bonus this month either?"

"The boss says business is bad, what can I do? I'm not like you, with a rich guy giving you tips!"

"Tran Van Hung, you bastard! How can you say that!"

Le Thi Phuong Vy shoved her husband away and ran into the downpour.

Watching this, fuelled by alcohol and pent-up desire, Chen Rui made an impulsive decision. He closed his umbrella and hurried after her, letting the cold rain soak him.

"Miss Lin!" he called after her.

Le Thi Phuong Vy turned, startled, and froze seeing the drenched Chen Rui. "Mr... Mr. Chen? What are you doing here?"

"I... I have something to say to you." Chen Rui's tongue felt thick; the alcohol emboldened him. "I know your difficulties. Perhaps... I can offer you a better job. A 'job'... that could completely change your family's life."

Rain streamed down his face, making him look disheveled, but his eyes were intensely serious, even pleading with a touch of fervor.

Le Thi Phuong Vy felt a chill, taking a wary step back. "What kind of job?"

Chen Rui took a deep breath, choking on rainwater. He knew this was his only chance. He had to say it.

"A very special job." He chose a relatively euphemistic phrase. "I have some... specific interests. I need someone to help me fulfill them. And I will pay you handsomely for it. Enough to solve your problems, improve your quality of life, and ensure you never worry about money again."

Le Thi Phuong Vy frowned deeply. She wasn't naive. A wealthy man saying this to a poor woman usually meant only one thing.

Disgust and humiliation colored her face: "Sir, I think you misunderstand. I'm not that kind of person."

"No! You misunderstand!" Chen Rui shook his head urgently. He saw her assumption in her expression, deepening his shame. "It's not what you think! On the contrary... in this 'job,' you would be the one in charge. The superior one. And I... would be the inferior one. The one serving you."

His words were so bizarre Le Thi Phuong Vy was momentarily speechless.

Seeing her confusion and shock, Chen Rui knew there was no turning back. Gritting his teeth, he whispered the base dream buried deep within his heart.

"I... want to be your slave. A... the basest slave, serving only you."

The rain was loud, but those words struck Le Thi Phuong Vy's ears like thunder. She was utterly stunned, staring at this man who commanded respect in the boardroom, now looking like a condemned criminal awaiting judgment, his gaze a mix of fear, shame, and desperate hope.

Her mind went blank. She didn't understand "master/slave" or "specific interests." But she understood "handsome payment" and "change your life." Faced with immense pressure and this absurd, bizarre "opportunity," she began, for the first time, to seriously consider the proposal. She looked at Chen Rui as if he were a monster... or perhaps a lottery ticket to a new destiny.

She hesitated for a long time, long enough for Chen Rui's heart to sink into despair. Finally, in the drumming rain, she heard herself speak in a calm, unfamiliar voice: "I... need to think about it. Come find me tomorrow."

Chapter 5: The Cage Below Ground

Le Thi Phuong Vy didn't sleep a wink.

Chen Rui's words were like a depth charge dropped into the stagnant waters of her life, leaving her dizzy. She lay in bed, her husband Tran Van Hung snoring heavily beside her. Staring at the damp stains blooming on the ceiling, Chen Rui's face, drenched in rain and desire, replayed endlessly in her mind.

Slave?

The word felt alien, incomprehensible. But "handsome payment" branded itself onto her heart.

Her daughter's tutoring fees. Next month's rent. The medicine money needed for her parents back in Vietnam... These crushing realities pressed down like mountains. And now, this man – strange but undeniably wealthy – offered to lift them. The price? Just satisfying his... perverse interest?

The next day, when Chen Rui arrived at the souvenir shop at the appointed time, Le Thi Phuong Vy's eyes were bloodshot.

"I'll try it," she said before he could speak. "But I don't know what to do. You have to tell me first, what you want me to do."

Chen Rui felt like he'd been granted a pardon, almost speechless with relief. He took Le Thi Phuong Vy to a quiet nearby cafe. In the most clinical, emotionless tone possible, he described his "dream."

He spoke of his pathological fixation on the "toilet slave" identity, his craving for objectification and the stripping of dignity. He spoke quickly, like reciting a technical manual, masking the overwhelming tide of shame.

Le Thi Phuong Vy listened, dumbfounded. Her worldview suffered an unprecedented shock. She couldn't fathom someone wanting to become... a toilet. It was more bizarre than any sordid transaction she'd imagined the night before. Strangely, hearing the specifics lessened her inner resistance.

It wasn't a sexual transaction. It wasn't even physical contact. He just wanted to "be used"... to be humiliated?

"So, I don't need to do anything, just... go to the bathroom normally? Are you going to... watch?" Le Thi Phuong Vy asked cautiously.

"Yes," Chen Rui nodded, avoiding her eyes. "You just need to... treat me as a real toilet. But I won't be able to see you or touch you... I'll be separated..."

Le Thi Phuong Vy fell silent. She looked at the man in his tailored suit, discussing such degradation with the detachment of a business contract. The dissonance was absurd, almost pitiable. She concluded: The world of the rich is truly incomprehensible.

But the money was real.

"Okay," she decided. "But you pay for everything. And every month, you pay me..." She gritted her teeth and named a figure she herself thought astronomical. "No problem," Chen Rui agreed instantly, faster than she expected. "The money will be transferred immediately. You can use it to rent a house with a private bathroom... suitable for modification."

The deal was struck.

The following two weeks transformed Le Thi Phuong Vy's life. An amount equivalent to a year's salary landed in her account, making her check repeatedly. Following Chen Rui's remote instructions and fully funded by him, she rented a spacious house with a small yard in a relatively quiet suburb.

Then, a secret renovation project began.

The construction crew was told they were building an underground storage room and accessible bathroom facilities for a disabled person with special needs. Though the blueprints seemed odd, the generous pay silenced any questions.

The master bathroom was gutted and reconstructed. The floor was excavated over two meters down, reinforced with concrete and steel to form a cramped, airtight underground cell barely two or three square meters. The walls and floor were padded with thick foam and leather, soundproofed and temperature-controlled.

Directly above the cell, on the bathroom floor, a highly realistic-looking toilet was installed. However, it lacked a tank or complex flushing mechanism. It had only a smooth ceramic seat and a black pipe, the diameter of a rice bowl, plunging straight down into the cell below.

Beside the cell's only entrance/exit – a small square hatch just large enough to crawl through – a heavy, electronically locked steel plate was installed. The cell's only other "window" was the pipe connected to the toilet, used to deliver food or necessary medicine.

Inside the toilet bowl was a custom funnel. When the toilet lid was lifted, the funnel would flip down, sealing the black pipe below. Attached to the funnel was a latex tube, thumb-thick, running from the floor down into the cell – the sole source of "hydration."

Complex wiring and systems were embedded in the cell walls: lighting, sound, surveillance cameras, a weak ventilation system to maintain air and temperature. On the bathroom wall opposite the toilet, a flat-screen panel was embedded as the system's central control hub.

Even a device capable of sending a low-voltage current through the entire space was cleverly concealed.

Le Thi Phuong Vy supervised the whole process, watching this bizarre space take shape within her home, filled with a sense of unreality. Sometimes she would peer down the hatch into the cell, imagining Chen Rui curled up inside, a chill rising from her feet.

This isn't fulfilling an interest; it's a meticulously designed cage designed to strip away humanity.

But every time she saw the reassuring numbers in her bank app, saw her husband and children excitedly exploring their new home, she pushed down the discomfort and fear.

She told herself it was just a job. A strange job, but well-paid.

When everything was ready, Chen Rui arrived.

He had completed all his handovers back home, securing long-term assignment under the pretext of "developing the Southeast Asian market." He didn't give Zhang Jing his specific address, only saying he stayed in company-provided apartments.

He arrived at Le Thi Phuong Vy's new house at dusk. Dressed in well-fitting casual clothes, carrying a suitcase, he looked like an ordinary guest. Le Thi Phuong Vy's husband Tran Van Hung and their daughter were home; Le Thi Phuong Vy had told them this was her company's boss, visiting.

Tran Van Hung welcomed him warmly; the daughter politely called out "Uncle Chen."

Chen Rui greeted them with a smile, gracious and impeccable. But his eyes kept flickering towards the master bathroom.

After dinner, Le Thi Phuong Vy sent her husband and daughter away. She led Chen Rui into the new bathroom, still smelling faintly of leather.

The atmosphere instantly grew heavy.

"It's all ready," Chen Rui said, his voice dry. He opened his suitcase and took out a metal collar and anklet. The anklet had a small, glowing electronic device. "This is an electric shock collar. You can use the tablet to send a shock signal to remind or punish me. This is a tracking anklet." Chen Rui fastened the anklet to his own ankle, a barely perceptible tremor in his voice. "I need to go out for work during the day, handle company matters. But this anklet ensures you can track my location anytime via your phone. And yes, it also has remote shock capability... to ensure I come back here obediently and on time every night. On weekends and holidays, unless you permit it, I won't leave this house."

He used the formal "you" – "您" (nín).

Le Thi Phuong Vy's heart skipped a beat. She watched as Chen Rui began removing his expensive watch, then his tailored jacket, placing them along with his phone and wallet into the wall safe. Next, he changed into the faded old pajamas Le Thi Phuong Vy had prepared for him. Then, he knelt respectfully before her. The man who commanded boardrooms was reduced to a middle-aged body, pale from lack of exercise. His face was a mask of ultimate shame and desperate longing.

He bowed his head, like a king awaiting coronation, or a prisoner awaiting execution.

"Mistress," he said, his voice almost suffocated, "Please... put it on me."

Le Thi Phuong Vy held the cold collar, her fingers trembling slightly. She looked down at the man kneeling at her feet, this "Director Chen" who had just been chatting amiably with her family. A sense of utter absurdity washed over her. Gritting her teeth, she bent down and fastened the collar around Chen Rui's neck.

The soft click sounded like a switch, irrevocably activating this demented game.

Chapter 6: The Ritual of the First Night

The moment the collar clicked shut, Chen Rui shuddered as if an electric current shot down his spine to his limbs. He let out a long, almost groaning exhalation.

Decades of repression, disguise, pain, and longing seemed to find their outlet at this moment. He was no longer Chen Rui, no longer the Vice President, no longer a husband or father. He was just a nameless slave, collared.

This stripping of identity brought him unprecedented, immense relief.

"Mistress," he called again, his voice tearful.

Le Thi Phuong Vy was startled by his appearance and instinctively took half a step back. Forcing calm, she pointed to the dark opening in the floor. "Get down," she said, her voice cold and hard to mask her own tension.

Without a moment's hesitation, like a trained dog, Chen Rui crawled on hands and knees to the opening and slid smoothly down into the cramped, dark space.

As he landed on the thickly padded leather floor of the cell, he tilted his head back, looking up at Le Thi Phuong Vy's indistinct face framed in the opening above. Her figure blocked the bright bathroom light, like a deity gazing down into an abyss.

Le Thi Phuong Vy watched him disappear into the darkness, then walked over, placed the heavy steel plate with its electronic lock over the opening, and locked it shut.

The world instantly split in two.

In the cell, absolute darkness swallowed everything. Complete blackness and silence enveloped Chen Rui like thick liquid. The air smelled of leather. He curled up on the cold floor, feeling the collar's restraint. Utter terror and utter bliss exploded simultaneously within him.

He was locked away. Hidden underground like an object. He lost all perception of the outside world; time seemed to stand still. His only task was to wait. Wait for the "divine punishment" to descend.

He didn't know how long it had been – ten minutes, maybe an hour. Suddenly, a soft beep sounded above, and blinding white light flooded the cell.

Chen Rui instinctively squinted. He saw a flat-screen panel light up on the wall opposite him. The screen showed the view facing the toilet in the bathroom above.

He saw Le Thi Phuong Vy walk in.

She wore pajamas. Turning on the light, she walked straight to the specially constructed toilet. She lifted the lid, turned, and sat down.

The camera angle was meticulously designed. He could see her expression clearly, but nothing below her waist. He saw her frown slightly, seemingly still unaccustomed to this.

Chen Rui's heart began to pound wildly; blood rushed to his head, making him dizzy. He knew the ritual was about to begin. He immediately tilted his head back, positioning his face directly under the end of the black pipe, and took the latex tube into his mouth.

He heard a faint trickling sound – urine leaving her body, dripping onto the plastic funnel. Then, a stream of warm, pungent liquid flowed down the latex tube into his thirsty mouth.

He swallowed it down in greedy gulps, without the slightest hesitation or resistance.

In his twisted perception, this was not waste. It was "divine water" from his Mistress, nectar cleansing his debased soul. Each drop brought him a sense of purification, an unparalleled ecstasy. This fluid was his only "nourishment" for the night.

On the screen, Le Thi Phuong Vy's expression was complex. She could clearly see the man's look of near greed and devotion. It turned her stomach. Yet, simultaneously, a strange, unprecedented sense of power welled up within her.

This respected man was now like a hatchling begging for the waste her body expelled. With just a thought, she decided his "sustenance," his very "life or death." This absolute dominance gave her an unfamiliar, dangerous thrill.

When she finished, Le Thi Phuong Vy stood up, rinsed her hands, didn't glance at the screen, and left the bathroom.

As the bathroom door closed behind her, the lights and screens in the cell instantly cut out.

Chen Rui was plunged back into absolute darkness and silence. The warm, pungent taste lingered in his mouth. He savored it, contemplated it, a satisfied, submissive smile spreading across his face.

It had happened.

He had finally become it.

He had become a true, living toilet.

That night, Le Thi Phuong Vy tossed and turned. Down in the cell, however, Chen Rui sprawled out on the couch-like floor and slept his most peaceful sleep in over a decade. He even dreamed he was back in childhood. But this time, he wasn't the bullied little boy; he was a huge, sturdy, gleaming white toilet. Those girls who bullied him lined up, chattering happily to use him. He felt not humiliation, but an unprecedented pride.

From that day forward, a new order was established.

By day, Chen Rui was allowed to leave the cell, put on his suit and mask, and return to the world of "Director Chen" that he despised. He went to the office, attended meetings, handled complex business affairs. He had to earn enough money for his "Mistress" to sustain this expensive game.

But as night fell, he had to return to this house, to this subterranean cage, punctually.

Le Thi Phuong Vy, too, gradually adapted to the role of "Mistress." The initial shock and discomfort faded over days of repetition, replaced by numbness and habit. She began using this "living toilet" as a matter of course. She even stopped thinking about the absurdity, treating it as a fixed routine in her life.

With Chen Rui's money, she enrolled her children in expensive extracurricular classes, sent ample funds back to her parents in Vietnam for their retirement, bought new clothes, new bags, and began learning to live like the polished city professionals she had once envied.

The immense improvement in their living conditions dulled her moral sensitivity to the arrangement. She even began to enjoy this life. She no longer had to kowtow to anyone or worry about making ends meet. She just had to walk into that bathroom a few times each day to maintain it all.

This deal seemed… very profitable.

She didn't realize that when she first "bestowed" her waste upon that man with a clear conscience, something within her had also quietly changed. Power, even this most twisted, absurd kind, is equally addictive.

Chapter 7: The Husband's Capitulation

Tran Van Hung had felt something was off at home lately.

His wife Le Thi Phuong Vy had suddenly become very wealthy. They moved into a house he'd never dreamed of affording, and their spending soared.

Le Thi Phuong Vy's explanation was that the Chinese boss, Mr. Chen, whom she'd met earlier, was very impressed with her abilities. He'd hired her as his personal procurement consultant, responsible for all his investments and expenditures in Malaysia, hence the high salary.

Tran Van Hung found it slightly strange, but he was weak-willed and easily led. Coupled with the dramatic improvement in their lives, he didn't probe further. His impression of Chen Rui was excellent – a refined, generous boss. Being good to his wife meant being good to their family.

Yet, some details unsettled him.

For instance, Le Thi Phuong Vy forbade him from entering the master bedroom, claiming Mr. Chen had a cleanliness obsession and it was prepared specifically for his visits. Yet she often went in there and sometimes even slept in there. And Mr. Chen seemed to visit… too frequently. Though he never stayed overnight, Tran Van Hung always felt the presence of a third person lingering in the house.

Until the day a typhoon forced him home early from work, and he finally stumbled upon the shocking secret.

He arrived home to an empty house; Le Thi Phuong Vy hadn't returned yet with their daughter from an extracurricular class. The light in their own bathroom was broken, so without a second thought, he pushed open the master bedroom door.

Entering the master bathroom, Tran Van Hung immediately spotted the distinctive toilet, the steel door to the underground entrance in the corner, and the illuminated flat-screen panel on the wall. Curious, he walked closer and looked at the screen. What he saw would haunt him forever—

Mr. Chen, whom he regarded as a benefactor, was naked and curled up in a tiny cell, a metal dog collar around his neck. The cell was pitch black (because he hadn't turned on the bathroom light), and the camera showed a grainy night-vision image. Chen seemed asleep, oblivious to the change outside.

Tran Van Hung's mind exploded into white noise. Terrified, he fell back onto his behind and scrambled out of the bathroom on hands and knees, as if seeing the devil.

Fear, shock, disgust, rage… a tumult of emotions churned inside him. He finally understood the source of his wife's high salary and the strangeness in their home.

His wife had imprisoned a living person like livestock beneath their toilet!

That night, when Le Thi Phuong Vy returned with their child, she was met by Tran Van Hung's livid face.

"Come with me!" he commanded, grabbing her arm and dragging her into the master bedroom.

When he pointed at the opening and demanded an explanation, Le Thi Phuong Vy's face turned deathly pale. She knew it was all over.

"What... what is this? Le Thi Phuong Vy! Tell me! What have you done?!" Tran Van Hung's voice trembled with anger. "You locked him in here? Are you insane? This is illegal!"

Le Thi Phuong Vy took a deep breath, forcing herself to stay calm. She knew one wrong move could shatter everything she now had.

"Calm down first. Listen to me," she said.

"Explain? What explanation is there for this? You're insane!" Tran Van Hung was near breaking point. "We have to call the police! No, we have to let him out now, then move, get far away from this pervert!"

"Move?" Le Thi Phuong Vy snorted coldly, her eyes sharpening. "Back to that leaky rented room where cockroaches outnumber the grains of rice? Then make A Ngoc drop out of school? Make her drive a truck like you when she grows up? Make your parents keep drinking those dubious herbal concoctions for their illnesses?"

The barrage of questions lashed Tran Van Hung like a whip. He instantly deflated.

Le Thi Phuong Vy knew she'd struck his weak spot. Her husband was just that kind of man – weak, incompetent, yet crushed by the weight of reality.

She softened her tone and began explaining the whole chain of events. She didn't hide or sugarcoat, just stated the facts calmly – this was Chen Rui's own request, his willing choice; he was paying her to do this.

"He's sick. He's a pervert. But his money isn't sick." Le Thi Phuong Vy took out her phone, opened the banking app, and showed Tran Van Hung the lengthy account balance. "He gave this much just for the first month. He promised that every month, as long as we 'keep' him, we'll get this amount. With this money, we can not only live well here, we can even go back to Vietnam, or to Singapore, become real upper-class people."

Tran Van Hung stared dumbly at the number, his Adam's apple bobbing. The cowardice in his bones and his deep fear of poverty began to erode his meager sense of morality.

"But... but this..." he stammered, still unable to accept it. "Using him as a... toilet? Don't you find it disgusting?"

"Disgusting?" Le Thi Phuong Vy's expression grew complex. She walked to the toilet, looking down at the opening. "A bit, at first. But now, I just find it... convenient. And," she paused, speaking each word deliberately, "don't you find it... thrilling?"

"A Chinese man so rich, so powerful, kneeling at the feet of a nobody Vietnamese like you, begging like a dog for your waste. Don't you find it... exciting?" These words turned a key deep within Tran Van Hung, unlocking something hidden.

He'd always been a timid, weak man. At home, Le Thi Phuong Vy made all the decisions; outside, he was a low-level employee pushed around. He'd never tasted power. But deep down, he craved it. He enjoyed watching bondage videos online, satisfying his pathetic urge for domination in a virtual world.

And now, a living, breathing man, infinitely more powerful than him, lay beneath his toilet, subject to the will of him and his family.

An unprecedented, morbid sense of power began to germinate within him. He looked at his wife, suddenly finding her unfamiliar yet fatally alluring.

He said nothing more. He simply walked back to their old room, gathered his and her clothes and bedding, and brought them into the master bedroom.

That action signaled his capitulation and consent. He would live in the master bedroom with Le Thi Phuong Vy, to better exercise control over Chen Rui.

From that day on, Chen Rui's existence became an open secret within the household. Tran Van Hung was uneasy at first, but quickly grew accustomed, using the special toilet without a second thought. He'd even deliberately stare down contemptuously at Chen Rui on the screen while using it, relishing the feeling of superiority. His initial resistance faded, slowly replaced by an enjoyment of this morbid power.

He and Le Thi Phuong Vy became a pair of twisted accomplices. Together, they guarded the secret and shared the filthy spoils it brought.

Chapter 8: The Rules of Reprogramming

Power is the strongest aphrodisiac, and the most potent drug.

Once Le Thi Phuong Vy and Tran Van Hung grew accustomed to and began enjoying this perverse power, a new question arose: How to make this power more stable, more permanent?

Le Thi Phuong Vy realized that despite Chen Rui's obedience, he was still too… human.

By day, he was still the shrewd "Director Chen." He discussed company financial reports with her via encrypted messaging, had her handle business documents. Once, even down in the cell, he'd spoken to her through the intercom about his daughter back in China, his voice filled with longing.

These traces of "Chen Rui" made Le Thi Phuong Vy feel an inexplicable unease.

She was afraid. Afraid that one day, Chen Rui would tire of this game; afraid that his longing for his daughter would overwhelm his perverse desires; afraid that he would awaken one day and end it all.

Then, she and her family would be plunged back into their former misery.

This fear drove her like a whip. She needed to do something. She didn't want an occasional "player" coming to experience this life. She wanted a complete, eternally faithful "tool."

She wanted to strip him of his mind.

She discussed it with Tran Van Hung. Unexpectedly, he didn't oppose it; instead, he showed great enthusiasm. His latent sadistic urges had been thoroughly awakened during this time. He craved seeing Chen Rui utterly broken even more than Le Thi Phuong Vy did.

Thus, a new set of rules, designed for mental reprogramming, was jointly devised.

First: Sleep.

Chen Rui was allowed to sleep only between midnight and 5:00 AM. Only during these five hours was the cell completely dark and silent.

The rest of the time, except when someone was using the toilet (when lights would come on), the sound system in the cell would continuously loop brainwashing audio.

The content of these recordings was meticulously crafted. It wasn't abuse or reprimands, but useless, even entirely erroneous "knowledge" for Chen Rui.

For instance, a rapid, garbled recitation of tongue-twisting names—"The fastest sprinter in the world is Usain Bolt, his full name is Usain St. Leo Bolt…"; or, a monotonous female voice endlessly repeating irrelevant data—"According to IMF data, Japan's nominal GDP in 2015 was approximately 4.39 trillion US dollars…"; sometimes, illogical philosophical ruminations, or simply meaningless white noise.

The purpose wasn't to make him remember anything, but to occupy his brain completely. To flood his mind with massive streams of fragmented garbage information, filling every gap where thought could arise – leaving him no time or energy to think about his company, his family, or himself.

More insidiously, the audio would randomly insert questions.

"Please choose: Was Japan's GDP in 2015 A. 4.39 trillion US dollars, or B. 4.93 trillion US dollars?"

Two small buttons, labeled A and B, were installed on the cell wall. Chen Rui had to choose within five seconds. If he timed out or chose wrong, the collar around his neck would deliver a brief, weak shock – just enough to jolt him thoroughly.

The shock wasn't intensely painful; its purpose wasn't torture but reminder. To remind him he must maintain razor-sharp focus at all times, must pour all his attention into this meaningless quiz game.

At first, Chen Rui thought this was just his Mistress's new game. He struggled to memorize the useless facts, strained to stay alert under the threat of shock. He even felt a shred of pathetic accomplishment when he answered correctly.

He didn't realize this was systematic mental destruction.

Sleep deprivation, brain flooded with junk, nerves perpetually taut awaiting shocks. Within mere weeks, his mental state deteriorated visibly.

By day, when he left the cell, suited up, and tried to conduct business, he felt overwhelmed. His mind wandered uncontrollably, filled not with business data, but the tangled syllables of "Usain St. Leo Bolt." In meetings, he would suddenly blank, forgetting what he was about to say. Reading financial reports, the numbers blurred into meaningless symbols.

He became increasingly forgetful, increasingly slow. His thinking capacity and judgment plummeted.

Company affairs became a mess. Helplessly, he leaned more and more on Le Thi Phuong Vy. Bit by bit, he handed over access to company accounts, authority over crucial business decisions – everything – to her.

"Mistress, I'm stupid. I can't handle these things. You should decide," he would say submissively.

Le Thi Phuong Vy would reply with a tone of pitying cruelty: "Useless thing. You can't even manage such small matters. You truly only deserve to be down there."

This degradation didn't shame him; instead, it brought a sense of relief. He felt he was inherently useless; failing at company business was only natural.

His world was rapidly simplifying. The boundaries between day and night blurred. The line between reality and the cell dissolved. His purpose was reduced to two things: playing the role of a toilet in the cell, and earning enough money for his Mistress.

Le Thi Phuong Vy even began escalating the "humiliation." Occasionally, she or Tran Van Hung would defecate directly into the cell, commanding Chen Rui to eat it. This had once been an absolute taboo. But now, with his spirit broken near collapse, Chen Rui accepted it numbly and obediently. He even felt it was a special "reward" from his Mistress for his "good performance."

His twisted theory was deconstructed and rebuilt under the systematic reprogramming. He no longer pondered complex logic like "debased but necessary." His mind held only the simplest commands: Obey. Accept. Swallow.

Sometime after that, Le Thi Phuong Vy and Tran Van Hung's daughter also learned the secret.

Though her parents forbade her from using the toilet in the master bedroom, she always found opportunities when they were out to sneak in. Unlike Le Thi Phuong Vy and Tran Van Hung, who used it silently and habitually, the little girl always pressed the intercom button to greet the "Toilet Uncle" through the screen.

"Uncle, hello!"

Hearing the child's clear voice, the shred of "fatherly" feeling remaining in Chen Rui would prick him like a needle. But instantly, this feeling would be drowned by overwhelming shame and abasement. He felt unworthy to be called "Uncle" by a child. He was just a dirty, talking toilet.

He curled up in the dark corner, not daring to respond.

Alone overseas, his contact with his wife Zhang Jing back home dwindled to almost nothing. He no longer missed his daughter, feeling his filthy self unworthy of missing such a pure, beautiful angel. He grew increasingly dependent on this new "family," on Le Thi Phuong Vy and her kin.

They were his entire world.

They constructed a new, utterly subservient world for him using their excreted waste, their used toilet paper and dirty underwear, the electric shocks, and the ceaseless noise.

In this world, he had no more thoughts, no more dignity, no more past or future.

He was merely a tool.

A thoroughly objectified, perfect, living toilet.

And Le Thi Phuong Vy, watching the man grow increasingly vacant-eyed and numb to all commands on the monitor screen, smiled with satisfaction. She knew she had succeeded.

This man would never, ever leave her.

Both the man and the fortune he represented would belong to her, to this family, forever.