Chapter Text
A dull ache bloomed at the base of his skull before anything else. That was how Majima knew he’d woken up—his first greeting wasn’t light, or air, or even thought. Just pain, sharp and throbbing, as if something had been drilled into him.
He tried to lift his head.
He couldn’t.
A metal clink answered his effort, followed by a pull so deep and raw it made his vision pulse red behind the eyelids. His throat locked in place, muscles twitching in panic as the movement tugged at something buried beneath his skin. Not just a collar. Something worse. Something fused.
Slowly—too slowly—his eyes adjusted to the dark.
Concrete. Cracked and filthy. Bits of hair, dried blood, and flecks of shit scattered across the floor like dust. He was on all fours—no, forced on all fours—held in position by tight, jet-black restraints digging into his shoulders, elbows, thighs, and ankles. The bondage suit was slick and rubbery, molded around him like a second skin, with reinforced rods down his spine locking his posture into submission. He couldn’t straighten up even if he tried. Every limb was held at bent angles, splayed like a puppet mid-prayer.
Naked under it. Fully.
The air was humid with rot and dog breath. Somewhere beyond the cage of shadows, he could hear snarling. Low growls, violent barks, claws scraping against wire. Dozens of them. Caged hounds, feral, angry, restless. He couldn’t see them. But they could probably smell him. Something fresh. Something new.
His breathing hitched.
And then he felt it—that cruel, foreign weight behind his neck. A cold, hooked metal loop jutting out from his nape, the chain connected to it leading somewhere above and behind. He could barely turn his head to see. Couldn’t risk it. Every tug shifted something inside his flesh, not just around it.
This wasn’t a normal leash. This wasn’t a punishment he could bark back at.
A voice came from somewhere nearby. Calm. Measured. Familiar.
“Well, well… Look who’s finally up.”
Sagawa.
That smug, quiet tone—like he’d been watching Majima sleep for hours. Like he enjoyed the sight. Like this was earned.
“You broke my rules, Goro-chan,” he murmured, the echo of his boots tapping faintly as he approached. “So now you’re gonna learn how to live without any.”
Majima tried to snarl, but the tightness of the jaw restraint muffled it into a garbled grunt. All he could do was twitch in place, saliva dripping down his chin as his mouth hung open around the gag.
Sagawa crouched in front of him, eyes low, smiling with no warmth. Just intention.
“Don’t worry. You’ll get used to it. Dogs always do.”
Sagawa stood there for a while, just watching. Not moving. Not speaking. Only observing the tremors that ran through Majima’s restrained limbs, the helpless way his hips twitched and his shoulders tensed from trying not to move too much, not to tear at the raw meat of his neck.
“You’ll get fed soon. But not yet,” Sagawa finally said, rising to full height with a grunt. “First, we gotta teach you when you earn it.”
He turned and walked away, the echo of his footsteps swallowed by the sound of a steel door dragging open. Then, something else—wheels. Metal on concrete. A cart?
Majima couldn’t see what was on it until Sagawa returned and kneeled beside him again. This time, he had something in his hands. A metal bowl. Something brown and sloppy filled it halfway, steam barely rising off the top.
“I call it ‘Chow A,’” Sagawa said with a shit-eating grin. “Soy mash, protein scraps, and whatever dog chow we got lying around. Not bad for a mutt like you.”
Majima’s stomach twisted.
“Now here’s the deal,” Sagawa went on. “You get this once a day. You’ll eat it off the floor, like the rest of the animals. And if you don’t eat fast enough—” he leaned in, voice low and cold, “—I take it away, and you go hungry. Maybe tomorrow I’ll be nice and bring you the leftovers.”
He dropped the bowl to the floor with a clang. Some of it splattered onto Majima’s face.
“And no hands,” Sagawa added with a grin, rising to his feet again. “Oh, right—forgot. You don’t have hands anymore.”
Morning starts with a bucket of cold water thrown directly onto his body. No warning. No compassion. It forces him awake, shivering on the concrete. The cold keeps him docile—Sagawa said so himself. It “clears the mind.”
Then come the commands.
Sometimes spoken. Sometimes barked through a static speaker bolted into the wall above. “Sit.” “Heel.” “Down.” “Crawl.” If Majima hesitates for even a second, a short pulse from the collar-stem shoots straight into his nervous system, making him seize up in agonizing waves. His muscles jolt, lock, then collapse—and Sagawa’s voice always follows, mocking him for being such a “sensitive little mutt.”
He’s forced to urinate in a designated corner—one he had to be dragged to and marked in front of the other caged dogs. If he defecates outside of that square, he gets nothing but a single cracker for the day and a slap to the face with the waste-covered leash.
Sagawa visits daily, sometimes twice. Sometimes more.
He brings a brush. A thick, bristled grooming brush with a wooden handle, which he runs down Majima’s back and thighs in slow strokes. Not gentle—purposeful. As if reminding Majima what he’s becoming. What he already is.
“There,” he’d say. “Clean and quiet. I like that. Keep this up and maybe I’ll let you out into the yard with the others.”
Majima doesn’t even know if that’s a threat or a reward anymore.
Sometimes he wants to go out there. Sometimes he wonders if being torn apart by the others would be better than this.
But the part that breaks him the most isn’t the pain, or the hunger, or the humiliation.
It’s the praise.
When Sagawa kneels down, strokes behind his ear, and says, “Good boy,” in that soft, coaxing tone—like he actually means it—it makes something sick stir in Majima’s chest. Not relief. Not pride. Just confusion. Just… despair.
Because for a second, a single second, he wants to hear it again.
Majima didn’t know what time it was anymore. Morning and night bled together in the dark. There were no windows, no clocks, no sunrise—only the pattern of punishment and reward, obedience and correction. And Sagawa’s voice.
He didn’t speak much today.
Instead, he watched.
The chain rattled as Majima shifted slightly, trying to ease the soreness in his knees and shoulders, but the restraints allowed no freedom. The rubber suit was tighter now—modified. Sagawa had strapped on new buckles that forced Majima’s wrists against his forearms, shaping his front limbs into stumps. His knees were locked into a crouch. He couldn’t even pretend to be human anymore.
“You’re not learning fast enough,” Sagawa muttered from his seat in the corner, smoke curling up from the cigarette between his fingers. “Thought you’d start behaving once the identity started breaking, but you’re still holding on.”
He stood, slow and deliberate. Majima flinched.
“You know what happens to dogs that don’t listen?” Sagawa asked, walking to the cart he’d wheeled in earlier.
From it, he picked up something wrapped in cloth.
He unwrapped it carefully.
It was a muzzle. Thick leather. Black. Fitted with a barbed metal ring across the snout to force his mouth slightly open—but not enough to speak. Not enough to scream.
Majima tried to back away, instinct taking over, but the chain pulled tight, wrenching the pierced loop in the back of his neck. His body seized, spine curving with pain.
“You don’t get to back away from me,”
Sagawa hissed.
He knelt and fastened the muzzle onto Majima’s face, tightening it until the leather dug in. Majima let out a mangled groan—his tongue pressing into the ring, drool already beginning to slide out through the opening.
Sagawa didn’t even blink. He just lit another cigarette.
“You know,” he said, exhaling smoke into Majima’s restrained face, “dogs don’t just live like animals. They think like ’em. They learn their place. They bark when they’re told. They get excited when they see their master.”
His voice dropped.
“You aren’t there yet.. But I’ll make sure you get there.”
Majima was left alone in the dark for hours. His stomach screamed. His jaw ached from the muzzle. His thighs trembled from the strain of holding a single position for too long. The barking from the other cages had stopped—no more noise. Just the low hum of machinery. And then—
The door opened again.
He heard heavy dragging.
Sagawa didn’t speak this time. He just hauled something into the room—thick, foul-smelling. He dropped it beside Majima.
It was another ‘hybrid.’
Male. Muzzled. Bleeding.
One of the dogs from the cages? Majima couldn’t tell. His eye widened behind the restraint.
Sagawa crouched beside them both, one hand on the fresh body’s back.
“This one disobeyed worse than you,” he said softly, almost like a lullaby. “Thought maybe you’d like to see what happens.”
Then he reached into his pocket, pulled out a small control remote.
“Bite training’s next, Goro-chan.”
He pressed a button.
The metal loop in Majima’s neck screamed to life with a deep, electric surge. His body spasmed violently—and somewhere deep inside, the line between man and beast began to fray.
The shocks didn’t stop after the first.
They came in waves.
Each time Sagawa pressed the button, the current jolted through the loop embedded in Majima’s neck and lit every nerve in his spine on fire. His muscles convulsed. His mouth opened in a twisted silent scream, the metal ring of the muzzle forcing it wide, making him drool like an overfed stray.
But this wasn’t just pain.
It was a signal.
Sagawa crouched beside him with the remote in one hand and a raw slab of meat in the other. Not the kind you’d find in a butcher’s window—this was gristled, bloody, barely trimmed. Thrown onto the floor in front of Majima like a treat.
“You’re gonna learn,” Sagawa murmured, “to bite when I tell you to.”
He didn’t clarify what Majima was expected to bite—just that it would start with meat.
“Bite it,” he commanded.
Majima didn’t move.
The shock came instantly.
His whole body twitched, head jerking forward involuntarily. His teeth scraped against the muzzle’s metal ring, but the meat was just out of reach. Drool ran down his chin and pooled under his chest.
“Bite.”
Another shock.
Majima growled—actually growled—deep in his throat as instinct surged up and wrapped itself around the pain. His lip twitched, the sound feral and involuntary.
“Atta boy,” Sagawa said, smiling thinly. “That’s the start.”
Majima bit down.
Through the ring. Through the blood and sinew. Chewed, choked on it, swallowed around the metal gag as the taste filled his mouth. Hot. Raw. Iron-rich.
Sagawa pet the side of his head slowly, like rewarding a mutt that had finally fetched the stick.
“There we go,”
he whispered.
“That’s my good dog.”
By the end of the week, the commands changed.
No more “sit.” No more “crawl.” Now it was:
“Growl.”
“Sniff.”
“Mark it.”
Majima was forced to scent-mark walls like an animal. To recognize certain smells and respond—food, waste, blood, Sagawa.
Sagawa would enter the room wearing different scents rubbed onto rags. Majima had to respond to each one correctly, or suffer another jolt. He wasn’t allowed to look Sagawa in the eye anymore. Every attempt to lift his gaze was met with a boot to the side or a sharp hiss: “Eyes down.”
He wasn’t punished like a man. He was punished like an animal.
Worse still, rewarded like one.
One night, Sagawa came in and placed a mirror in front of Majima’s face. Bolted to a short post, angled down.
“Look,” he said.
Majima did.
A feral, shaking creature stared back. Matted hair. A ringed muzzle. Black suit shining with spit and filth. He didn’t see himself. Not the Mad Dog of Shimano. Not the cocky bastard with the silver tongue and wild grin.
Just… something trained.
Something less.
And behind him, Sagawa’s shadow loomed, calm as ever.
“You’re almost there, Goro-chan,” he whispered like a lullaby. “Soon you won’t remember what it felt like to stand.”
He stroked the back of Majima’s head once. Gentle.
“You won’t want to.”
Time had dissolved into instinct.
Majima didn’t speak anymore—couldn’t. Not through the muzzle, not with the ring forcing his mouth open, not with the leather gag harness locking his jaw in place. His throat was dry, raw from growling when the shocks hit, from snarling through pain. What little he had left of words existed only in his mind now, clinging to them like a wounded beast clutches a corner of shadow.
He hadn’t seen Sagawa in days.
But he heard him.
Footsteps. The door. The steady, deliberate clink of metal dragging across concrete.
Majima raised his head an inch, nostrils flaring.
Something new.
The air changed.
It was thicker now. Tense.
Then he heard it—paws. Four of them. Sharp claws ticking against the cement floor.
Not ‘hybrids.’
Not people.
Dogs.
Two large Dobermans were led in on short, chain leashes by a pair of kennel guards. Their bodies were lean and muscular, black coats shining even in the dim overhead light. They didn’t bark. They didn’t growl. They just stared straight ahead—trained, disciplined, focused. Majima felt the shift in the air like static. He wasn’t the top of anything anymore.
And then Sagawa walked in, calm as ever, a thin smile twitching at his lips.
“Well,” he said casually, “look at you. Still in one piece. More or less.”
Majima didn’t respond. Just breathed, shallow and slow.
Sagawa knelt near him, resting a hand on his restraint-bound back.
“You’ve been resisting. That’s fine. But it’s time we adjust the method.”
He stood again, nodding to the guards.
“Let ‘em go.”
Chains fell to the floor with a clang, and the Dobermans were loose.
Majima didn’t flinch—but his muscles tensed so hard they ached. The two dogs approached, sniffing around his sides. Their noses pressed against his neck, his ribs, under his belly. One let out a low snort as it licked the inside of his knee, tasting sweat and filth.
“Dogs,” Sagawa said, stepping around them, “don’t care if you were a man. Or a yakuza. Or a legend.”
He lit a cigarette, eyes cold.
“They care about pack.”
One of the Dobermans huffed, then mounted Majima’s side in a flash. Not to mate—just asserting. Dominating. It didn’t last more than a second before Sagawa clicked his tongue and the dog backed off with precision.
Majima had stopped breathing.
“You see?” Sagawa said. “They don’t ask questions. They don’t rebel. They don’t disobey. They submit, or they get put down. But more importantly…” he stepped closer, dragging a leather training stick from his coat, “they teach.”
Sagawa crouched again, grabbing Majima’s jaw to make sure he looked at him.
“You’re gonna eat with them. Crawl with them. Sleep in the same space. You’ll learn to listen to the same sounds. The same whistles. The same commands. You won’t be different.”
Majima growled behind the muzzle, weak but defiant.
Sagawa responded by tapping the end of the stick against the loop in Majima’s neck.
“Keep resisting. They’ll fix that.”
They didn’t let him walk in.
Sagawa’s men dragged him.
Two handlers—silent, practiced—tugged at the chain connected to the metal loop embedded in the back of Majima’s neck, the one that had long since fused to his healing, mangled skin. The movement wasn’t rough, but it didn’t have to be. Every inch of pressure pulled something deep and tender, something that made Majima clench his jaw and twitch in resistance.
The heavy steel door groaned as it opened, revealing the space behind it.
The kennel.
It was massive—at least compared to the tiny concrete cell Majima had been rotting in. A wide, rectangular space, floors stained with piss, dried blood, wet paw prints, and more waste than he could count. There were raised cage walls along three sides, and maybe a dozen Dobermans within them, panting or pacing or curled up, eyes flicking open at the scent of something new entering their space.
The fourth side was open. That was where Majima was being dragged.
A large chain-link gate stood between him and the pack.
One of the guards pulled it open with a key. The other tightened the leash.
Sagawa stood nearby, arms folded.
“Here’s the deal,” he said, casually. “You live with them now. No special treatment. No corner for you to sulk in. This is your home.”
Majima grunted, low and full of defiance.
Sagawa just gave a short nod.
“Put him in.”
They did.
The guards yanked the leash forward and shoved Majima into the enclosure. The gate clanged shut behind him, the lock snapping into place.
He landed hard—palms hitting the floor first, knees buckling under the impact. He scrambled to reposition himself, but the restraints kept him locked into that submissive crawl. Hunched. Lower than every other beast in the room.
And they knew it.
The Dobermans were already circling.
No barking. No chaos. Just slow, curious movements—noses twitching, ears perked, tails stiff. They could smell the human on him. The wrongness. The challenge.
Majima stiffened, eyes darting, neck throbbing with the pressure of the chain.
One dog approached first, letting out a low whine before shoving its snout into the side of his face, licking the sweat off his cheek. Another followed, nosing his ribs, growling softly. A third sniffed along the back of his thigh and lifted its lip.
Majima snapped his head toward it.
The pack didn’t like that.
One of them barked—a sharp, staccato warning—and the others closed in tighter, surrounding him, pressing their bodies against his. Teeth flashed. Nothing bit—yet. But it was a message: stay low. Don’t rise.
Sagawa’s voice echoed from behind the fence.
“They’ll correct you if you forget your place.”
Majima tried to snarl, but all that came out was a muffled hiss through the muzzle’s ring. The tension in his body made the restraints bite in deeper. The sweat rolling down his temples wasn’t just from the heat anymore. It was fear. The pure, primal kind. The kind you can’t rationalize away.
This was no longer a punishment cell.
This was a hierarchy.
Sagawa gave a soft whistle.
One of the dogs—the largest—padded over to Majima and mounted his side in a dominant stance, pressing its weight into him, not thrusting but asserting rank.
Majima didn’t move.
Couldn’t.
His mouth leaked saliva through the muzzle ring.
“You’ll stay here overnight,” Sagawa said. “If you’re still intact by morning, we’ll feed you all together.”
He stepped away.
The door shut behind him.
The light overhead clicked off with a metallic snap, plunging the kennel into a dim, murky orange glow cast from a single utility bulb high in the far corner. It buzzed faintly, swaying slightly with the draft that crept in under the door.
Majima had never known a night this long.
He was the only thing in the enclosure not bred to belong.
He could feel it in how they looked at him—twelve sets of eyes, glinting in the low light, watching the weak thing dumped into their space. He wasn’t pack. He was intrusion. An outsider with a man’s scent and a mangled neck.
The first nip came less than an hour in.
A warning bite. Not deep—but firm enough to bruise. Right at the curve of his thigh.
Majima jolted, instinctively shifting to pull away, but the motion brought another one behind him. A second dog lunged and snapped its teeth around his hip, holding—firm, insistent.
They weren’t barking. They weren’t loud. They were asserting.
One moved to his side and nosed under his arm, trying to lift it, trying to shift his posture. Majima growled through the ring of the muzzle, his body vibrating with tension. He was tired. Filthy. Chained to posture he couldn’t control.
And the stink—the stink.
Urine. Blood. Feces. Breath. The shit-coated floor beneath him squelched whenever he shifted. It matted into the joints of his restraints. It soaked his skin. It got under the muzzle strap and into the raw places on his face that never stopped weeping.
Another dog mounted him.
This time, the weight stayed.
Not rutting. Just pressure. The heavy kind that pinned his hips into the floor and curled claws against his sides. Its panting was hot against the back of his neck. He could feel its excitement. The twitch of muscle. The way it shoved into his back as a reminder of its place.
Majima shut his eyes.
He focused on his breathing. On the cold ache in his joints. On the knowledge that if he moved—if he bucked, or fought, or howled—the pack would descend.
He tried to retreat into his own head.
But even there… there was no peace.
It began subtly—something shifting in the corners of his vision.
He thought he saw Sagawa sitting just outside the gate again, legs crossed, hands folded, watching like he always did.
But Sagawa was gone.
That didn’t stop him from speaking.
“You’re making progress,” the hallucination whispered. “They like you.”
Majima’s body trembled.
He could still feel the dog on top of him. Another one had curled up beside his chest, warm and heavy, trapping him from the other side.
“You should be proud. Most mutts piss themselves by now.”
He tried to answer. No sound came. Just spit leaking from the gag.
“I wonder if you remember your own name.”
He blinked.
The kennel was gone.
He was home—Kamurocho, the lights, the streets, a bat in his hand, and someone laughing in the distance. It was him. He was laughing. He was whole. He was—
SNAP.
A flash of pain at his side—teeth again.
Another nip. One of the dogs didn’t like his breathing pattern.
He whimpered.
He held out for as long as he could.
But exhaustion had no mercy.
Sometime deep into the night—his restraints soaked in piss and mucus and blood, his face crusted with drool, his neck raw from every tug—Majima’s body finally shut down.
The pressure of the mounting.
The endless heat of fur pressed against his sides.
The biting.
The hallucinations.
The shame.
It all blurred into static, then blackness.
He passed out, face-first into the shit-slick floor, one dog’s paw draped over his back like a claiming gesture.
Breathing shallow.
Completely still.
A broken mutt among purebreds.
Majima had managed to slip into the numbness of unconsciousness.
He didn’t dream—just drifted in the void, his body curled beneath the oppressive heat of canine weight. Somewhere behind him, a Doberman still hovered, legs planted, asserting weight over his hips in the way dominant dogs do to weaker strays.
The rest of the pack had returned to rest, save for a few still sniffing, circling, watching him in cautious curiosity.
But then one of them stopped.
Nose twitching.
Eyes narrowing.
Majima’s suit—stained and ruined—had been pulled tight across his body for days, but the seams at the back had split during the earlier skirmishes, exposing strips of bare skin beneath. One of those strips, slick with sweat and grime, had revealed just enough ink to catch the low light.
A piece of the hannya mask.
Even bloodied and partially obscured, its sharp, demonic grin glared out like a challenge.
To a human, it was art.
To a pack animal, it was something else.
An invader.
The Doberman’s ears went up. It stared.
Growled.
Another dog turned toward the sound. Then a third. Then a fourth.
And the growling spread.
Low and guttural—deep vibrations that passed between them like language. They formed a loose circle around Majima’s collapsed body, his back heaving with each labored breath.
Then one lunged.
The first bite landed just below his shoulder blade.
A quick snap—teeth digging into skin already raw and filthy. The sudden pressure jolted Majima back to consciousness with a strangled grunt, his limbs twitching in confusion.
He couldn’t even cry out properly—just gasps and muffled gurgles behind the muzzle.
Before he could move again, another bite sank into the middle of his spine. A snarl ripped through the air, and a second Doberman dragged its claws across his lower back, tearing through the remaining fabric and into the tattoo.
They weren’t just attacking.
They were tearing it apart.
The hannya’s face, once full and detailed, began to disappear in shredded chunks—ink-stained flesh being peeled back, clawed open, mauled. The demonic eyes were slashed. The mouth was obliterated under a fresh bite. Muscle was exposed beneath, blood rising in thick, wet pools that matted with the filth on the floor.
Majima thrashed.
But he couldn’t run.
Couldn’t rise.
Every movement made the chain at the back of his neck pull tighter—he choked, his back arching involuntarily, offering more flesh.
More bites came.
Claws raked over him. One paw shoved into the side of his head to keep him down while another dog focused on his exposed ribs. His breath came in ragged, wet gasps. Every nerve screamed.
But worst of all was the sound.
Not just the snarling—but the low, satisfied growls. The kind dogs make when they’re correcting something wrong in the pack. Something that doesn’t belong.
By the time the aggression faded, Majima’s back was unrecognizable.
The tattoo was gone—reduced to mangled skin, swollen and torn, black and red bleeding into one another. Nothing about it looked human anymore. Just meat. Just submission.
The Dobermans pulled back, panting. Their work done.
Majima lay completely limp, twitching now and then from nerve shocks. His eyes fluttered, unfocused.
He wasn’t awake.
But he wasn’t unconscious, either.
He was gone somewhere in between.
The harsh clank of the main gate jolted the dogs into motion.
Morning light didn’t reach this place, but routine still reigned. The scent of raw meat and processed kibble wafted in long before the handlers appeared, the air thick with the wet, metallic tang of blood mixed with something dry and stale.
The pack stirred, rising from their resting places with tails twitching and tongues lolling.
Majima didn’t move.
He couldn’t.
His back was flayed open. Torn strips of skin clung to the edges of his spine, the exposed flesh still leaking a slow ooze of blood and plasma. The remnants of his suit clung to him in wet patches, fused to his body with dried fluids, shit, and the dull paste of bruises. The hannya tattoo—his mark, his legacy—was gone. Devoured. Erased.
Just like the rest of him.
The sound of the latch turning echoed through the space, and the Dobermans stood in place, ears perked in trained anticipation. Their discipline was chilling.
Then the handlers entered with two large steel bowls, brimming with a slop of meat chunks, gristle, and old kibble already soaked in water. Another tray dragged in behind them held a smaller bowl.
Majima’s.
Sagawa followed, dressed neatly, as always—unbothered by the filth, the heat, or the overwhelming stench.
He didn’t address the damage at first.
He didn’t have to.
His eyes flicked to Majima’s back, and a small curl pulled at the corner of his mouth. He crouched near the gate as one of the guards unlatched it.
“Well,” he said. “Looks like they didn’t like your ink.”
Majima breathed in shallow pulses. His body shivered, his limbs cramped from laying in the same broken position all night. One of his eyes was swollen nearly shut. Blood had dried at the corner of his mouth.
Sagawa signaled.
The small bowl was placed on the floor near him. The stench wafting up was unbearable—rancid meat, barely warmed, the kind you’d get from a dumpster behind a slaughterhouse.
“Eat.”
Majima didn’t move.
He was trembling now, his stomach twisted in nausea, pain radiating through every nerve in his back like fire. Just lifting his neck would send new jolts through the pierced loop.
Sagawa waited three seconds.
Then sighed.
He gave a short whistle.
The largest Doberman padded over and stood beside Majima, staring down at the untouched bowl. Its head lowered. A growl rumbled in its throat.
Another second passed.
The dog snapped.
It didn’t bite him—but it slammed its snout against the side of Majima’s head, hard enough to rattle his skull. The impact drove his face toward the bowl, his lips brushing the rim of the metal.
He moaned through the muzzle, pain overtaking everything.
“Eat,” Sagawa repeated, this time calm, like he was teaching a command.
“Or I let them decide what to do with a useless mutt.”
Majima’s body moved without thinking.
Not from obedience.
From survival.
He forced himself to lean forward, chest pressing into the cold, filthy floor, his muzzle dipping into the bowl. His tongue slid through the ring, scooping what it could. Meat. Slime. Gristle. He gagged on the first mouthful, coughing into the slop—but didn’t stop.
The Dobermans gathered around, eating from their bowls with heavy, satisfied snorts.
Majima ate among them.
Bleeding. Broken. Hunched in a puddle of his own filth.
Every bite was a war.
Majima’s tongue moved in slow, aching strokes through the ring of his muzzle, barely able to scoop up the slop. His body burned with each motion, torn muscles in his back spasming beneath the weight of dried blood and pulped skin. The position he was forced to eat in—chest to the floor, ass raised, knees locked—made breathing difficult and dignity impossible.
But the others didn’t wait.
One of the Dobermans finished its own bowl within seconds and turned toward him.
Majima didn’t notice until it shoved him sideways, a rough shoulder slam that knocked him off balance and sent his face smacking into the floor with a wet splack.
By the time he looked back up, the dog was already muzzle-deep in his bowl, lapping up what was left in heavy, gluttonous slurps. A second dog trotted over and joined in.
He tried to growl.
A pathetic sound, caught and swallowed by the leather and steel wrapped around his head.
They ignored it.
He didn’t exist in their order.
He wasn’t a rival.
He wasn’t even a threat.
He was just a slow feeder—lesser.
Majima twitched where he lay, heart pounding in raw frustration, but his body refused to respond. His back pulsed with a searing, deep ache. His arms felt like jelly. Every motion scraped his chest against the concrete, leaving fresh red streaks behind.
When the dogs finished his food, they simply left.
He was still starving.
The handlers came back and refilled the large communal water trough near the far side of the kennel. It was more a dented basin than a bowl—battered metal with deep scratches and rust along the edges.
He could see it.
But his body didn’t want to move.
Still, thirst clawed at his throat like a parasite. His tongue was thick, dry, cracked from dehydration and heat. His mouth still tasted of rot and bile from the forced feeding.
He needed to drink.
Slowly, Majima began crawling toward it, dragging himself forward on trembling limbs. The chain connected to the loop in his neck clinked behind him, dragging through the muck. Every lurch forward made the steel shift and pull—grinding against the embedded wound until his breath caught and his eyes blurred.
The dogs drank first, of course.
He had to wait—watching them lap up the water, spitting chunks of old food back into it as they went, shaking drool into the basin between gulps. The surface became a greasy film of saliva and meat particles.
When they finally wandered off, he dragged himself closer.
Lowered his head.
And drank.
The first touch of the water against his tongue made his stomach twist in revolt. It was warm. Foul. Contaminated with everything he’d once turned his nose up at.
But he drank anyway.
He had no choice.
His tongue moved clumsily through the ring, slurping up the filth that passed for hydration. His lips never touched the edge of the basin—he wasn’t allowed that dignity. Just his tongue, like every other beast that drank before him.
The sound was wet, pitiful.
Sick.
He couldn’t look at his reflection. Not because he didn’t want to—but because there was nothing left of him to see in it.
Only the filth-stained, bleeding thing with matted hair and trembling shoulders, lapping water like a mutt at the bottom of the chain.
Time moved differently now.
Majima didn’t count days anymore. He measured life in cycles of light and dark. Feeding time. Cleaning time. Shock time. Praise time.
Pain came and went in waves—dull now, manageable. His back, torn apart by the pack weeks ago, had been treated only enough to prevent infection. The skin grew back in thick, uneven patches—slick, dark, and numb to touch. The hannya was gone completely, lost beneath layers of warped flesh.
And his hair…
Gone too.
Shaved down to a harsh buzz, the black strands stripped away while he was restrained and gagged. He remembered that part in flashes—the low whirr of the clippers, Sagawa’s hand resting on his scalp, the whisper of steel against skin. It had been the last piece of him.
Now, with the buzz cut and the rubber suit clinging to his frame like a pelt, he looked closer to the pack.
But that hadn’t been the end of the procedure.
There had been something new waiting on the surgical table in the other room.
Something real.
A Doberman’s tail.
Severed. Preserved. Black and stiff and freshly stitched at the base.
They grafted it onto him.
Right at the end of his human tailbone, beneath the suit. The surgery had been crude, without anesthetic—just enough sedative to keep him weak, semi-conscious, and compliant. The pain had been unbearable for days. Still was, some mornings. The tail twitched sometimes on its own—nerve-wired to connect with his spine, to respond.
Not like a decoration.
Like a part of him.
He hadn’t seen it. But he felt it. Every movement. Every rub against the rubber of the suit. Every time Sagawa’s eyes lingered on it.
That had been the final insult.
The last confirmation.
He was no longer a man in a dog’s place.
He was being turned into one.
Piece by piece.
He was brought to the play room.
It wasn’t a name he gave it.
It was Sagawa’s word.
A larger enclosure, cleaner than the kennel but still barren—concrete floors, drain in the center, metal grate vents, a few hanging chains and bite ropes meant for dogs to clamp onto mid-training. The room echoed, every movement amplified by cold tile and steel.
Majima was dropped in like cargo, his limbs already adjusted to the four-limbed posture, the posture that didn’t hurt.
He didn’t think about walking upright anymore.
Not unless he had to.
The door slammed shut behind him.
And then Sagawa entered.
His shoes clicked on the floor. He was dressed immaculately as always—tie pinned, coat clean. The only thing different today was the smile. Broader than usual.
Majima didn’t lift his head.
Not yet.
Not until—
Click.
A finger snap.
Majima’s body moved automatically, snapping to attention, spine arching as he raised his head. Not too high. Never too high. He looked up through the lashes of his one good eye.
Sagawa crouched in front of him.
“Told you you’d come around,” he said, voice low and satisfied.
He reached forward and grabbed Majima by the jaw, lifting his face gently. Turning it side to side.
“You wear it better than I thought,” he said, brushing a finger along Majima’s now-exposed scalp. “Bet you never thought you’d look this good with a buzz.”
Majima’s breath stayed slow, measured.
Obedient.
But inside?
His instincts were screaming.
Not to run. Not to fight.
But to react. To follow. To do whatever he needed to stay just barely above the line where punishment lived.
That line was razor-thin now.
Sagawa stood and stepped around him.
“Let’s see what you remember. Crawl.”
Majima moved.
Arms bent. Knees low. Head down. He crawled in slow, quiet strides across the room, his body responding not to thought, but to muscle memory—trained movement. Conditioned behavior.
“Faster.”
He picked up the pace.
“Stop.”
He froze mid-step.
Sagawa’s footsteps circled around him. Then came the hand again—this time not gentle. It slapped the side of Majima’s ass, hard enough to make the rubber suit squeak and his whole body jolt.
“Hah,” Sagawa grinned. “Look at that. You do have a tailbone.”
Majima didn’t react.
Didn’t flinch.
But his cheeks burned.
Sagawa stepped closer.
“Y’know,” he said, voice lower now, almost thoughtful, “you crawl so well I’m starting to wonder if you were meant for this. Maybe I just… peeled off the surface.”
He crouched beside him again, dragging his fingers slowly across Majima’s lower back—right where the scarring began.
“No ink anymore. Just skin. My skin.”
Majima’s breathing hitched.
He didn’t know whether it was fear, shame… or survival.
But he held still.
He didn’t pull away.
Sagawa chuckled under his breath and stood again.
“Playtime’s just getting started, Goro-chan.”
Majima flinched as Sagawa's fingers traced the scars on his back, a shudder running through him at the contact. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block out the sensation, the cruelty in Sagawa's voice as he spoke. But he knew better than to pull away, knew that even the smallest sign of defiance would only invite more pain.
Sagawa's chuckle turned into a low, hungry growl as he admired the trembling form of Majima before him. He circled the crouching man slowly, like a predator toying with its prey. With each step, Sagawa's fingers trailed along the rubber of Majima's suit, feeling the flex of muscle beneath.
"You're so obedient now, Goro," Sagawa purred, his voice dripping with dark satisfaction. "So responsive. I think it's time we see just how far this training has taken us."
He knelt behind Majima, one hand gripping the back of the man's neck possessively as the other slid around to the front of his suit.
Sagawa's fingers found the zipper, and with a slow, deliberate motion, he began to tug it down, exposing more of Majima's bare skin to the cool air of the room. The sound of the zipper seemed to echo obscenely in the otherwise silent space.
"Remember what I told you about zippers, Goro?" Sagawa's breath was hot against Majima's ear as he spoke. "They're a privilege. A sign of good behavior." As he spoke, Sagawa's free hand traced the newly exposed skin, his touch alternating between gentle caresses and sharp, sudden pinches that made Majima flinch.
The zipper reached its lowest point, stopping just short of exposing everything. Sagawa's hand slipped inside the partially opened suit, fingers splaying possessively across Majima's lower abdomen.
Sagawa's grip on Majima's neck tightened as he thrust against his ass, still fully clothed. "That's it, Goro. Good boy. Now I want to hear you. Show me how much you want it."
Sagawa's free hand fumbled with his belt, then the zipper of his slacks. He pulled out his erect cock, the head already glistening with precum. "You know what to do, don't you? You've learned so well. Show me how you can please your master."
He guided his cock to the entrance of Majima's ass, teasing it with the tip. "Beg for it, Goro. Whimper. Make those adorable little dog noises for me."
Majima's body tensed at the feeling of Sagawa's erection pressing against him, the threat in the man's words clear. A whimper threatened to escape, but he held it back, not wanting to give Sagawa the satisfaction. But as Sagawa's cock slid between his ass cheeks, the head catching on his entrance, a shudder ran through him, and a small, involuntary yip escaped his throat. The sound seemed to embolden Sagawa, who began to thrust more insistently against Majima, his cockhead prodding and teasing the tight ring of muscle.
"Yeah, just like that," Sagawa purred, his voice dripping with sadistic glee.
"Make those noises for me, Goro. Show me how much you need it." He reached around, gripping Majima's throat, squeezing just enough to make breathing difficult. "Or do I need to remind you what happens when you don't obey?"
Majima's whimpers grew louder as Sagawa's grip on his throat tightened, his body tensing as he struggled to draw in a breath. He tried to remain still, to not give Sagawa the satisfaction of his fear, but his body betrayed him, twitching and jerking involuntarily as Sagawa continued his cruel teasing.
Sagawa's eyes lit up with sadistic glee as he watched Majima's involuntary reactions, the man's body tensing and twitching beneath his grip. "That's it, Goro. Good boy. Show me how much you want it." He increased the pressure on Majima's throat, cutting off his air supply just enough to make breathing difficult.
"Bark for me. Beg like the little dog you are."
Majima's face contorted in a grimace, his breathing becoming ragged as he tried to comply with Sagawa's twisted demands. A small, strangled bark escaped his lips, followed by a series of desperate whimpers.
His body began to shake uncontrollably, as if he were a dog shivering with excitement. Majima's hips started to rock back and forth, grinding his ass against Sagawa's erection like a bitch in heat. The motion became more frenzied as Sagawa's grip on his throat tightened, his air supply cut off entirely for a few seconds before Sagawa loosened his hold, allowing him to gasp for breath.
"Yes, yes," Sagawa purred, his voice dripping with cruel amusement. "Such an eager little dog. You can't get enough, can you? Wag your tail for me, Goro. Show me how desperate you are for your master's cock."
Sagawa's eyes widened with lustful madness as he watched the Doberman tail attached to Majima's backside twitch and wag excitedly, a grotesque reminder of the man's complete and utter subjugation. He couldn't contain his sadistic glee any longer. With a feral growl, Sagawa thrust his hips forward, burying his entire length inside Majima's ass in one brutal, unforgiving motion. The sudden intrusion sent shockwaves of pain through Majima's body, causing him to let out a pained yelp that was muffled by Sagawa's hand still gripping his throat.
Sagawa reveled in the exquisite feel of Majima's tight heat engulfing him, the man's body struggling to accommodate his invading cock. "Fuck, yes," he groaned, his hips starting to piston in a brutal, punishing rhythm. "Take it, Goro. Take every fucking inch of your master's cock."
Majima could only whimper and writhe beneath Sagawa, his body no longer his own to control. The pain was immense, bordering on unbearable, but he knew better than to try to resist. Sagawa would only punish him more severely if he dared to disobey.
To Majimas dismay, a small entrance opened and let a Doberman through, closing right after.
The Doberman immediately went towards them, specifically targeting Majima of course.
Sagawa's grip on Majima's throat loosened slightly as he noticed the Doberman approaching. "Well, well, well. Look who's come to play." He chuckled darkly, his hips never stopping their brutal thrusting.
"It seems you've got company, Goro. But don't you dare stop. Keep those ass muscles tight for me."
The Doberman had striking blue eyes, it circled the pair, its nose twitching as it caught their combined scent. It barked once, a sound that was equal parts curious and territorial. Sagawa's eyes gleamed with sadistic delight as he watched the scene unfold.
"Oh, this is perfect."
The Doberman, having been trained extensively by Sagawa, knew its place in the hierarchy. It circled once more before positioning itself in front of Majima's face, its muscular body tensing as it prepared to mount.
Without warning, the Doberman thrust its hips forward, forcing its long, thick dog cock into Majima's mouth. The sudden intrusion caused him to gag and choke, but Sagawa's grip on his throat prevented him from pulling away. "That's it, good dog," Sagawa growled, his hips still moving relentlessly inside Majima's ass. "Show our little bitch who's boss."
The Doberman began to thrust into Majima's mouth, its hips moving in a brutal, unforgiving rhythm that mirrored Sagawa's own movements. Majima's eyes watered as he struggled to breathe around the invading cock, his own body still shaking and twitching from the pain and humiliation of Sagawa's assault.
The Doberman's cock was thick and veiny, stretching Majima's mouth to its limits as it plunged deeper and deeper into his throat.
Saliva dripped down Majima's chin as he gagged and choked around the Doberman's thrusting member, his face contorting with discomfort.
The Doberman's thrusts became more frenzied as it chased its own pleasure, its muscular body tensing and quivering as it neared its climax. Sagawa's grip on Majima's throat tightened, cutting off his air supply entirely as he fucked him with renewed vigor, driven on by the sight of the dog using Majima's mouth.
"Fuck, yes," Sagawa groaned, his voice strained with impending orgasm. "Gonna fill both your holes, Goro. Gonna mark you inside and out as my property."
With a final, brutal thrust, Sagawa buried himself to the hilt inside Majima's ass, his cock pulsing as he erupted deep within the man's bowels.
The Doberman, sensing Sagawa's climax, redoubled its efforts, fucking Majima's face with reckless abandon. Its thrusts became more erratic, its muscular body tensing as it chased its own release. With a final, guttural bark, the dog buried itself balls-deep in Majima's throat, its cock throbbing and pulsing as it pumped its hot, sticky seed directly into Majima's stomach. Majima gagged and sputtered, unable to breathe as the Doberman filled his mouth and throat with its thick, pungent cum. Tears streamed down his face as he struggled to swallow, choking and gagging on the overwhelming volume.
As the Doberman finished its orgasm, it pulled back, its semi-erect cock slipping from Majima's abused mouth with a wet pop. Thick globs of cum dribbled down Majima's chin and onto his chest, mingling with the sweat and other fluids that already coated his body. The Doberman licked its chops, a satisfied gleam in its blue eyes, before turning and trotting away, leaving Majima sprawled on the floor, used and defiled.
Sagawa, still buried deep inside Majima's ass, took a moment to savor the exquisite feel of the man's body, now so perfectly molded to his own.
Sagawa slowly pulled out of Majima, a satisfied groan escaping his lips as he felt the tight heat release its grip on his cock. He took out a wet wipe from his pocket, cleaning himself thoroughly before tucking his semi-erect member back into his pants. His eyes, dark with lust and cruelty, lingered on the broken man beneath him for a moment.
"Good boy, Goro," he said, patting Majima's cheek condescendingly before turning to leave.
The small entrance in the wall opened again, this time allowing the other eleven Dobermans to burst inside.
They immediately surrounded Majima's prone form. They circled him, sniffing and growling, their cocks already stiffening with anticipation.
Majima, too exhausted and traumatized to move, could only whimper as the pack of dogs descended upon him.
The first Doberman mounted him, its claws digging into his back as it positioned itself. Without preamble, it plunged its long, thick cock into Majima's abused asshole, drawing a scream of pain from his lips. The Doberman set a brutal pace, its hips slamming against Majima's ass with punishing force.
The other Dobermans, envious of their packmate's privilege, began to mount Majima as well, vying for position. Soon, Majima found himself pinned beneath a writhing mass of canine bodies, each dog taking its turn to rut into him. His holes, already ravaged by Sagawa and the first Doberman, stretched obscenely to accommodate the invading cocks.
The pain was blinding, but Majima was too far gone to truly feel it anymore. Tears and drool mixed with the copious amounts of cum and other fluids leaking from his orifices, creating a sticky, foul-smelling mess on the floor beneath him.