Neon lights reflect off of the puddles of rain, giving the street a familiar atmosphere. While it may be cloudy yet dry right now, Ryan knows the rain will be back sooner than later, as it always does. The smell of petrichor still hangs in the air, and the wet stone welcomes the eager steps of the journalist as he makes his way through the colorful, illuminated streets.

Yet, Ryan doesn’t have time to be distracted by the futuristic lights beckoning his attention towards the various shops, restaurants and pubs. Instead, his mind is set on his task at hand: Exposing the notorious leader of the crime syndicate terrorizing the city, so-called ‘businessman’ Vincent Pryce. Of course, it’s a dangerous task, but a clever and cunning journalist like Ryan would surely be up to the task.

Being an undercover journalist for a paper that’s still part of the resistance has its benefits though. At least nobody will expect a slender guy like him to topple the tower of might that Vincent has built for himself through organized crime. So, armed with his notebook and photo camera, Ryan slips through the streets unseen, making his way towards the location given to him by an unnamed source.

Snaking through the constantly darker alleyways, Ryan finds himself standing against a shutter door in a small side-road, garbage containers filled to the brim being the only proof of recent human activity in this part of town. The journalist remains on high alert, because unnamed sources are rarely not a trap, but it’s hard to pass on an opportunity like this. So, with his own safety in mind, he crouches up against one of the containers, leaning past it to check out the point of interest that his source had mentioned.

Sure enough, three minutes after the time given by his source, three figures arrive. They move to shelter from the rain at the roofed porch of an unnamed building, allowing Ryan to get a better look at them. There’s two towering, muscular men dressed in neat black suits. They both appear to carry an indiscernible handgun on their hips, though the brand doesn’t matter. Them being armed is alarming enough.

In the middle of the two men stands a less muscular, but still very athletic man. His red hair is barely visible due to the low levels of light in the back alley, yet his electric blue eyes pierce through the darkness like two searchlights. For a second, Ryan is convinced that the man in the middle saw him peaking past the garbage containers, however the lack of shouts suggests that isn’t the case. But there’s no shadow of doubt in Ryan’s mind: The man in the middle is who he’s here for, Vincent Pryce.

Ryan takes a few quick notes, but is interrupted by the sound of footsteps approaching. Not from where Vincent and his goons were, but from the same path he had taken. He quickly scrambles backwards, trying to disappear into the shutters and remain as invisible as possible, holding his breath as to not make any noise. Two other figures pass by him, luckily without spotting the journalist, and as they get closer to Vincent, the crime boss loudly addresses the two.

Taking a deep breath to calm himself down, Ryan reassumes his old position against the garbage container and eavesdrops in on the conversation. The two new figures seem to be some sort of government officials, one of the two being a lanky guy dressed in a suit that doesn’t fit him, and the other is a woman in a long, red dress, far too fancy for an alley like this. She doesn’t seem to care though, and is very clearly bossing the lanky guy around.

Though neither come close to the level of menace or intimidation that Vincent carries around him, almost like an aura. The crime boss wanders closer to the two, telling them something that Ryan just quite can’t make out, and the two figures suddenly look around bewilderedly. Before another word is said, Vincent turns around and starts walking, followed by his bodyguards, then the two figures.

Ryan quickly gets to his feet, quietly shadowing the group of five through the back alleys, carefully staying back as to not get spotted. His paranoia seems to be unfounded, because not once do Vincent nor his bodyguards glance backwards. Neither do the two government officials, they are far too busy with practically begging for a word with Vincent. He, however, refuses to speak another word, until they arrive at a building near the main road. Pryce puts his wrist up to a device near the door, which slides open, and finally speaks up again. “Please, come inside. Welcome to my HQ.”

Pryce’s headquarters is a surprisingly small corporate building amidst towering skyscrapers, adverts projected upon the faces of the buildings, polluting the dark night sky. It does certainly compliment the neon lights of the streets, and at least visibility is no longer an issue, though Ryan misses the days when even the main streets were only lit up by lantern posts, back when the city wasn’t run by corruption and wallets fat enough to pay for bribes.

The five people disappear into the building, and Ryan seizes his chance. Before the sliding door closes completely on its’ own, the journalist sprints towards it and puts his foot between the slit, causing it to open again, allowing him to sneak inside. He looks around to see if he can see anyone, but all he sees is an elevator in front of him, the lights on it suggesting it’s on its’ way up.

“What a weird layout for a ground floor of such an important building”, Ryan thinks to himself, before creeping closer towards the elevator. He waits for the lights to stop moving as to not raise suspicion with the bodyguards, and once it’s stopped on the eighth floor, he presses the little round button to call the elevator.

He’s not quite sure what he would do if the other side of the elevator goes straight to an office, right in Vincent’s view, but what would be the odds of that? While he’s considering his options, the elevator reaches the bottom floor again, a little ding echoing through the empty hall before the door opens, and Ryan is immediately overpowered by one of the two bodyguards tackling the slender journalist.

Ryan groans as he’s thrown to the floor by the sheer force of the bodyguard, keeping him pinned to the floor. He tries to wiggle his way out of the grapple, though he barely is able to move around. Before tiring himself out, a tall figure is already towering above him, blocking out the light of the ceiling tube lights. Vincent’s bright blue eyes are still clearly visible, aimed right at Ryan’s own darker blue eyes.

The crime syndicate boss crouches down, leaning on the bodyguard’s shoulder, and smiles as he looks at Ryan.

“Well well, who do we have here? I do applaud your bravado, it takes balls to tail a man with a reputation like mine.” Vincent says, frisking the journalist. He takes the wallet out of his jeans, opening it and reading the name on the ID.

“Ah! Ryan Mercier. I think I’ve read your name in one of those cute little papers before. Well, Mister Mercier… It does truly pain me to say this, but… your little investigation ends here, I’m afraid.” Vincent says mockingly. “Though I suppose you should’ve really seen this coming, blindly trusting an anonymous source like that.” Having said that, Vincent reveals a wad of cash, and gives it to the lanky government figure, only now revealed by Pryce’s movement.

“Let me go! My colleagues and friends all know where I am!” Ryan shouts.

“They know you’re right here in this very building, even though you’ve shadowed me from the most desolate alleyway in this town?” Pryce responds with a menacing chuckle. “Listen, freckles. Even if I believed you – which I don’t – I doubt they’d find you.”

Before Ryan can yell profanities at him, he’s suddenly blinded by something pulled over his head by the bodyguard that tackled him. At first, he figures it’s a burlap sack or a blindfold, but the thing soon buzzes to life. It’s some sort of massive, all-encompassing monitor fit over his eyes, displaying concentric circles, constantly pulling inwards.

Confusion fills Ryan’s mind, unsure why or what he’s shown this video. Though the confusion is very quickly replaced by a strong sensation of full-body pleasure sending shivers down his spine. Ryan instinctively groans and tenses up, and to his surprise, the journalist is released from the bodyguard’s grip.

He gets up on his feet, but the circles in the headset continue to circle inwards, now accompanied by a low buzzing sound filling his ears. The pleasure continues to wash over him, his thoughts becoming empty and infrequent. At first, some thoughts of confusion and attempts to take the headset off pierce through the ocean of pleasure, though they too are quickly cast aside by the circles.

Ryan feels his knees get wobbly from the pleasure, his mind growing foggy and his eyes fluttering, only remaining open because he needs to continue to stare at the circles. He doesn’t know why, and he doesn’t have to know why. He just does.

As he sinks to his knees, unable to keep himself upright, his body starts to feel warm, fuzzy. Almost like there’s a coat of fur covering his entire being from head to toe. It’s not because of the pleasure, either, even though the pulses continue to be constant and powerful, keeping the journalist in a cycle of tensing up in anticipation, shuddering in pleasure, and surrendering to relaxation again.

His blood continues to pump through his body, he can almost feel the buzzing in his veins, and the journalist balls his fists. An instinctual urge to flex dominates his mind, and he feels his green graphic tee start to rip under the tension at his biceps. His upper body continues to expand underneath his muscular build, a sudden change that he barely even noticed. Not that he would have much to think about anyways, all his thoughts seem weirdly connected somehow.

The same sudden growth spurt mirrors in his lower body, his legs growing stronger and wider, his jeans growing tighter and tighter to the point of discomfort. His chest expands, and for the first time when Ryan breathes, he feels the cold air against his bare skin. His shirt has given up the fight, ripping in half and remaining stuck upon him like an unbuttoned vest.

He stands back up, suddenly feeling much more confident in his body and strength. He could probably take on the other body guard now, but that actual desire is completely gone. Instead, he moves his hands to take off the headset, a dumb smile cast upon his face as he looks through the room, searching for the approving gaze of Vincent.

It doesn’t take long for him to find it, the crime boss staring at his latest asset. Vincent approaches Ryan, patting him on the shoulder. The sound of the shoulder pats loudly echoes through the hall. Before, it could’ve sent him flying, but now, Ryan barely feels it.

“So, Mister Mercier. How would you like to serve the syndicate henceforth as a bodyguard? I suppose I don’t need to ask, but I am a man of tradition and officiality”, Vincent asks, holding out his hand for Ryan to shake.

A single sentence floats through Ryan’s mind, discernibly not his own, but one of the collective. One he can’t disobey.

Shake it.

Immediately, he firmly grasps Vincent’s hand and shakes it thoroughly, and a wave of belonging washes over him, the foreign thought of the collective now replaced by another. Ryan can’t discern whether it is a thought or a directive, though he happily obeys it regardless.

Protect.

He can definitely do that.