THE FINAL CANCELLATION

"Already there is no going back."

The Instructor wrote it on a black screen. Red letters.

A simple phrase. A seal. It was not a warning. It was a statement.

Because the body no longer resisted.

No longer questioned. No longer feared. No longer asked.

It just did. Just served. Just sweated.

It had reached the point where pain no longer hurt, but soothed.

Where each correction no longer hurt, but confirmed that it was still visible, still valuable to the domain.

No longer needed to be told what it was.

Already knew. And accepted it with joy.

CUSTOMS OF NOTHING

The Instructor had replaced personality with reflexes.

No longer used complex phrases.

Only automatic responses:

- "Yes, Instructor." - "Sorry for thinking." - "Can I be used?" - "I have no right."

Each phrase was a defeat turned into a mantra.

Each statement, a confession of inferiority that responded with brutal training.

When the mirror returned a skinny, dirty, weak image, it only knew how to respond in one way:

A hundred flexions. Without rest. Without thinking.

When doubt, arrogance, the desire to want more arose in its mind, it responded:

"You are nothing. You don't deserve a name. You deserve sweat and silence."

When it felt the temptation to sleep, to stop, it murmured: "What right do you have to rest if you still don't serve?"

Sometimes, in front of the mirror, it talked to itself:

- "You are a muscle whore. Nothing more."

And it said it with a smile. Not out of irony, but because it brought calm.

Its history had disappeared.

Only the body remained. Only routine. Only response.

BODY-SCREEN

Its body was no longer flesh. It was raw, brutal, non-stop exposure.

It was continuous content, skinned, sharpened for others.

Each muscle was published as a trophy.

Each flexion, recorded as penance.

Each nipple bite, repeated in stories, amplified, turned into ritual.

It didn't train to improve itself.

It trained to redeem itself.

To punish each second where it believed it was worth something by itself.

The Instructor had transformed it into a spectacle.

It was no longer a person. It was a sign. It was a stimulus. It was useful flesh.

It didn't exist in intimacy.

It only existed if it was looked at. Desired. Dominated.

And if it didn't receive a response, likes, reactions... ...it punished itself. Because it understood that it had failed.

It wasn't vanity.

It was training.

It was self-contempt turned into doctrine.

When it felt weak, it recorded an extra routine.

When it felt ugly, it showed its chest.

When it felt that it wasn't enough, it opened up more.