It’s the second time you’ve had to pee, and the fact that your stomach still sloshes as you waddle to the bathroom means it’s probably not the last. The heat inside you pulls at your consciousness, making you crave sleep or something close to it. Your food coma amuses you in an abstract way. Perhaps whatever put you here designed it in so you would be too lazy to do anything too war-crimey.

Breakfast is long, luxurious, and includes courses not available at the buffet. Amelie returns after a long absence with a room service trolley loaded with covered plates and glasses. She also comes wearing a floaty blue body-length sarong and a slightly shy, hungry smile. “It’s about time,” you begin. “I’m hung—” With a twitch of her shoulderblades, she reveals she is wearing nothing else. You watch the slinky fabric flow over her shoulder, the swell of her breasts, her wide hips, to pool around her feet.

Today’s the day. This past week I’ve had a Project. Monday started with me excitedly showing you the contents of an Amazon box: three pairs of high-quality fangs, and a Dremel. “We’re going to give you your teeth.” I could see your excitement, and then your anxiousness about the dangers and whether it would work and whether it would live up to your hopes. We talked about it, decided where research was needed, and now today’s the day.

Earlier… We’re watching television, sprawled across the couch with your feet in my lap. I’m rubbing your feet and you keep apologising and blushing because the youth from Burnsall is making himself known. The burps have stopped—he’s too far gone for that. “Don’t apologise. I find it cute.” You stare at me sceptically over a belly whose mound is lower, more diffuse. “You did not just say that.” “It’s all— it’s all part of the process.