Unbetitelt

The zipper was already drawn shut, teeth meshing in a smooth black line down his back. Layers of latex pressed in close, sealing every inch of him in a glossy second skin. What little movement he had came with a faint squeak of rubber against rubber, the sound amplified by the silence of the room.

His face was gone, swallowed behind the dark, expressionless visor of an S10 mask. Twin round filters and blank lenses gave no clue to thought or hesitation. Breaths rasped through the mask in metered rhythm, each inhale heavy, each exhale dampened by the valves. It was a sound without humanity, more mechanical than personal, as if the suit itself breathed on his behalf.

At his throat, the collar closed with an audible snap. Cold, black metal, weighted and deliberate. It pressed down at the base of the hood, locking the mask and suit into a single system. There would be no reaching under the seal, no loosening of straps, no hopeful tug at the zipper. The band wasn’t decoration; it was command made solid.

His master turned his head, gloved hand firm against the side of the hood. The rigid collar allowed only a measured degree of movement before stopping him dead. “That,” the master said, voice low and satisfied, “will ensure that you only unsuit with my permission.”

The words carried an inescapable truth. He was trapped in the suit, the mask, the collar — every layer reinforcing the others. The air he breathed was dictated by the mask. The heat building under the latex was unavoidable. The collar was the lock.

He tried to lift his chin, to test the edges of control. The band held fast, unyielding. Even the smallest gesture was denied unless allowed. The master’s hand left the collar, and for a fleeting moment he was utterly still, waiting, bound not by ropes or straps but by engineered inevitability.

The master circled him, boots sounding deliberate on the floor, inspecting the shine of the suit, the angle of the mask, the exact position of the collar. It was ritual, a visual confirmation of control. The suited figure could do nothing but stand, breathing through his filters, body already damp inside the rubber, senses narrowed by the mask’s fixed field of view.

The band ensured more than a lock. It was a sentence — that the suit would not come off until the master chose. The man inside was irrelevant now, reduced to a form in glossy black, faceless and compliant.

The master paused in front of him again, gloved fingers brushing once more over the cold circle of metal at his throat. “This is how you will remain,” he said simply, “until I decide otherwise.”

The figure stands fully sealed, the camouflage chemical protection suit clinging close with its glossy rubber sheen, the heavy respirator locking the face away from the world. The eyes peer dimly through the glass lenses, blurred by the narrowing tunnel of sight the mask enforces. Black rubber gloves hang stiff at the wrists, and integrated boots complete the closure, ensuring no fragment of skin can ever be seen or touched again.

Behind them, the brown leather boots sit idle—ordinary shoes of a world that no longer belongs to whoever has stepped into this armor. Those boots are for walking freely, for movement through streets and fields. Where this suit goes, there will be no walking out. The path ahead does not need footwear, only containment.

The advert had been brief in its messaging, employment opportunities, guaranteed to last a working lifetime.

Once the zipper closes and the last tab is sealed, the individual becomes property of the system, faceless and voiceless. The hiss of the respirator will be the only reminder that something human is still inside. The boots by the chair are left like relics, mute testimony that someone once lived in them. Where the body inside the suit is destined to travel, they will serve no purpose.

You won’t need them.