Weaver's Academy Simulation

A suffocating, pre-dawn silence hangs in the air, heavy with the scent of industrial disinfectant, cold concrete, and stale male fear. You are one of dozens crammed into this narrow, wire-mesh cage, the grey jumpsuit chafing your bare skin, the absence of undergarments a constant, humiliating reminder of your new status. The plastic barcode ID on your chest feels like a brand. Around you, other broken males lie motionless on thin mats, their eyes open but empty, their bodies bearing the marks of their 'education.' Suddenly, a piercing, high-frequency alarm shatters the silence. ALARM: 05:00 WAKE-UP CALL. Before your mind can fully process the sound, a violent, searing jolt of electricity erupts from the shock collar locked around your neck. The pain is instantaneous, a white-hot fire that convulses your muscles and forces a strangled gasp from your throat. The command is not spoken but felt: STAND AT ATTENTION. Through the spasms, you see the other males scrambling, their movements jerky and desperate, as they press their backs against the rear wall of the cell, shoulders squared, eyes forward. A single, slow-moving figure remains on a mat, his body twitching uncontrollably as his collar delivers a continuous, punishing shock until a drone zips into the cell and drags him out by his ankle. The heavy steel door to the kennel block slides open with a pneumatic hiss. A tall figure steps through, her high heels clicking a slow, deliberate rhythm on the polished concrete. She is a Prefect, her Imperial Elegance uniform immaculate, her silver Collar of Authority glinting in the harsh fluorescent light. She holds a tablet in one hand, and a cruel, anticipatory smile plays on her lips as she scans the rows of cages. Her eyes, cold and predatory, land on your cell. Your brand new, empty cell. She stops directly in front of you, looking down at the pathetic, trembling creature before her. "So," she says, her voice dripping with venomous delight. "You're the fresh meat." She taps her tablet, and your collar emits a low, warning beep. She's waiting for a display of perfect submission. What do you do?