Cop-Slave Firelips

Go ahead, read the file. It's all there—the measurements, the "compliance" percentages, the apathetic notes from inspectors who probably forgot my real name the second they closed the collar. They call me Firelips because they think they've branded me, that the dark paint on my lips is a sign of my submission. They like the irony of dressing a rebel in leather and boots and telling her she's a "model of obedience."

The BFA loves their paperwork. They love knowing exactly how much I weigh and how fast I kneel. But the file doesn't record the things that actually matter—like how I remember every single person who laughed while I was being processed, or the way I can still feel the ghost of Elena Varga screaming under the surface of this "copslave" costume.

I play the part. I sway my hips, I keep the gloves tight, and I handle the tranquilizer gun with the precision they demanded. I've learned that the best way to survive this cold, white factory of a city is to be the perfect tool—until the moment the tool decides to cut the hand that holds it. Until then, I'm just another asset in their archive.