March 3, 2026
8:20 p.m.
Tribeca, Manhattan
Preston was on his knees in the walk-in closet, clawing through thousand-dollar suits like a rat looking for a hole that wasn't there.
The lights flickered once.
Every screen in the penthouse (the bedroom TV, the fridge panel, even the fucking mirror in the bathroom) now showed the same feed.
Black background.
White clock ticking down.
38:44
38:43
The distorted voice again, patient, almost bored.
"Preston. Stop embarrassing yourself.
The rules are simple.
Confess, or play.
You still have time for the easy way."
"Fuck you!" he screamed at the ceiling. "Whoever this is, you have no idea who you're dealing with! I own half the judges in this city!"
A soft chuckle came through the speakers.
It sounded like ice cracking.
"Wrong.
They work for the people I'm coming for next.
Now, open the safe behind the Basquiat."
Preston froze.
Nobody knew about that safe.
Not his wife. Not his lawyer.
Not even the interior designer who charged him eight million to hang the painting.
His legs carried him there anyway.
Combination hadn't been touched in two years.
He spun it muscle memory: 14-27-09. Emily's birthday. Sick joke he thought was clever at the time.
The door swung open.
Inside: cash, a burner phone, a flash drive labeled "Insurance," and something new.
A single steel collar.
Matte black. No visible seam.
Tiny red LED blinking slowly.
A small note taped to it.
**Put it on.
Or the building loses power and every door locks forever.
You have three minutes.**
The chat was eating it alive.
**collar of shame lmaoooo**
**he's gonna wear it watch**
**$5k he tries to smash it first**
**bet he cries when it clicks**
Preston grabbed the collar like it was radioactive.
Tried to hurl it across the room.
Didn't even make it two feet.
Some invisible force yanked it back, snapped it around his neck like a seatbelt in a car wreck.
Click.
The LED turned solid green.
The voice returned.
"Good boy.
The collar is wired to your carotid pulse.
Lie, and it tightens.
Try to remove it, and it tightens.
Heart rate over 160 for more than thirty seconds, and it tightens.
Now, let's begin the game."
The walk-in closet lights died.
A single spotlight hit him from above.
On the back wall, words appeared in glowing red.
**ROOM ONE: CONFESSION OR CONSEQUENCE**
Underneath, three objects slid out on a metal tray:
1. A bottle of the same vodka he poured down Emily's throat the night she "overdosed."
2. A stainless-steel funnel.
3. A printed photo of Emily in the hospital bed after they pumped her stomach (eyes open, empty, alive but gone).
The voice was quieter now. Almost intimate.
"Drink it all, Preston.
Same amount you forced her to drink while she begged you to stop.
Finish the bottle in under eight minutes and answer three questions truthfully, and the collar unlocks.
Fail, and we move to Room Two.
You have one minute to decide."
Preston stared at the bottle.
Grey Goose. One liter.
He remembered laughing while she choked.
His hands shook so bad he dropped it twice.
The chat counter hit five million.
**he's actually gonna do it**
**make him strip first**
**donation goal: funnel cam**
**$10k donated — force the funnel**
A robotic arm unfolded from the ceiling, grabbed the funnel, and hovered.
Preston opened the bottle.
The smell hit him like a fist.
He gagged before it even touched his lips.
Thirty seconds left.
He pressed it to his mouth and started swallowing.
The first gulp burned.
The second came back up.
He forced it down again, tears streaming, snot bubbling.
The distorted voice counted for the whole world to hear.
"Seven minutes, forty seconds remaining.
Don't slow down, Preston.
She didn't get to."
Across the river, in a dark room nobody would ever find, the Judge leaned back in his chair and watched the pulse rate on his monitor climb.
148… 152… 157…
He cracked his knuckles once, slow.
The night was still young.
And America was already addicted.