Previous Chapter (2) - Elena | First chapter - Camila
The air inside the clinic didn’t smell like the rest of the Old Print Works.
Outside this room, the building was a symphony of decay: wet rot, trusting iron, stale engine grease, and the omnipresent, coppery tang of fear. But here, behind the heavy, sealed blast door, the air was aggressively, suffocatingly sterile. It smelled of industrial-grade ethanol, sharp eucalyptus, and the cloying sweetness of lavender. It was a chemical mask, thick enough to choke on, designed to hide the stench of the atrocities happening out in The Studio.
Dr. Clement Atkins stood at a stainless steel prep counter, his back to the door. He was a small, fastidious man, his lab coat blindingly white under the harsh fluorescent strips that lined the ceiling. He looked less like a doctor and more like a watchmaker, hunched over his work with obsessive focus.
Clink. Grind. Clink.
The ceramic pestle moved in a rhythmic circle against the mortar. Inside, a paste of crushed peppermint leaves, coarse sea salt, and a transdermal carrier gel was turning a vibrant, toxic green. Clement adjusted his wire-rimmed spectacles, scrutinizing the texture. It had to be perfect. Too gritty, and it would tear the skin. Too smooth, and it wouldn't strip away the dead layers effectively enough.
"Optimization," he whispered to himself, the word a quiet mantra. "We must optimize the canvas."
He wasn't merely a clinician. He was a cultivator. A gardener tending to a very specific, very delicate crop. The men outside—animals like Grimaldi, that slimy pimp Navarro, or worse that sadist Bellini—they were the storms, the hail that battered the flowers. Clement was the one who pruned, who watered, who ensured that despite the violence, the blooms remained pristine.
He reached for a small amber vial. Capsaicin extract.
Just a drop. He held the dropper steady, his hand rock-still. This was the artistry. Enough to dilate the capillaries, to rush blood to the surface and sensitize the nerve endings until the skin hummed with electric awareness… but not enough to cause actual burning or blistering. The clients paid for reactions, for squirming and breathless panic, not for damage. Damage was sloppy. Damage was… unprofessional.
SPLAT.
The single drop hit the green paste. He began to mix again, the grinding sound echoing off the white tiled walls.
Suddenly, the silence was shattered.
The blast door opened with a violence that made the instruments on the metal tray rattle. A chaotic noise invaded the sanctuary—heavy boots, a muffled struggle, and a woman's desperate pleas.
"No! Get off me! Please, not again!"
Clement paused, his pestle hovering mid-grind. A flicker of irritation twitched beneath his eye. He hated interruptions. He hated the noise. It disrupted the calibration.
He turned slowly, wiping his gloved hands on a pristine towel.
Grimaldi filled the doorway, a hulking monolith of dark t-shirt and muscle. He was dragging a woman by her upper arm, her feet skidding uselessly on the polished linoleum.
It was the new one. The Reporter. Camila.
She looked wrecked. Her dark hair was a bird's nest of tangles, her face pale and drawn, eyes wide with the frantic terror of a trapped animal. She was fighting, twisting her body, digging the heels of her bare feet into the floor, but against Knuckles, she might as well have been a child.
"Easy, you neanderthal," Clement snapped, his voice sharp and precise. "She is not a sack of potatoes."
Knuckles ignored him, grunting as he hauled Camila toward the center of the room. Dominating the space was 'The Chair.'
It was a monstrosity of medical engineering—a hybrid of a gynecological exam table and a high-end dental recliner, upholstered in easy-to-clean fawn leather. At the head was a deep porcelain sink for hair washing. But its most distinctive features were the attachments. At the base, elevated on sturdy chrome distinct arms, were two padded cuffs designed specifically to lock ankles in a raised, spread position. The thick, padded leather cuffs were bolted to the chrome arms, but instead of simple buckles, the straps fed into heavy, motorized locking mechanisms attached to the chair's frame.
"No! No, please, not the chair!" Camila shrieked, seeing the device. She thrashed wildly, her free hand clawing at Knuckles' forearm. "I won't do it! Don't touch me!"
She thought it was another torture device. Another station for Nails to work his horrors.
"Get her in, Doc," Knuckles grunted, shoving Camila forward. "Boss wants her prepped. Showtime in two hours. He wants the full deluxe treatment."
"I can see that," Clement sighed, stepping forward. He looked at Camila with a cold, clinical appraisal. He didn't see the terror in her eyes. He saw the dirt smudged on her shins. He saw the redness on her soles from the previous night's session. He saw the dry skin on her heels.
Bellini, he thought, looking up to Camila’s face. You poor woman.
"Stop struggling, Camila," Clement said, his tone flat and authoritative. "You are only making it likely that you will be hurt. Mr. Grimaldi, secure the ankles first. If she kicks a tray over, you're cleaning it up."
Knuckles slammed Camila into the seat. Before she could scramble up, he threw his weight onto her thighs, pinning her down. With practiced brutality, Knuckles grabbed her left ankle and shoved it into the cuff. He fed the thick leather strap into the locking mechanism at the base and yanked it tight, the leather groaning under the strain. He slammed the locking lever down.
KA-CHUNK.
The motor whirred briefly, cinching the strap to a pre-set, unbreakable tension.
Then he grabbed the right ankle. Camila kicked out, catching him in the shoulder, but he just swatted her leg down into the restraint and did the same with the other leather strap.
KA-CHUNK.
"There," Knuckles grunted, stepping back and wiping a smear of sweat from his forehead. He looked at Camila, struggling uselessly against the restraints, her feet now displayed high in the air, spread wide and defenseless. Then he looked at Clement. "She's feisty. Better use the heavy straps for the arms, too."
Clement nodded, looking back down at his mixture and picking up the pestle and resumed grinding.
Knuckles reached for the thick leather belts attached to the armrests. Camila flinched away from him, hyperventilating.
"Get away from me!" she spat, tears streaming down her face, thrashing against his grip. "What is this? Another session? I can’t take it! I’m not doing it!"
Clement paused. He looked at her over the rim of his glasses, his expression utterly devoid of malice, which somehow made it worse.
"A session?" Clement repeated, sounding genuinely offended by the implication that he was merely another tormentor. Knuckles reached for the thick leather belts attached to the armrests. He forced Camila’s wrists into the cuffs, feeding the straps into the locking units.
WHIR-SNAP.
WHIR-SNAP.
"You've been handled roughly," Clement observed, his voice devoid of empathy but heavy with professional critique. "Mr. Grimaldi has the finesse of a sledgehammer, and that business with Mr. Bellini… barbaric. He left the skin inflamed, damaged."
He smoothed a stray, damp hair from her forehead with a gloved hand, causing her to flinch violently.
"I am going to make you beautiful," he said softly, as Knuckles checked the tightness of the restraints. "For the audience. They don't want to see a victim, Camila. They want to see a star."
Knuckles chuckled—a low, wet sound as he walked to the doorway, turned and placed his hand on the heavy door. "Have fun, Doc. Make sure she sparkles."
With that, the enforcer turned and left, pulling the heavy door shut with a click. The silence rushed back in, heavy and thick.
Clement turned back to his tray. He picked up a pair of fresh latex gloves. He held them up, snapping them onto his wrists with a sharp, echoing crack.
SNAP.
He turned to Camila, who was trembling in the chair, her chest heaving, her eyes fixed on his hands.
Camila's breath hitched in shallow, terrified gasps, her chest heaving against her blouse as she strained against the leather cuffs. The chair held her in a position of total, humiliating exposure—supine, her arms pinned to the armrests, her legs elevated and spread wide by the chrome stirrups.
Clement paid her panic no mind. He wheeled his stool closer, the casters squeaking softly on the linoleum.
"First things first," he murmured, his eyes scanning her disheveled form with critical distaste. "We cannot have the star of the show looking like she was dragged through a hedge backward."
He reached for a lever on the side of the chair. With a hydraulic hiss, the backrest began to lower, tilting Camila further back until her head rested perfectly in the hollow of the deep porcelain basin behind her.
"Relax your neck," Clement instructed, his voice flat.
"What are you—"
Before she could finish, he turned a tap. A spray of warm water erupted from a silver nozzle. He tested the temperature on the inside of his wrist—habit, instinct—before directing the stream onto her hair.
The sensation was jarring. After the cold damp of the cell, the filth, and the violence, the warm water felt alien. It soaked through her tangled, greasy hair, running over her ears and down her scalp. It was comforting, almost, but the context twisted it into something grotesque. This wasn't care; it was prep work.
Clement worked in silence, dispensing a dollop of pearlescent shampoo into his gloved palm. The scent was expensive—jasmine and sandalwood. He began to work it into her scalp, his fingers strong and methodical, but with a pressure that was delicate and precise, massaging the shampoo into her roots.
"You have good structure," he commented idly, scrubbing at a patch of dried mud near her temple. "But the condition…” he clicked his tongue, “deplorable. Split ends, heat damage. And this knot…" He tutted softly, working a particularly stubborn tangle free gently.
Camila stared up at the fluorescent lights, water trickling down her forehead. The juxtaposition was dizzying. She was bound like a prisoner, moments away from god-knew-what, and this man was washing her hair like she was a client at a high-end salon.
"Why?" she croaked, the water muffling her voice. "Why bother?"
"Presentation is everything, Camila," Clement replied, rinsing the suds away. "The audience demands a fantasy. They want to see the ruin of something pristine, not…" He gestured vaguely at her sweat-stained blouse. "Used goods."
He wrapped her hair in a plush, white microfiber towel, twisting it into a turban with practiced ease. Then, he tilted the chair back up slightly, just enough so he could access her feet.
He wheeled his stool down to the other end of the chair. The transition was immediate. The salon stylist vanished; the clinical pedicurist appeared.
He picked up a spray bottle filled with a clear, astringent liquid. He spritzed it liberally over her soles, the cold mist making her toes curl instinctively.
"Stay still," he ordered, grabbing her left heel in a firm grip. He picked up a coarse, white towel and began to scrub.
Camila balled her hands into fists and tried to pull her feet away from the maddening sensation, but the restraints held her. Her face contorted like she was fighting, trying not to laugh.
Clement pulled the towel away and looked at her pityingly “ah. I do apologise, Camela. I had not been made aware of just how sensitive you are already. I will try to be more gentle”
He resumed wiping away the grime of the cell floor, taking care to go slower, add slightly less friction. He wiped away the dried sweat. He wiped away the lingering, slick residue of the baby oil from the night before.
Camela seemed to relax a little when Clement changed the pressure. He smiled at her “sorry, Camela, I do try to make the visits here as gentle on the er…” he paused, looking for the correct word “women in the facility”
Camela looked him in the eye and hissed “prisoners.”
Clement smiled bashfully at her “yes, prisoners” he corrected as he cleaned the last of the grime.
Camela gave a sigh of relief when he moved the blackened towel away and bent her ankles, trying to see what her soles looked like after the towel.
"The skin is unbroken," Clement noted, peering closely at her arch through his spectacles. "This is lucky, as there are clear lines of abrasion. This must be dealt with before we can start removing callouses. We do not want to risk damaging the skin more."
Clement pushed his stool over to his station, his hand hovering over various jars and bottles before he found the one he was looking for, picked it up, and pushed himself back to the chair. “Unfortunately time is not on our side. Usually for these kinds of abrasions I would recommend a day of recovery after I apply special treatments. However Mr. Romano has scheduled your debut for tonight and has insisted on you receiving the ‘glass sole’ treatment. So I shall be doing the best that I can”.
Clement unscrewed the jar and scooped out a few fingers of a light pink paste. He brushed half onto one sole and the other half onto the other.
“Please try to relax, Camela. This shouldn’t hurt or tickle I hope” he said as he placed his hands on her right foot and gently started to work the paste into the arches and balls of Camela’s foot.
At the first touch he felt Camela try to pull her foot away with a sharp intake of breath, but then watched as her muscles relaxed and allowed Clement to work.
Clement repeated the same on the other foot “this is a special cream I had Mr. Romano procure. I told him I needed it for situations such as these. At first he disagreed, saying it was not necessary.”
Clement’s thumbs moved from Camila’s arch to the ball of her feet, her toes started to wiggle slightly as if enjoying the attention “However when Jolene was badly injured a few months ago, Romano turned on me. I had to explain that her feet needed time to heal. Time that was not provided, and thus resulted in a bad cut on her sole from Mr. Bellini’s ridiculous nails. I told him that if such a situation were to occur in the future, then I would need the cream I requested.”
Camila nodded slowly
“So yes,” Clement finished, pulling his hands away from Camila’s feet and pushing himself to the sink to wash the cream from his gloved fingers “we will leave the cream like this for ten minutes. That should give it time to work on those abrasions” he said as he turned on the tap and washed gloved hands.
Clement finished washing his hands and pushed himself back to the chair to observe Camela’s soles, inspect that the cream is doing it’s job.
"Why?" Camela asked him, her brows knitted. "Why do you do this, why do you work here? You're a doctor. You're supposed to help people."
Clement froze. He looked up at Camela’s face and saw why she was given the moniker ‘The Reporter’, it felt like she was looking into his soul, searching for the truth. Clement sighed deeply and checked his watch “we… we have time. I guess I may as well tell you” he said in a small voice.
"Help people," he echoed, his voice hollow. He looked down at his feet, a knot of shame burning in his gut. "I used to. I had a practice in the suburbs. Pediatric podiatry. Correcting flat feet, ingrown toenails on teenagers playing soccer. Small things. Good things."
He looked up, but he didn't look at Camila, he couldn’t. He looked at the blank white tiles of the wall.
"But I had… other interests. Expensive interests." He let out a bitter, dry chuckle. "The tables. Not these tables," he gestured to the exam chair, "the green felt ones. Cards. Dice. I thought I was clever. I thought I had a system" he added bitterly.
Clement stood and paced the small clinic a moment, getting his thoughts together before he turned finally, leaning his hip against the counter, crossing his arms over his white coat. He looked small, pathetic. A ruin of a man.
"I didn't have a system. I had a hole in my pocket and an ego the size of this building. So I borrowed. And when the banks stopped giving, I went to the people who don't ask for credit scores. I went to…"
Camila watched him, and something shifted behind her gaze, "Romano," she whispered.
Clement nodded. "I got in deep. Deeper than I could ever dig out. A hundred grand. Then two. When the deadline came, I didn't have it."
He walked closer to her, his eyes distant. "I thought they were going to kill me. They took me for a ride, brought me here. Frank was sitting in that office upstairs, eating a sandwich like it was a picnic. He told me he didn't want my money anymore. He wanted an 'asset'," the word feeling like poison on his tongue.
Clement reached out and adjusted the towel on Camila's head, tucking a loose corner back in.
"He knew my background. He knew I was a doctor. He said, 'My girls get hurt, Doc. They break. And broken toys aren't fun to play with. You fix 'em. You keep 'em pretty.'"
"So you said yes?" Camila asked, her voice dripping with accusation. "You traded our lives for your debt?"
Anger flooded Clement at Camela’s accusation, her tone "I said no!" he snapped, "of course I said no! I told him I wasn't a monster!"
He leaned in close, his face inches from hers. He saw Camela shrink back in the chair, the look of fear back on her face. Clement stood and held up his hands apologetically before he found the thread of his story and continued.
"So,” Clement said, steadying his tone, bringing it back to neutral, “Frank took out his phone. He showed me a video. It was a livestream. Not from here. From a café, the café my daughter works in."
Camila's eyes shot open, her mouth slightly agape.
"Sophie," Clement whispered, the name catching in his throat. "She works as a barista while in college. And in the background, sitting at a table, watching her… was Bellini. Just sitting there. filing his nails."
He pulled back, his shoulders slumping."Frank told me the deal. I work here. I do what I'm told. I make the girls look good, I patch them up when the ‘boys’ get rough, I keep the show moving. And as long as I do a good job… Sophie graduates college, does her doctorate."
He looked at Camila properly then, locking eyes with her. For the first time, Clement saw a look of pity in her eyes.
"But if I slip up… if I try to leave, or go to the cops, or if one of the assets is 'unusable' because I was sloppy…" He swallowed hard. "Then Sophie doesn't make coffee anymore. Sophie comes here. To the Giggle Room."
The confession hung in the air, heavy and suffocating. It didn't absolve him, he knew. He was still the man who teed up these poor women and made their suffering that little bit more unbearable.
"So I optimize," Clement said softly, almost to himself. "I make you perfect. I make your skin soft. I highlight the arches. I make sure every nerve is firing. Because if the clients are happy, if the money keeps rolling in… then Frank is happy. And if Frank is happy, my daughter is safe."
Clement sat back down on the stool and checked the soles of Camela’s feet “ok, good. The cream has done its job” he said, pushing himself over to the sink to fetch a basin of soapy water and a cloth. Then he scooched back over to the chair. He dipped the cloth and then started wiping the cream away from Camela’s soles, cleaning the cloth, and then continuing until all residue had been cleared.
"I'm sorry, Miss Reyes," he said, his voice regaining its professional detachment as he ran a thumb lightly over one of the now very faded lines of abrasion. "Truly. But I will burn this entire world to the ground before I let my little girl sit in that chair."
Clement stood and brought the basin back to the sink and started walking back to Camela. He paused by the automatic release switch for the restraints and looked at her “Camela, next I need to perform a… pedicure for want of a better term. It’s a little more involved. It is a lot easier on both of us if your legs are not restrained.” Clement’s hand hovered over the button as he looked into Camela’s eyes. He saw the flicker of something, maybe fear, but it gave way to a look of understanding and she nodded slowly.
Clement pressed the button and the restraints all loosed on Camela’s limbs. She bent forward and started rubbing her shins and ankles where the straps dug in as she tried to struggle.
“Ok thank you” Clement said, smiling at her “ok, well normally I would start with a foot bath, but the towel has cleaned your feet and the cream has left your soles soft, so the bath is unnecessary.”
He reached for a pumice stone—a rough, grey block that looked like a piece of lunar rock. He dipped it in a bowl of warm water.
"I will be as gentle as I can, but this may tickle," he said as a warning.
He brought the stone to her heel.
Scritch. Scritch. Scritch.
The sound was like sandpaper on wood. He worked the stone in circular motions, grinding away the dead skin, smoothing the rough patch of her heel.
Clement felt Camela’s foot jump and twitch from the sensation. He looked at her face and saw her eyes were clamped shut, trying her best to remain still.
"Calluses dull the sensation," Clement muttered to himself, falling back into his routine that he needs to follow, the routine he must maintain in order to keep Sophie safe. "They act as a shield. We need to remove the shield. We need the nerve endings exposed. Accessible."
He finished with the stone and placed it down on his tray.
Camila gave a little sigh of relief.
He picked up the mortar, and looked at the vibrant green paste one last time. It was a chemical masterpiece, a perfect balance of destruction and enhancement.
"Exfoliant," he announced to the her. "Sea salt, crushed peppermint… and specialized activators."
He scooped a generous amount onto his gloved fingers. The scent of peppermint hit the air—sharp, biting, medicinal, cutting through the sterile lavender.
He reached out and slathered the gritty, cold paste onto her left sole, coating it thickly from heel to toe. He repeated the process on the right. Camila flinched at the temperature shock, her feet twitching in his grip.
He paused for a moment, his hands hovering over her coated feet, green slime dripping from his thumbs. He looked up at her, meeting her panicked gaze over the rims of his glasses.
"I’m sorry, Camila," he said, his voice surprisingly soft. "But I do need to do this. The result must be… flawless. I hope you understand that this is not malice. It is chemistry."
He lowered his head and began to work. He used his thumbs to drive the paste into the arch of her right foot, pressing deep, ensuring the mixture made contact with every square millimeter of skin.
"Nnngh!" A strangled noise escaped Camila's throat. Her toes curled into a tight, desperate ball before she kicked out at him. “No! Get off!”
Clement released her foot and looked into her eyes. “I am sorry, Camela, I must do this. I have no choice”
Then before Camela could react, Clement pressed the button to lock the restraints back in place while Camela’s legs still rested in the stirrups.
Her eyes went wide with fury and she tried to kick them free “NO! NO, YOU SAID!” she grunted with effort “YOU SAID THIS WAS NOT A SESSION!” She strained again “I TRUSTED YOU!”
Clement looked at her apologetically “I must do it… for… for Sophie’s sake” he said in a small voice before bringing his hands to her now immobile foot. He forced himself to think of the process, not the person in the chair. It was the only way he was going to be able to continue.
Clement’s thumbs dug in again and In his mind, Clement visualized the microscopic warfare happening beneath his fingertips. He recounted exactly what the paste was doing. It was a violent, efficient invasion.
First, the salt, he thought, watching his thumbs carve paths through the green sludge. Millions of crystalline shards acting like microscopic chisels. They aren't just cleaning; they are flaying. They are shearing off the dead stratum corneum, the protective shield of hardened keratin that a lifetime of walking has built up. Every rough patch, every callus, every micron of insensitivity is being ground down to dust.
He pressed harder into the ball of her foot, feeling the gritty resistance give way, ignoring the screams and pleas of the woman on the chair.
Then, the peppermint oil. It’s not just for the smell. It’s a vasodilator. It’s screaming at the capillaries to open wide, flooding the dermis with blood, heating the skin from the inside out. It is turning the nerve endings into live wires, stripping their insulation.
He could feel the heat beginning to radiate from her foot, warring with the cold temperature of the paste.
And finally, the transdermal carrier, my secret ingredient, It’s pulling the moisture deep into the fresh, raw layers underneath. It is plumping the cells, softening the collagen until the skin loses all its resilience. It will stop being leather and start being silk.
He moved his thumbs in small, punishing circles right in the sensitive center of her arch.
When I wipe this off, he thought with a grim, clinical certainty, there will be no defenses left. Her soles will be as smooth as glass. As soft as a newborn’s skin. And every nerve ending, usually buried deep and safe, will be right there on the surface, screaming for input, hypersensitive to the slightest touch of air, let alone a fingernail.
Thoughts of what that meant for her later bubbled into his thoughts. He knew what Nails would do with feet this pristine, this responsive. It wouldn't just be ticklish. It would be a neurological overload. A sensory assault that bordered on pain without ever crossing the threshold to cause damage.
I am making her perfect, Clement thought, a wave of nausea rolling in his gut. I am crafting the perfect instrument for her own torture.
He pushed the thought away, burying it under the weight of his debt and his daughter’s safety. He focused on the work.
He moved to her toes, massaging the paste between each digit, separating them, ensuring the gritty mixture scoured the delicate, hidden webbing. This time he couldn’t block out Camela’s protests, his ears were ringing.
"NAAAHA-HA-HAT THE TOES!!!"Camila screamed, the entire chair vibrating with her attempts to pull her feet away."STOP STOP STAAAAHA-HA-HA-HAP!"
"Circulation," Clement muttered aloud, attempting to drown out her pleas with medical jargon. "Blood flow is critical. Heightened sensitivity. That's the goal."
He repeated the process on her right foot—the pumice stone, the grinding, the cold slap of the paste, the vigorous massage. Camila writhed in the chair. Tears were streaming down her face. She screamed and begged for Clement to stop when he worked the paste through the toes of her right foot.
Finally, he picked up a warm, damp sponge and wiped the paste away.
The skin that was revealed was transformed. Gone was the grey, dusty look of the holding cell. Her soles were now a vibrant, healthy pink, the skin appearing impossibly soft and smooth. They looked raw, new. Vulnerable.
Clement leaned back, inspecting his work. He nodded, satisfied. Then, he reached for a small jar of cream.
"Now," he said softly, unscrewing the lid. "The primer. This will be very gentle, Camila. I am again, very very sorry that I had to put you through that just now, but… you know I have no choice." he squeaked out the last four words.
He dipped his fingers into the jar and took a healthy scoop. "Capsaicin and menthol. Just enough to keep the nerves singing." He told her.
He began to apply the lotion. This time, his touch was feather-light. He didn't scrub; he glazed. He stroked his fingers down the length of her arch, over the sensitive wrinkles, around the pads of her toes.
Camila looked ready to start fighting again as his hands approached her foot, buty when he started to gently apply the lotion, Camela sank into the chair as Clement’s masterful fingers gently massaged her feet.
“The lotion will feel hot and cold at the same time,” Clement explained. “Capsaicin wakes up the heat receptors. Menthol does the opposite. Your nerves fire both signals at once.”
"Ideally," Clement said, his voice dropping to a whisper as he polished her skin to a high shine, "you should feel a feather… before it even touches you."
Camila tried to reply with a note of ascent, but instead let out a low moan before she could stop herself.
He sat back, peeling off his gloves with a wet snap. “That is… that is their goal anyway. I am merely their instrument”
Camila lay there, her hair wrapped in a towel, her feet glowing and throbbing with artificial sensitivity.
Clement reached over and hit the release switch on the restraints. “I do hope that in time… in time you will come to see my visits as calming, Camila. I… I do not envy what awaits you, the best I can do is try to ease your suffering as much as I can”
Camila rubbed her wrists, staring at him. A fiery hatred was burning in her eyes.
Camila sat up slowly in the chair, rubbing the red indentations the leather straps had left on her wrists. "You're disgusting," she hissed, her voice trembling but gaining strength. "You think you're saving her? Sophie? You're just feeding the beast that will eventually eat her anyway. A day will come when Romano no longer needs you. On that day you will see the true level of his cruelty."
Clement didn't look up from his tray. He couldn’t. He knew in his heart she was right, but he forced himself not to think about it. He busied himself meticulously arranging his tools—scissors, files, buffers—into a perfect line. "Philosophical debates are a luxury I can't afford, Camela. And neither can you."
He gestured to her feet. "Look at them."
Camila didn't want to, but she couldn't help it. She folded her knees and turned her ankles inwards, pointing her soles at her face and looked down.
They were… perfect. It was a grotesque perfection, but undeniable. The grime, the dead skin, the calluses—all gone. Her soles were a smooth, uniform pink, glowing with health and hydration. The arches seemed more pronounced, the curves elegant. The toes were clean, the cuticles pushed back neatly. They looked soft. Impossibly soft.
"There is no armor left," Clement said quietly. "Every layer of protection you built up walking the streets, every callous from those combat boots… gone. You are exposed. Completely."
He walked over to a small cabinet and pulled out a bottle. It wasn't nail polish. It was a clear, high-gloss top coat.
"The Reporter," he mused, reading the label on the bottle as if checking a prescription. "The narrative is that you're tough. Gritty. So we won't paint them red or pink. That's for the 'dolls'. For you…"
He sat back on his stool and took her left foot in his hand. His touch was clinical again. He uncapped the bottle.
"Clear coat. High shine. To show the natural… vulnerability."
He began to paint. He worked quickly, efficiently. One stroke down the center, one on each side. Perfect coverage.
Camila watched him paint her toes, then she looked into his eyes. "Why tell me?" she asked suddenly. "About your daughter. About the debt."
Clement didn't pause in his painting. "Because you're a journalist. You look for reasons. You want the 'why'. Now you have it." He moved to her right foot. "Consider it an exclusive."
He finished the last toe—the little pinky on her right foot—and capped the bottle. He sat back to admire his work.
Under the harsh fluorescent lights, her feet gleamed. The clear coat caught the light, making her toes look wet, fresh. The lotion made her skin shimmer slightly. They looked incredibly sensitive, like they would react to the slightest breeze.
And they did. Clement leaned forward and blew gently on her right sole.
Camila jerked her leg back, a gasp escaping her lips.
"See?" Clement nodded. "Reactive. The nerves are right at the surface."
Then he grabbed a blue box and pulled two plastic bags from it, the kind you wear over your shoes when going into a clean room, and he put them around Camila's feet and cinched the openings, sealing her feet, ensuring they remained clean for the shoot.
He stood up and peeled off his gloves with a final, wet snap. He walked over to the intercom on the wall and pressed a button.
"She's ready."
A moment later, the blast door hissed open. Knuckles was back. He looked at Camila, then at her shining, pristine feet through the plastic booties, and let out a low whistle.
"shiny," he grunted. "Boss'll like that. Looks like glass."
He grabbed Camila by the arm, hauling her out of the chair. The sudden movement shook her. The towel on her head unraveled slightly.
"Wait," Clement said. He reached out and adjusted the towel again, securing it. "Make sure the towel stays on. We want that 'damp, distressed' look for the camera."
Knuckles rolled his eyes. "Whatever you say, Versace."
He shoved Camila toward the door. She stumbled and winced as her hypersensitive feet slapped against the cold linoleum. The booties offered no cushioning, meaning the floor felt incredibly textured, every microscopic bump magnified.
The door slammed shut, Clement stood alone in the silence. He sprayed the leather, wiped it down. He checked the time on the wall clock.
Elena’s next he thought. Time… time to prepare.
Thirty minutes later. The clinic was reset. Fresh towels. Instruments sterilized.
The door to the clinic hissed open. There was no scuffle, no shouted commands from Knuckles. Just the rhythmic slap-slap of bare feet on linoleum.
Clement turned from the sink, a fresh towel in his hands.
Elena.
She walked in with that characteristic, weary confidence that always made his chest ache with a strange mix of admiration and guilt. She wore the standard-issue grey sweats like armor. Her hair was pulled back, revealing a face etched with exhaustion but devoid of the frantic terror he saw in the others.
"Hey, Doc," she rasped, offering him a small, tight smile.
That smile. The others looked at him like he was a monster, a collaborator, or just another instrument of their pain. But Elena… Elena looked at him like he was a person. She joked. We bantered. When she was in this room she let him pretend he was just a podiatrist in a clinic, and she was just a patient with tired feet. Like the old days.
It was a lie, of course. A fragile, shared delusion. But it was the only thing keeping him sane.
And today, he had to shatter it.
"Elena," he replied, his voice sounding thin and reedy to his own ears. He tried to return the smile, but couldn’t.
"So, what’s up?" She asked, hopping onto the exam chair with practiced ease. She settled back, crossing her ankles. "Knuckles just said 'go see the Doc'. Figured maybe I earned a bonus treatment. Any excuse to get your hands on my feet again, eh doc?"
She grinned at him coyly, extending her legs and wiggling her toes.
"Besides," she said, curling her toes to show off his handiwork. "Look. Still perfect. That 'Candy Apple Red' really holds up, huh? Not a chip."
The bright red polish gleamed under the harsh fluorescents, a cheerful, defiant splash of color in the sterile room. Her feet were immaculate. He had made them that way. He had cared for the skin, shaped the nails, massaged away the cramps. He had touched her with kindness in a place where touch was a weapon.
Clement stared at the red toes. He felt a wave of nausea roll through his gut.
Don't think about it. Just do it. Think of Sophie.
Sophie's face flashed in his mind. Her laugh. Then he thought of her here, thought of her with Bellini standing over her, flashing his talons.
One text. That’s all it takes. 'The Doc grew a conscience. Go get the girl.'
He couldn't let that happen. He would cut off his own hands before he let that happen. And if the price was Elena's trust? If the price was becoming the monster she thought he wasn't?
Then he was a monster.
“Some—something like that,” he stammered, walking over to the side of the chair. His hand hovered over the control panel. He couldn't look her in the eye.
"Doc?" Elena's smile faltered. The easy camaraderie evaporated, replaced by a flicker of confusion. "Everything okay?"
Do it. Now. Before you lose your nerve.
He pressed the button.
WHIR-CLICK.
The heavy, mechanical sound of the locking mechanism engaging felt like a gunshot in the small room. The ankle cuffs snapped down tight. The lap belt engaged with a ratchet sound, pinning her hips.
Elena’s eyes went wide. She tugged at her legs. They hit the restraints with a dull thud. She let out a nervous laugh. "Ok ha-ha, doc, good one. Now unlock my legs again please, we talked about this."
Clement turned his back to her. He couldn't watch the realization dawn on her face. He walked to his tray.
She trusts you. You're the one safe place.
Think of Sophie. You’re doing it for her, to keep her safe.
The two thoughts warred in his head, screeching and tearing at each other. He felt like he was drowning.
He didn't pick up the lotion. He didn't pick up the file.
He picked up a small, plastic basin filled with warm water. Soap bubbles floated on the surface, innocent and domestic.
Then, he reached into a jar on the counter and pulled out the instrument. A cheap, generic toothbrush with stiff, blue nylon bristles.
It looked ridiculous. A laughable, childish thing. But in this context? Used on feet he had spent months sensitizing, stripping of calluses, and priming with creams?
It was torture. Pure and simple.
He turned back to face her. He forced his face into a mask of professional detachment, but he knew his eyes were dead. He felt dead.
"Sensitivity check," he stated, mechanically. "Client request."
Elena stared at the toothbrush. The color drained from her face. The betrayal hit her harder than the fear.
"Doc, no," she whispered, her voice trembling. "Please. Not you. Don't be one of them."
The plea pierced him. It hurt more than if she had screamed, more than if she had cursed him. Not you.
He dipped the toothbrush into the warm, soapy water.
"Please," Elena begged, tears welling up instantly in her dark eyes. "Doc, don't. Not like this, not you. Please."
Clement didn't stop. He walked toward her trapped, red-toed feet, the wet toothbrush dripping soapy tears onto the pristine floor.
He knelt down at the foot of the chair. He looked at the perfect, pink arch of her left foot. The canvas he had prepared.
"I'm sorry, Elena," he whispered, so low she almost didn't hear it. It was the only truth he had left.
Then, he brought the soapy bristles to her skin.
Next Chapter (4) - Gordon
The air inside the clinic didn’t smell like the rest of the Old Print Works.
Outside this room, the building was a symphony of decay: wet rot, trusting iron, stale engine grease, and the omnipresent, coppery tang of fear. But here, behind the heavy, sealed blast door, the air was aggressively, suffocatingly sterile. It smelled of industrial-grade ethanol, sharp eucalyptus, and the cloying sweetness of lavender. It was a chemical mask, thick enough to choke on, designed to hide the stench of the atrocities happening out in The Studio.
Dr. Clement Atkins stood at a stainless steel prep counter, his back to the door. He was a small, fastidious man, his lab coat blindingly white under the harsh fluorescent strips that lined the ceiling. He looked less like a doctor and more like a watchmaker, hunched over his work with obsessive focus.
Clink. Grind. Clink.
The ceramic pestle moved in a rhythmic circle against the mortar. Inside, a paste of crushed peppermint leaves, coarse sea salt, and a transdermal carrier gel was turning a vibrant, toxic green. Clement adjusted his wire-rimmed spectacles, scrutinizing the texture. It had to be perfect. Too gritty, and it would tear the skin. Too smooth, and it wouldn't strip away the dead layers effectively enough.
"Optimization," he whispered to himself, the word a quiet mantra. "We must optimize the canvas."
He wasn't merely a clinician. He was a cultivator. A gardener tending to a very specific, very delicate crop. The men outside—animals like Grimaldi, that slimy pimp Navarro, or worse that sadist Bellini—they were the storms, the hail that battered the flowers. Clement was the one who pruned, who watered, who ensured that despite the violence, the blooms remained pristine.
He reached for a small amber vial. Capsaicin extract.
Just a drop. He held the dropper steady, his hand rock-still. This was the artistry. Enough to dilate the capillaries, to rush blood to the surface and sensitize the nerve endings until the skin hummed with electric awareness… but not enough to cause actual burning or blistering. The clients paid for reactions, for squirming and breathless panic, not for damage. Damage was sloppy. Damage was… unprofessional.
SPLAT.
The single drop hit the green paste. He began to mix again, the grinding sound echoing off the white tiled walls.
Suddenly, the silence was shattered.
The blast door opened with a violence that made the instruments on the metal tray rattle. A chaotic noise invaded the sanctuary—heavy boots, a muffled struggle, and a woman's desperate pleas.
"No! Get off me! Please, not again!"
Clement paused, his pestle hovering mid-grind. A flicker of irritation twitched beneath his eye. He hated interruptions. He hated the noise. It disrupted the calibration.
He turned slowly, wiping his gloved hands on a pristine towel.
Grimaldi filled the doorway, a hulking monolith of dark t-shirt and muscle. He was dragging a woman by her upper arm, her feet skidding uselessly on the polished linoleum.
It was the new one. The Reporter. Camila.
She looked wrecked. Her dark hair was a bird's nest of tangles, her face pale and drawn, eyes wide with the frantic terror of a trapped animal. She was fighting, twisting her body, digging the heels of her bare feet into the floor, but against Knuckles, she might as well have been a child.
"Easy, you neanderthal," Clement snapped, his voice sharp and precise. "She is not a sack of potatoes."
Knuckles ignored him, grunting as he hauled Camila toward the center of the room. Dominating the space was 'The Chair.'
It was a monstrosity of medical engineering—a hybrid of a gynecological exam table and a high-end dental recliner, upholstered in easy-to-clean fawn leather. At the head was a deep porcelain sink for hair washing. But its most distinctive features were the attachments. At the base, elevated on sturdy chrome distinct arms, were two padded cuffs designed specifically to lock ankles in a raised, spread position. The thick, padded leather cuffs were bolted to the chrome arms, but instead of simple buckles, the straps fed into heavy, motorized locking mechanisms attached to the chair's frame.
"No! No, please, not the chair!" Camila shrieked, seeing the device. She thrashed wildly, her free hand clawing at Knuckles' forearm. "I won't do it! Don't touch me!"
She thought it was another torture device. Another station for Nails to work his horrors.
"Get her in, Doc," Knuckles grunted, shoving Camila forward. "Boss wants her prepped. Showtime in two hours. He wants the full deluxe treatment."
"I can see that," Clement sighed, stepping forward. He looked at Camila with a cold, clinical appraisal. He didn't see the terror in her eyes. He saw the dirt smudged on her shins. He saw the redness on her soles from the previous night's session. He saw the dry skin on her heels.
Bellini, he thought, looking up to Camila’s face. You poor woman.
"Stop struggling, Camila," Clement said, his tone flat and authoritative. "You are only making it likely that you will be hurt. Mr. Grimaldi, secure the ankles first. If she kicks a tray over, you're cleaning it up."
Knuckles slammed Camila into the seat. Before she could scramble up, he threw his weight onto her thighs, pinning her down. With practiced brutality, Knuckles grabbed her left ankle and shoved it into the cuff. He fed the thick leather strap into the locking mechanism at the base and yanked it tight, the leather groaning under the strain. He slammed the locking lever down.
KA-CHUNK.
The motor whirred briefly, cinching the strap to a pre-set, unbreakable tension.
Then he grabbed the right ankle. Camila kicked out, catching him in the shoulder, but he just swatted her leg down into the restraint and did the same with the other leather strap.
KA-CHUNK.
"There," Knuckles grunted, stepping back and wiping a smear of sweat from his forehead. He looked at Camila, struggling uselessly against the restraints, her feet now displayed high in the air, spread wide and defenseless. Then he looked at Clement. "She's feisty. Better use the heavy straps for the arms, too."
Clement nodded, looking back down at his mixture and picking up the pestle and resumed grinding.
Knuckles reached for the thick leather belts attached to the armrests. Camila flinched away from him, hyperventilating.
"Get away from me!" she spat, tears streaming down her face, thrashing against his grip. "What is this? Another session? I can’t take it! I’m not doing it!"
Clement paused. He looked at her over the rim of his glasses, his expression utterly devoid of malice, which somehow made it worse.
"A session?" Clement repeated, sounding genuinely offended by the implication that he was merely another tormentor. Knuckles reached for the thick leather belts attached to the armrests. He forced Camila’s wrists into the cuffs, feeding the straps into the locking units.
WHIR-SNAP.
WHIR-SNAP.
"You've been handled roughly," Clement observed, his voice devoid of empathy but heavy with professional critique. "Mr. Grimaldi has the finesse of a sledgehammer, and that business with Mr. Bellini… barbaric. He left the skin inflamed, damaged."
He smoothed a stray, damp hair from her forehead with a gloved hand, causing her to flinch violently.
"I am going to make you beautiful," he said softly, as Knuckles checked the tightness of the restraints. "For the audience. They don't want to see a victim, Camila. They want to see a star."
Knuckles chuckled—a low, wet sound as he walked to the doorway, turned and placed his hand on the heavy door. "Have fun, Doc. Make sure she sparkles."
With that, the enforcer turned and left, pulling the heavy door shut with a click. The silence rushed back in, heavy and thick.
Clement turned back to his tray. He picked up a pair of fresh latex gloves. He held them up, snapping them onto his wrists with a sharp, echoing crack.
SNAP.
He turned to Camila, who was trembling in the chair, her chest heaving, her eyes fixed on his hands.
Camila's breath hitched in shallow, terrified gasps, her chest heaving against her blouse as she strained against the leather cuffs. The chair held her in a position of total, humiliating exposure—supine, her arms pinned to the armrests, her legs elevated and spread wide by the chrome stirrups.
Clement paid her panic no mind. He wheeled his stool closer, the casters squeaking softly on the linoleum.
"First things first," he murmured, his eyes scanning her disheveled form with critical distaste. "We cannot have the star of the show looking like she was dragged through a hedge backward."
He reached for a lever on the side of the chair. With a hydraulic hiss, the backrest began to lower, tilting Camila further back until her head rested perfectly in the hollow of the deep porcelain basin behind her.
"Relax your neck," Clement instructed, his voice flat.
"What are you—"
Before she could finish, he turned a tap. A spray of warm water erupted from a silver nozzle. He tested the temperature on the inside of his wrist—habit, instinct—before directing the stream onto her hair.
The sensation was jarring. After the cold damp of the cell, the filth, and the violence, the warm water felt alien. It soaked through her tangled, greasy hair, running over her ears and down her scalp. It was comforting, almost, but the context twisted it into something grotesque. This wasn't care; it was prep work.
Clement worked in silence, dispensing a dollop of pearlescent shampoo into his gloved palm. The scent was expensive—jasmine and sandalwood. He began to work it into her scalp, his fingers strong and methodical, but with a pressure that was delicate and precise, massaging the shampoo into her roots.
"You have good structure," he commented idly, scrubbing at a patch of dried mud near her temple. "But the condition…” he clicked his tongue, “deplorable. Split ends, heat damage. And this knot…" He tutted softly, working a particularly stubborn tangle free gently.
Camila stared up at the fluorescent lights, water trickling down her forehead. The juxtaposition was dizzying. She was bound like a prisoner, moments away from god-knew-what, and this man was washing her hair like she was a client at a high-end salon.
"Why?" she croaked, the water muffling her voice. "Why bother?"
"Presentation is everything, Camila," Clement replied, rinsing the suds away. "The audience demands a fantasy. They want to see the ruin of something pristine, not…" He gestured vaguely at her sweat-stained blouse. "Used goods."
He wrapped her hair in a plush, white microfiber towel, twisting it into a turban with practiced ease. Then, he tilted the chair back up slightly, just enough so he could access her feet.
He wheeled his stool down to the other end of the chair. The transition was immediate. The salon stylist vanished; the clinical pedicurist appeared.
He picked up a spray bottle filled with a clear, astringent liquid. He spritzed it liberally over her soles, the cold mist making her toes curl instinctively.
"Stay still," he ordered, grabbing her left heel in a firm grip. He picked up a coarse, white towel and began to scrub.
Camila balled her hands into fists and tried to pull her feet away from the maddening sensation, but the restraints held her. Her face contorted like she was fighting, trying not to laugh.
Clement pulled the towel away and looked at her pityingly “ah. I do apologise, Camela. I had not been made aware of just how sensitive you are already. I will try to be more gentle”
He resumed wiping away the grime of the cell floor, taking care to go slower, add slightly less friction. He wiped away the dried sweat. He wiped away the lingering, slick residue of the baby oil from the night before.
Camela seemed to relax a little when Clement changed the pressure. He smiled at her “sorry, Camela, I do try to make the visits here as gentle on the er…” he paused, looking for the correct word “women in the facility”
Camela looked him in the eye and hissed “prisoners.”
Clement smiled bashfully at her “yes, prisoners” he corrected as he cleaned the last of the grime.
Camela gave a sigh of relief when he moved the blackened towel away and bent her ankles, trying to see what her soles looked like after the towel.
"The skin is unbroken," Clement noted, peering closely at her arch through his spectacles. "This is lucky, as there are clear lines of abrasion. This must be dealt with before we can start removing callouses. We do not want to risk damaging the skin more."
Clement pushed his stool over to his station, his hand hovering over various jars and bottles before he found the one he was looking for, picked it up, and pushed himself back to the chair. “Unfortunately time is not on our side. Usually for these kinds of abrasions I would recommend a day of recovery after I apply special treatments. However Mr. Romano has scheduled your debut for tonight and has insisted on you receiving the ‘glass sole’ treatment. So I shall be doing the best that I can”.
Clement unscrewed the jar and scooped out a few fingers of a light pink paste. He brushed half onto one sole and the other half onto the other.
“Please try to relax, Camela. This shouldn’t hurt or tickle I hope” he said as he placed his hands on her right foot and gently started to work the paste into the arches and balls of Camela’s foot.
At the first touch he felt Camela try to pull her foot away with a sharp intake of breath, but then watched as her muscles relaxed and allowed Clement to work.
Clement repeated the same on the other foot “this is a special cream I had Mr. Romano procure. I told him I needed it for situations such as these. At first he disagreed, saying it was not necessary.”
Clement’s thumbs moved from Camila’s arch to the ball of her feet, her toes started to wiggle slightly as if enjoying the attention “However when Jolene was badly injured a few months ago, Romano turned on me. I had to explain that her feet needed time to heal. Time that was not provided, and thus resulted in a bad cut on her sole from Mr. Bellini’s ridiculous nails. I told him that if such a situation were to occur in the future, then I would need the cream I requested.”
Camila nodded slowly
“So yes,” Clement finished, pulling his hands away from Camila’s feet and pushing himself to the sink to wash the cream from his gloved fingers “we will leave the cream like this for ten minutes. That should give it time to work on those abrasions” he said as he turned on the tap and washed gloved hands.
Clement finished washing his hands and pushed himself back to the chair to observe Camela’s soles, inspect that the cream is doing it’s job.
"Why?" Camela asked him, her brows knitted. "Why do you do this, why do you work here? You're a doctor. You're supposed to help people."
Clement froze. He looked up at Camela’s face and saw why she was given the moniker ‘The Reporter’, it felt like she was looking into his soul, searching for the truth. Clement sighed deeply and checked his watch “we… we have time. I guess I may as well tell you” he said in a small voice.
"Help people," he echoed, his voice hollow. He looked down at his feet, a knot of shame burning in his gut. "I used to. I had a practice in the suburbs. Pediatric podiatry. Correcting flat feet, ingrown toenails on teenagers playing soccer. Small things. Good things."
He looked up, but he didn't look at Camila, he couldn’t. He looked at the blank white tiles of the wall.
"But I had… other interests. Expensive interests." He let out a bitter, dry chuckle. "The tables. Not these tables," he gestured to the exam chair, "the green felt ones. Cards. Dice. I thought I was clever. I thought I had a system" he added bitterly.
Clement stood and paced the small clinic a moment, getting his thoughts together before he turned finally, leaning his hip against the counter, crossing his arms over his white coat. He looked small, pathetic. A ruin of a man.
"I didn't have a system. I had a hole in my pocket and an ego the size of this building. So I borrowed. And when the banks stopped giving, I went to the people who don't ask for credit scores. I went to…"
Camila watched him, and something shifted behind her gaze, "Romano," she whispered.
Clement nodded. "I got in deep. Deeper than I could ever dig out. A hundred grand. Then two. When the deadline came, I didn't have it."
He walked closer to her, his eyes distant. "I thought they were going to kill me. They took me for a ride, brought me here. Frank was sitting in that office upstairs, eating a sandwich like it was a picnic. He told me he didn't want my money anymore. He wanted an 'asset'," the word feeling like poison on his tongue.
Clement reached out and adjusted the towel on Camila's head, tucking a loose corner back in.
"He knew my background. He knew I was a doctor. He said, 'My girls get hurt, Doc. They break. And broken toys aren't fun to play with. You fix 'em. You keep 'em pretty.'"
"So you said yes?" Camila asked, her voice dripping with accusation. "You traded our lives for your debt?"
Anger flooded Clement at Camela’s accusation, her tone "I said no!" he snapped, "of course I said no! I told him I wasn't a monster!"
He leaned in close, his face inches from hers. He saw Camela shrink back in the chair, the look of fear back on her face. Clement stood and held up his hands apologetically before he found the thread of his story and continued.
"So,” Clement said, steadying his tone, bringing it back to neutral, “Frank took out his phone. He showed me a video. It was a livestream. Not from here. From a café, the café my daughter works in."
Camila's eyes shot open, her mouth slightly agape.
"Sophie," Clement whispered, the name catching in his throat. "She works as a barista while in college. And in the background, sitting at a table, watching her… was Bellini. Just sitting there. filing his nails."
He pulled back, his shoulders slumping."Frank told me the deal. I work here. I do what I'm told. I make the girls look good, I patch them up when the ‘boys’ get rough, I keep the show moving. And as long as I do a good job… Sophie graduates college, does her doctorate."
He looked at Camila properly then, locking eyes with her. For the first time, Clement saw a look of pity in her eyes.
"But if I slip up… if I try to leave, or go to the cops, or if one of the assets is 'unusable' because I was sloppy…" He swallowed hard. "Then Sophie doesn't make coffee anymore. Sophie comes here. To the Giggle Room."
The confession hung in the air, heavy and suffocating. It didn't absolve him, he knew. He was still the man who teed up these poor women and made their suffering that little bit more unbearable.
"So I optimize," Clement said softly, almost to himself. "I make you perfect. I make your skin soft. I highlight the arches. I make sure every nerve is firing. Because if the clients are happy, if the money keeps rolling in… then Frank is happy. And if Frank is happy, my daughter is safe."
Clement sat back down on the stool and checked the soles of Camela’s feet “ok, good. The cream has done its job” he said, pushing himself over to the sink to fetch a basin of soapy water and a cloth. Then he scooched back over to the chair. He dipped the cloth and then started wiping the cream away from Camela’s soles, cleaning the cloth, and then continuing until all residue had been cleared.
"I'm sorry, Miss Reyes," he said, his voice regaining its professional detachment as he ran a thumb lightly over one of the now very faded lines of abrasion. "Truly. But I will burn this entire world to the ground before I let my little girl sit in that chair."
Clement stood and brought the basin back to the sink and started walking back to Camela. He paused by the automatic release switch for the restraints and looked at her “Camela, next I need to perform a… pedicure for want of a better term. It’s a little more involved. It is a lot easier on both of us if your legs are not restrained.” Clement’s hand hovered over the button as he looked into Camela’s eyes. He saw the flicker of something, maybe fear, but it gave way to a look of understanding and she nodded slowly.
Clement pressed the button and the restraints all loosed on Camela’s limbs. She bent forward and started rubbing her shins and ankles where the straps dug in as she tried to struggle.
“Ok thank you” Clement said, smiling at her “ok, well normally I would start with a foot bath, but the towel has cleaned your feet and the cream has left your soles soft, so the bath is unnecessary.”
He reached for a pumice stone—a rough, grey block that looked like a piece of lunar rock. He dipped it in a bowl of warm water.
"I will be as gentle as I can, but this may tickle," he said as a warning.
He brought the stone to her heel.
Scritch. Scritch. Scritch.
The sound was like sandpaper on wood. He worked the stone in circular motions, grinding away the dead skin, smoothing the rough patch of her heel.
Clement felt Camela’s foot jump and twitch from the sensation. He looked at her face and saw her eyes were clamped shut, trying her best to remain still.
"Calluses dull the sensation," Clement muttered to himself, falling back into his routine that he needs to follow, the routine he must maintain in order to keep Sophie safe. "They act as a shield. We need to remove the shield. We need the nerve endings exposed. Accessible."
He finished with the stone and placed it down on his tray.
Camila gave a little sigh of relief.
He picked up the mortar, and looked at the vibrant green paste one last time. It was a chemical masterpiece, a perfect balance of destruction and enhancement.
"Exfoliant," he announced to the her. "Sea salt, crushed peppermint… and specialized activators."
He scooped a generous amount onto his gloved fingers. The scent of peppermint hit the air—sharp, biting, medicinal, cutting through the sterile lavender.
He reached out and slathered the gritty, cold paste onto her left sole, coating it thickly from heel to toe. He repeated the process on the right. Camila flinched at the temperature shock, her feet twitching in his grip.
He paused for a moment, his hands hovering over her coated feet, green slime dripping from his thumbs. He looked up at her, meeting her panicked gaze over the rims of his glasses.
"I’m sorry, Camila," he said, his voice surprisingly soft. "But I do need to do this. The result must be… flawless. I hope you understand that this is not malice. It is chemistry."
He lowered his head and began to work. He used his thumbs to drive the paste into the arch of her right foot, pressing deep, ensuring the mixture made contact with every square millimeter of skin.
"Nnngh!" A strangled noise escaped Camila's throat. Her toes curled into a tight, desperate ball before she kicked out at him. “No! Get off!”
Clement released her foot and looked into her eyes. “I am sorry, Camela, I must do this. I have no choice”
Then before Camela could react, Clement pressed the button to lock the restraints back in place while Camela’s legs still rested in the stirrups.
Her eyes went wide with fury and she tried to kick them free “NO! NO, YOU SAID!” she grunted with effort “YOU SAID THIS WAS NOT A SESSION!” She strained again “I TRUSTED YOU!”
Clement looked at her apologetically “I must do it… for… for Sophie’s sake” he said in a small voice before bringing his hands to her now immobile foot. He forced himself to think of the process, not the person in the chair. It was the only way he was going to be able to continue.
Clement’s thumbs dug in again and In his mind, Clement visualized the microscopic warfare happening beneath his fingertips. He recounted exactly what the paste was doing. It was a violent, efficient invasion.
First, the salt, he thought, watching his thumbs carve paths through the green sludge. Millions of crystalline shards acting like microscopic chisels. They aren't just cleaning; they are flaying. They are shearing off the dead stratum corneum, the protective shield of hardened keratin that a lifetime of walking has built up. Every rough patch, every callus, every micron of insensitivity is being ground down to dust.
He pressed harder into the ball of her foot, feeling the gritty resistance give way, ignoring the screams and pleas of the woman on the chair.
Then, the peppermint oil. It’s not just for the smell. It’s a vasodilator. It’s screaming at the capillaries to open wide, flooding the dermis with blood, heating the skin from the inside out. It is turning the nerve endings into live wires, stripping their insulation.
He could feel the heat beginning to radiate from her foot, warring with the cold temperature of the paste.
And finally, the transdermal carrier, my secret ingredient, It’s pulling the moisture deep into the fresh, raw layers underneath. It is plumping the cells, softening the collagen until the skin loses all its resilience. It will stop being leather and start being silk.
He moved his thumbs in small, punishing circles right in the sensitive center of her arch.
When I wipe this off, he thought with a grim, clinical certainty, there will be no defenses left. Her soles will be as smooth as glass. As soft as a newborn’s skin. And every nerve ending, usually buried deep and safe, will be right there on the surface, screaming for input, hypersensitive to the slightest touch of air, let alone a fingernail.
Thoughts of what that meant for her later bubbled into his thoughts. He knew what Nails would do with feet this pristine, this responsive. It wouldn't just be ticklish. It would be a neurological overload. A sensory assault that bordered on pain without ever crossing the threshold to cause damage.
I am making her perfect, Clement thought, a wave of nausea rolling in his gut. I am crafting the perfect instrument for her own torture.
He pushed the thought away, burying it under the weight of his debt and his daughter’s safety. He focused on the work.
He moved to her toes, massaging the paste between each digit, separating them, ensuring the gritty mixture scoured the delicate, hidden webbing. This time he couldn’t block out Camela’s protests, his ears were ringing.
"NAAAHA-HA-HAT THE TOES!!!"Camila screamed, the entire chair vibrating with her attempts to pull her feet away."STOP STOP STAAAAHA-HA-HA-HAP!"
"Circulation," Clement muttered aloud, attempting to drown out her pleas with medical jargon. "Blood flow is critical. Heightened sensitivity. That's the goal."
He repeated the process on her right foot—the pumice stone, the grinding, the cold slap of the paste, the vigorous massage. Camila writhed in the chair. Tears were streaming down her face. She screamed and begged for Clement to stop when he worked the paste through the toes of her right foot.
Finally, he picked up a warm, damp sponge and wiped the paste away.
The skin that was revealed was transformed. Gone was the grey, dusty look of the holding cell. Her soles were now a vibrant, healthy pink, the skin appearing impossibly soft and smooth. They looked raw, new. Vulnerable.
Clement leaned back, inspecting his work. He nodded, satisfied. Then, he reached for a small jar of cream.
"Now," he said softly, unscrewing the lid. "The primer. This will be very gentle, Camila. I am again, very very sorry that I had to put you through that just now, but… you know I have no choice." he squeaked out the last four words.
He dipped his fingers into the jar and took a healthy scoop. "Capsaicin and menthol. Just enough to keep the nerves singing." He told her.
He began to apply the lotion. This time, his touch was feather-light. He didn't scrub; he glazed. He stroked his fingers down the length of her arch, over the sensitive wrinkles, around the pads of her toes.
Camila looked ready to start fighting again as his hands approached her foot, buty when he started to gently apply the lotion, Camela sank into the chair as Clement’s masterful fingers gently massaged her feet.
“The lotion will feel hot and cold at the same time,” Clement explained. “Capsaicin wakes up the heat receptors. Menthol does the opposite. Your nerves fire both signals at once.”
"Ideally," Clement said, his voice dropping to a whisper as he polished her skin to a high shine, "you should feel a feather… before it even touches you."
Camila tried to reply with a note of ascent, but instead let out a low moan before she could stop herself.
He sat back, peeling off his gloves with a wet snap. “That is… that is their goal anyway. I am merely their instrument”
Camila lay there, her hair wrapped in a towel, her feet glowing and throbbing with artificial sensitivity.
Clement reached over and hit the release switch on the restraints. “I do hope that in time… in time you will come to see my visits as calming, Camila. I… I do not envy what awaits you, the best I can do is try to ease your suffering as much as I can”
Camila rubbed her wrists, staring at him. A fiery hatred was burning in her eyes.
Camila sat up slowly in the chair, rubbing the red indentations the leather straps had left on her wrists. "You're disgusting," she hissed, her voice trembling but gaining strength. "You think you're saving her? Sophie? You're just feeding the beast that will eventually eat her anyway. A day will come when Romano no longer needs you. On that day you will see the true level of his cruelty."
Clement didn't look up from his tray. He couldn’t. He knew in his heart she was right, but he forced himself not to think about it. He busied himself meticulously arranging his tools—scissors, files, buffers—into a perfect line. "Philosophical debates are a luxury I can't afford, Camela. And neither can you."
He gestured to her feet. "Look at them."
Camila didn't want to, but she couldn't help it. She folded her knees and turned her ankles inwards, pointing her soles at her face and looked down.
They were… perfect. It was a grotesque perfection, but undeniable. The grime, the dead skin, the calluses—all gone. Her soles were a smooth, uniform pink, glowing with health and hydration. The arches seemed more pronounced, the curves elegant. The toes were clean, the cuticles pushed back neatly. They looked soft. Impossibly soft.
"There is no armor left," Clement said quietly. "Every layer of protection you built up walking the streets, every callous from those combat boots… gone. You are exposed. Completely."
He walked over to a small cabinet and pulled out a bottle. It wasn't nail polish. It was a clear, high-gloss top coat.
"The Reporter," he mused, reading the label on the bottle as if checking a prescription. "The narrative is that you're tough. Gritty. So we won't paint them red or pink. That's for the 'dolls'. For you…"
He sat back on his stool and took her left foot in his hand. His touch was clinical again. He uncapped the bottle.
"Clear coat. High shine. To show the natural… vulnerability."
He began to paint. He worked quickly, efficiently. One stroke down the center, one on each side. Perfect coverage.
Camila watched him paint her toes, then she looked into his eyes. "Why tell me?" she asked suddenly. "About your daughter. About the debt."
Clement didn't pause in his painting. "Because you're a journalist. You look for reasons. You want the 'why'. Now you have it." He moved to her right foot. "Consider it an exclusive."
He finished the last toe—the little pinky on her right foot—and capped the bottle. He sat back to admire his work.
Under the harsh fluorescent lights, her feet gleamed. The clear coat caught the light, making her toes look wet, fresh. The lotion made her skin shimmer slightly. They looked incredibly sensitive, like they would react to the slightest breeze.
And they did. Clement leaned forward and blew gently on her right sole.
Camila jerked her leg back, a gasp escaping her lips.
"See?" Clement nodded. "Reactive. The nerves are right at the surface."
Then he grabbed a blue box and pulled two plastic bags from it, the kind you wear over your shoes when going into a clean room, and he put them around Camila's feet and cinched the openings, sealing her feet, ensuring they remained clean for the shoot.
He stood up and peeled off his gloves with a final, wet snap. He walked over to the intercom on the wall and pressed a button.
"She's ready."
A moment later, the blast door hissed open. Knuckles was back. He looked at Camila, then at her shining, pristine feet through the plastic booties, and let out a low whistle.
"shiny," he grunted. "Boss'll like that. Looks like glass."
He grabbed Camila by the arm, hauling her out of the chair. The sudden movement shook her. The towel on her head unraveled slightly.
"Wait," Clement said. He reached out and adjusted the towel again, securing it. "Make sure the towel stays on. We want that 'damp, distressed' look for the camera."
Knuckles rolled his eyes. "Whatever you say, Versace."
He shoved Camila toward the door. She stumbled and winced as her hypersensitive feet slapped against the cold linoleum. The booties offered no cushioning, meaning the floor felt incredibly textured, every microscopic bump magnified.
The door slammed shut, Clement stood alone in the silence. He sprayed the leather, wiped it down. He checked the time on the wall clock.
Elena’s next he thought. Time… time to prepare.
Thirty minutes later. The clinic was reset. Fresh towels. Instruments sterilized.
The door to the clinic hissed open. There was no scuffle, no shouted commands from Knuckles. Just the rhythmic slap-slap of bare feet on linoleum.
Clement turned from the sink, a fresh towel in his hands.
Elena.
She walked in with that characteristic, weary confidence that always made his chest ache with a strange mix of admiration and guilt. She wore the standard-issue grey sweats like armor. Her hair was pulled back, revealing a face etched with exhaustion but devoid of the frantic terror he saw in the others.
"Hey, Doc," she rasped, offering him a small, tight smile.
That smile. The others looked at him like he was a monster, a collaborator, or just another instrument of their pain. But Elena… Elena looked at him like he was a person. She joked. We bantered. When she was in this room she let him pretend he was just a podiatrist in a clinic, and she was just a patient with tired feet. Like the old days.
It was a lie, of course. A fragile, shared delusion. But it was the only thing keeping him sane.
And today, he had to shatter it.
"Elena," he replied, his voice sounding thin and reedy to his own ears. He tried to return the smile, but couldn’t.
"So, what’s up?" She asked, hopping onto the exam chair with practiced ease. She settled back, crossing her ankles. "Knuckles just said 'go see the Doc'. Figured maybe I earned a bonus treatment. Any excuse to get your hands on my feet again, eh doc?"
She grinned at him coyly, extending her legs and wiggling her toes.
"Besides," she said, curling her toes to show off his handiwork. "Look. Still perfect. That 'Candy Apple Red' really holds up, huh? Not a chip."
The bright red polish gleamed under the harsh fluorescents, a cheerful, defiant splash of color in the sterile room. Her feet were immaculate. He had made them that way. He had cared for the skin, shaped the nails, massaged away the cramps. He had touched her with kindness in a place where touch was a weapon.
Clement stared at the red toes. He felt a wave of nausea roll through his gut.
Don't think about it. Just do it. Think of Sophie.
Sophie's face flashed in his mind. Her laugh. Then he thought of her here, thought of her with Bellini standing over her, flashing his talons.
One text. That’s all it takes. 'The Doc grew a conscience. Go get the girl.'
He couldn't let that happen. He would cut off his own hands before he let that happen. And if the price was Elena's trust? If the price was becoming the monster she thought he wasn't?
Then he was a monster.
“Some—something like that,” he stammered, walking over to the side of the chair. His hand hovered over the control panel. He couldn't look her in the eye.
"Doc?" Elena's smile faltered. The easy camaraderie evaporated, replaced by a flicker of confusion. "Everything okay?"
Do it. Now. Before you lose your nerve.
He pressed the button.
WHIR-CLICK.
The heavy, mechanical sound of the locking mechanism engaging felt like a gunshot in the small room. The ankle cuffs snapped down tight. The lap belt engaged with a ratchet sound, pinning her hips.
Elena’s eyes went wide. She tugged at her legs. They hit the restraints with a dull thud. She let out a nervous laugh. "Ok ha-ha, doc, good one. Now unlock my legs again please, we talked about this."
Clement turned his back to her. He couldn't watch the realization dawn on her face. He walked to his tray.
She trusts you. You're the one safe place.
Think of Sophie. You’re doing it for her, to keep her safe.
The two thoughts warred in his head, screeching and tearing at each other. He felt like he was drowning.
He didn't pick up the lotion. He didn't pick up the file.
He picked up a small, plastic basin filled with warm water. Soap bubbles floated on the surface, innocent and domestic.
Then, he reached into a jar on the counter and pulled out the instrument. A cheap, generic toothbrush with stiff, blue nylon bristles.
It looked ridiculous. A laughable, childish thing. But in this context? Used on feet he had spent months sensitizing, stripping of calluses, and priming with creams?
It was torture. Pure and simple.
He turned back to face her. He forced his face into a mask of professional detachment, but he knew his eyes were dead. He felt dead.
"Sensitivity check," he stated, mechanically. "Client request."
Elena stared at the toothbrush. The color drained from her face. The betrayal hit her harder than the fear.
"Doc, no," she whispered, her voice trembling. "Please. Not you. Don't be one of them."
The plea pierced him. It hurt more than if she had screamed, more than if she had cursed him. Not you.
He dipped the toothbrush into the warm, soapy water.
"Please," Elena begged, tears welling up instantly in her dark eyes. "Doc, don't. Not like this, not you. Please."
Clement didn't stop. He walked toward her trapped, red-toed feet, the wet toothbrush dripping soapy tears onto the pristine floor.
He knelt down at the foot of the chair. He looked at the perfect, pink arch of her left foot. The canvas he had prepared.
"I'm sorry, Elena," he whispered, so low she almost didn't hear it. It was the only truth he had left.
Then, he brought the soapy bristles to her skin.
Next Chapter (4) - Gordon
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