Surrendered - Vol 1 : Initiation.

“Love is composed of a single soul inhabiting two different bodies.” Aristotle

I love the silence of the operating room. It holds that particular quality I seek in every aspect of my life: a level of concentration where the world narrows down to absolute control.

The scalpel blade parts the skin with precision. The first resistance is always the same - the fine tension of the epidermis giving way, then the deeper suppleness of tissue beneath. I’ve performed this gesture thousands of times, and each time, the same satisfaction.

That total command over flesh. Whatever flesh it may be.

My gloved fingers hold the femoral artery of a six-month-old infant suffering from an arteriovenous malformation. Beneath my thumbs, the pulse beats - compliant. A rhythm that exists only because I allow it to. The heart continues to beat, but it is my will that dictates the tempo. A dizzying responsibility. And yet I feel nothing but a cold serenity.

The resident to my right is breathing too loudly.

Far too loudly.

It drills straight into my nerves. In my peripheral vision, I see the beads of sweat forming on her forehead. Incompetence. Loss of control. It ignites a rage inside me that I have spent years learning to master.

The retractor trembles in her hands. Around us, the team holds its breath. They know me. They know what is coming. Without lifting my eyes from the surgical field, I let my voice fall, glacial:

- Dr. Chen, if you cannot control your breathing within ten seconds, you will leave my OR. Permanently.

Her body locks instantly. That fear - paralyzing her like a trapped animal. The scrub nurse to my left has stopped breathing as well. Chen fails to regain control and leaves the room in tears.

I continue the procedure without another word. There is something that draws me to this - the contrast between the absolute vulnerability of an opened body and the icy mastery each movement demands. The slightest hesitation could shatter the fragile balance between life and chaos.

I never hesitate.

The remainder of the operation unfolds with the fluidity of a flawless choreography. My hands know where to go before my mind formulates the command. That fusion of thought and movement is the culmination of twenty years spent sculpting both body and mind in pursuit of excellence.

Twenty years.

How much have I sacrificed?

I dismiss the thought. Parasitic. Useless.

When I finally close the last suture, the anesthesiologist lowers his eyes, not daring to meet mine. That mixture of respect and fear I inspire - it’s simply a fact.

Fear maintains distance.

Distance preserves perfection.

Perfection eradicates weakness.

And the worst weakness of all: attachment.

I leave the OR without a word, leaving behind a team that will not relax until the door shuts behind me. In the surgeons’ locker room, I scrub my hands beneath scalding water for a long time. The heat runs over my skin, carrying away the tension of six hours spent keeping that child alive.

My phone is already vibrating on the bench.

Marcus. My assistant for nearly ten years. He has that quiet efficiency of those who understand without needing words.

His message is brief:

Three profiles to present. Awaiting your instructions.

I slip into my cashmere coat and leave the hospital, as always avoiding the corridors where I might encounter colleagues seeking a form of recognition I will not give. In the elevators, residents instinctively step aside when I enter.

I command respect.

Or fear.

Likely both.

Outside, the December air is bright but cold. That muted winter light that always reminds me time is passing - even if I do everything to forget it.

I slide into my car and leave the day behind.

Marcus is waiting in the living room, impeccably dressed as always in a dark suit that makes him a remarkably efficient shadow. On the glass coffee table, two folders are laid out neatly.

I pour myself a whisky before sitting down.

Ritual.

Marcus says nothing. He knows I despise preliminaries.

I open the first file. Brunette. Thirty-eight. Lawyer. Regular in private circles for years. Too beautiful. Too predictable. I don’t want that. Not now.

I close the file without a word and move to the next.

Blonde. Younger. Twenty-nine. Engineer. Her psychological profile reveals a need for surrender that could be interesting, but something in her gaze in the photograph displeases me. That calculated hardness. Artificial. As if she were playing a role - even in her pursuit of submission.

She expects too much.

No.

The third file remains in Marcus’s hands for a few seconds.

He hesitates.

That alone tells me it’s the only one worth my attention.

Finally, he slides the cardboard cover in front of me.

- Solène. Thirty-five, Marcus says in a neutral tone. Divorced. Two children. Educated. Senior civil servant. She joined the circle only a few weeks ago. Limited experience. A few initiation sessions - all soft. Several very clear boundaries. No group play. No excess. No humiliation. No pain. She doesn’t exactly match your usual criteria, but I thought she might interest you. She seems highly receptive. And her background is... singular.

A novice.

I understand the initial hesitation.

But the photograph unsettles me.

She doesn’t resemble anything I usually expect. A marked - terribly natural - smile. Red hair falling messily over her shoulders. Barely any makeup. Eyes looking straight into the lens without artifice, without provocation.

That vulnerability hits me full force.

A strange sensation I cannot control.

Fuck. What is this?

Marcus knew. That’s why he hesitated.

I feel my breathing shift. My pulse accelerate.

What the hell is this file doing in front of me?

Ridiculous.

I keep staring at the photograph without answering. That face disturbs me. I try to understand why.

Perhaps it’s the total absence of calculation. That openness that seems to say she has nothing to hide. Nothing to prove.

- She doesn’t meet my criteria, I say curtly, closing the file.

But I can’t release the cover.

My fingers remain resting on it.

Too long.

Far too long.

Marcus says nothing. He remains still.

A warmth attempts to rise in my chest - where everything should remain frozen. I recognize it. Childhood residue.

Exactly what I have spent my life fleeing.

And I already hate it - this sensation that could make me lose control.