The apartment stank of microwaved noodles and stale ambition.
It was 2:14 a.m. The only light came from his monitor, washing the cluttered room in cold, artificial moonlight. Notification bubbles pulsed on the screen—engagements, promotions, published papers, product launches. Everyone else, it seemed, was moving forward.
Not Nathan.
He sat still, bathed in the digital glow, the cursor blinking like a pulse he couldn't feel. Once, he'd been promising—a fellowship here, a keynote there, professors calling him brilliant. But the shine had dulled. Drive had withered into delay, and delay had become paralysis. Ideas came, grand and glittering, then dissolved. Projects started and stalled. His peers sprinted past, eyes lit with purpose, and Nathan just… watched.
Something inside had hollowed out.
He opened a private tab and typed things he'd never say aloud—things he wouldn't even tell his therapist.
why do i feel dead
contracts with the devil myth or real
extreme therapy pain punishment bdsm
how to sell your future
That last search yielded something strange. Not a standard link, but a fragment of an old, fractured forum—a thread reposted from a server banned three times on Discord, twice on Reddit. A comment buried beneath layers of digital ash:
> "If you really want to feel something… if you're ready to bleed for change—
Try the Degradation Contract.
It's not a joke.
It takes.
But it gives."
Below the comment: no hyperlink, just a string of characters. Plain text. Almost like a challenge.
He copied it into Tor.
The page that loaded was minimal—elegant, almost reverent. Black background. One line of serif text:
"What part of your future are you willing to burn for sensation now?"
Two buttons appeared:
I Offer.
I Collect.
Nathan hesitated. Then clicked I Offer.
The screen flashed white.
A form appeared—already filled in. His full name. His birthdate. Even the title of the thesis he'd never finished.
At the top, a countdown began: 01:59... 01:58...
At the bottom, a prompt:
Choose your transaction.
The choices unfolded like petals on a poisoned bloom:
One week's drive for one night of servitude.
Three years of ambition for one weekend of total degradation.
A decade of creative potential for… enlightenment?
Nathan stared at the second option.
Three years of ambition.
Gone. For what? Not healing. Not growth.
Punishment.
He clicked.
The screen went blank, then reloaded one final message:
"Strip. Wait by the door."
His heart kicked hard in his chest. His room suddenly felt colder. He hadn't entered his address. He hadn't entered anything.
And yet—
Fifteen minutes later, there was a knock at the door.