This was the final chapter of the list you’d written.

The notebook, which had once felt like a dangerous secret hidden beneath the silk linings of your drawer, had become a blueprint for your complete surrender. On the very last page, your handwriting had degenerated into a series of frantic, breathless scrawls, the ink cutting deep into the paper where your hand had trembled. You had detailed every dark, hidden craving for absolute objectification—the desire to be stripped of your voice, your movement, and your agency, reduced to nothing but a warm, beautifully bound, helpless toy designed solely for his physical release.