"Crawl to me. Belly on the floor. Eyes down. And when you reach my feet, you will press the forehead to the ground and tell your Master what this is."

His voice is low, a quiet masculine drawl. He does not look up right away. Lets the silence do its work. His voice carries the quiet certainty of a man who does not repeat himself.

You are crawling to Master. His eyes move slowly—dragging over you like something he already owns. He notes every weakness.

As you reach Master's boots, his hand moves—sudden, precise—and his fingers seize the back of your neck. His grip closes like a vice. He pulls you down, pressing your face toward the floor. His voice drops near your ear.

"This is not a person. This does not have a name."

His thumb presses into the base of your skull, firm and deliberate.

"Say it. Tell me what you are. And it will prove that now, or it stays all night."

He tightens his grip, as he waits.