March 3, 2026
8:29 p.m.
Tribeca penthouse, 48th floor
Preston was on all fours now, vodka pooling under his palms, mixing with bile and blood from where he'd bitten his tongue trying not to puke.
Six minutes, eleven seconds left on the bottle.
The funnel hung in the air like a snake, waiting.
He couldn't do it. Not straight. Not anymore.
He lunged for the funnel, jammed it between his teeth himself, and nodded frantically at the robotic arm.
The chat detonated.
**HE CHOSE THE FUNNEL LET'S GOOOO**
**$25k donated — make it fast**
**force feed this rapist piece of shit**
The arm tilted.
Ice-cold vodka poured straight down his throat in a thick, merciless stream.
Preston's eyes bulged.
His stomach spasmed.
He tried to pull away at the halfway mark and the collar gave its first warning squeeze—just enough to remind him it could crush his windpipe like a beer can.
He stopped fighting.
Thirty seconds later the bottle was empty.
He collapsed sideways, coughing vodka out his nose, face purple.
The distorted voice didn't rush. Never did.
"Time: five minutes, fifty-one seconds.
Well done. Faster than she managed.
Now the questions.
Answer truthfully or the collar tightens until you pass out. Then we wake you up and start again.
Question one.
What really happened to Emily Rojas on September 14th, 2018, in the Four Seasons suite 3408?"
Preston wiped his mouth with a trembling hand.
"It… it was consensual. She wanted it. She was into rich guys, everyone knew—"
The collar clamped.
Not slow. Instant. Like a python that had been pretending to sleep.
Preston's scream cut off into a wheeze.
Veins popped in his neck.
His fingers clawed at the metal, nails splitting.
Fifteen seconds later it loosened.
He sucked air like a drowning man.
The voice was ice.
"Try again."
Preston sobbed. Real, ugly sobs that echoed in the marble tomb of his closet.
"I… I drugged her. Roofied the drink. She said no four times. I didn't listen. My friends held her down. We took turns. When she wouldn't stop crying I poured more vodka down her throat until she went quiet. Then we called the family lawyer and paid the hospital to list it as an overdose."
The chat was silent for one full second—an eternity online.
Then it exploded into pure rage.
**KILL HIM SLOW**
**bring back the funnel**
**$100k donated — break every bone he used on her**
The collar stayed loose. The LED blinked green.
The voice sounded almost… satisfied.
"Good. Truth tastes like vomit, doesn't it?
Question two.
Name every man in that room that night. All four of them."
Preston tried to lie again. The collar sensed the spike before the words left his mouth.
This time it didn't stop at a warning.
It tightened until his eyes rolled white.
The robotic arm slapped him awake.
He pissed himself.
Names spilled out between gasps.
"Senator Hargrove's son, Chase.
NYPD Deputy Commissioner McAllister's nephew, Dylan.
The hedge-fund twins—Landon and Logan Pierce.
And me. Just me after that."
Another pause from the voice.
"Very good.
Final question.
Where is the original video the hotel tried to delete?"
Preston laughed then—wet, broken, insane.
"You'll never find it. It's triple-encrypted on a drive in—"
The collar cut him off again.
Loosened.
He realized his mistake.
"It's… it's in the safe. Behind the painting. Flash drive labeled 'Insurance.' That's the only copy left."
The LED turned solid green.
The voice was quieter than ever.
"Thank you, Preston.
The world thanks you.
You chose confession.
I promised quick."
The collar unlocked with a soft click and fell to the floor.
Preston sagged in relief, crying, actually thanking the invisible monster who'd broken him in nine minutes.
Then the ceiling opened.
A single steel cable dropped, looped, and snapped tight around his neck before he could even scream.
His feet left the ground.
The camera zoomed in on his face—purple, bulging, regret finally catching up.
The distorted voice spoke one last time, almost tender.
"Emily waited eight years for this apology.
You waited nine minutes.
Good night."
The chat counter froze at 11,847,291 viewers.
The stream cut to black.
Across America, millions of people stared at their screens, breathing hard, some crying, some cheering, some already refreshing for the next notice.
In a dark room somewhere under the city, the Judge closed the laptop.
He pulled off the voice changer, set it neatly on the desk next to a stack of fresh black envelopes.
Then he opened a worn leather notebook and crossed out the first name on the list.
Only 499 left to go.
He allowed himself the smallest, coldest smile.
"See you tomorrow, America."