The management rights over the junior's chastity device

Zhao Yu found the remote control when the fourth floor of the library was almost empty. He said "found," but it was more like his fingers brushed against a small, cool piece of metal lodged in a gap between the tables. He assumed it was an air conditioner remote – the cooling on this floor was always inconsistent, so it wasn't strange for one to be left behind. He dug it out of the crevice and looked at it in his palm for two seconds. It wasn't an air conditioner remote. It was smaller, about three by five centimeters, with six buttons on the surface and no brand markings. The charging contacts on the back were worn with fine scratches, clearly indicating it had been used for some time. He casually pressed a button. It was the red power button. Nothing happened. The air conditioner didn't kick on, the fluorescent lights still hummed, and the entire world remained the same as the second before. Zhao Yu flipped the remote over, about to slip it into his pocket to turn in to lost and found the next day, when his peripheral vision suddenly caught something in the row in front of him – Three tables ahead, a girl with black hair hunched over. It was subtle, sudden. As if someone had poked her in the lower back, her shoulders retracted inward, her spine arching into a curve. Zhao Yu's hand still held the remote, his thumb hovering over the red button, not pressing it. He stared at the girl's back – long black hair, a thin white knit sweater, her laptop open but her pen still. She slowly straightened up, her left hand gripping the edge of the table, then releasing, then gripping again. Then she looked back. Zhao Yu had already lowered his head. He stared at his own laptop, the feel of the remote in his palm suddenly becoming very heavy. He saw out of the corner of his eye that the girl had turned her head back, picked up her pen, and after a few seconds of hovering over the paper, the writing she produced would likely not be very neat. A minute later, Zhao Yu pressed the button again. The girl's shoulders in the front row jolted violently. Her pen rolled out of her fingers, hitting the tabletop twice. She lowered her head, pressing her forehead against her laptop, the rise and fall of her back more pronounced than before. Zhao Yu saw her earlobe peeking out from her hair, flushed red. He released the button. The girl slowly raised her head, looking left and right – she was the only one in this row, and the people behind her were all engrossed in their own work. She wiped her forehead with the back of her hand, stood up, and walked towards the stairwell with her books and laptop. Her steps were faster than normal walking, but her legs seemed a bit weak, and she stumbled slightly at the corner of the bookshelf. Zhao Yu flipped the remote over, looking at the six buttons. Red – Power. The remaining five: one labeled Mode, two labeled V with plus and minus signs, and two labeled a wavy line with plus and minus signs. Zhao Yu stood for a while, matching the face in the photograph with the girl whose earlobes had just turned red, then he repeated her name in his mind. Lin Wei. That night, Zhao Yu didn't analyze the remote control's functions in his dorm. He pressed every button under the covers. His roommates were still playing games downstairs, keyboards clattering, gunshots exploding from their headphones, no one looked up. Zhao Yu placed his thumb on the button labeled V+, pressed it, released it, pressed it, released it. He didn't know what result this button would trigger at thirty meters or three hundred meters away, but his scalp tingled as he pressed it. He held down the V+ button for fifteen seconds. After releasing it, he pressed V-. Then came the tilde key +, and the tilde key -. He familiarized himself with the tactile feel of every button—the V+ button had the hardest rebound, the tilde key made a faint electrical buzzing sound when pressed all the way down, the power button's indentation was deeper than the others, as if it had been pressed many times. With each button press, the image of the white knitted sweater's back flashed in his mind, the knuckles of her fingers gripping the edge of the table, and the look in her eyes the moment she turned around—alert, bewildered, trying hard to maintain composure, but something was pushing to get out. He lifted a corner of the covers to let out a breath. No one had ever paid attention to him since he was a child. Ordinary looks, average grades, he didn't join cliques in class, so he wasn't bullied, just invisible. But today, he pressed a button, and someone's body three tables away responded to him. This connection made the back of his head throb. He flipped the remote over and, next to the charging contacts, saw a line of tiny laser engraving: Yin Die · Female. Below it was the product number, and a note—This device is bound. Unlocking requires simultaneous verification of the mobile app and the original remote. Zhao Yu lay in the darkness for a while. Bound. That meant the device controlled by this remote—whatever it was—was locked onto someone. And that person's mobile phone might be able to initiate unbinding, but "requires simultaneous verification of the original remote" meant that as long as he held the remote, the other party couldn't unlock it. He tucked the remote under his pillow and turned over, trying to fall asleep. He didn't sleep. He got up and opened his laptop. He typed "Yin Die" into the search bar. The first few results were product reviews and official introductions. He clicked on the official page and saw a minimalist female chastity device—a narrow waistband with a shield, made of medical-grade silicone, with a thickness of only "3mm." The function description read: dual vibration units (clitoral + anterior vaginal wall), microcurrent electrode patches, Bluetooth/Wi-Fi dual mode, IPX7 waterproof, battery life approximately 72 hours. He closed the webpage. Opened it. Closed it again. When he lay back down on the bed, he knew what he was holding. Not a vibrator remote, not a controller for a pleasure toy. It was a lock. A lock on a girl's body, and the key was in his hand. When he pressed the V+ button earlier, it wasn't her phone that vibrated, but the vibration unit embedded in the layered shield of her lower body—pressed against her clitoris. Zhao Yu turned over, facing the wall. The white wall glowed faintly in the darkness. The corner of the timetable taped to the wall was curled up, like shed skin. He reached under his pillow for the remote, held it in his palm, and traced the edge of the power button with his thumb. He almost dropped the coffee can when he saw her. Lin Wei was wearing a black skirt that reached her knees, a dark grey short-sleeved top, and her hair was down, falling over her shoulders. She was holding a French textbook and a dictionary. She wasn't walking fast, but her steps were even, her gaze straight ahead. She passed the vending machine, no more than two meters from Zhao Yu. She didn't notice him. Zhao Yu saw the line of her legs below her knees – her calves pale under the fluorescent lights. He saw her pause at the classroom door before entering, her chin tilted slightly, then she stepped inside and disappeared. She was wearing a skirt. He had seen it before, and he already knew the answer – he was well aware of the remote's power – but seeing it in reality felt like a punch to the chest. It wasn't the shock of her obedience, but the quietness of it. There were no angry glares sweeping the hallway, no deliberate defiance of wearing trousers. Just a black skirt, as if she had planned to wear a skirt today, unrelated to that anonymous message. Zhao Yu tossed the empty coffee can into the trash and walked out of the North Teaching Building. He walked for a while before realizing he was smiling – not a loud laugh, but a twitch of his lips that he couldn't quite flatten. She was wearing a skirt. She had done it. Two hours later, Zhao Yu sat in a seat she wouldn't know he would occupy – the seventh row, far left in the lecture hall. He had seen her class schedule; she had the same elective in this room. Lin Wei sat in the middle of the sixth row. Compared to the morning, she had an extra jacket draped over her lap, covering what the skirt couldn't. Zhao Yu reached into his pocket, his fingers closing around the remote, his thumb resting on the V+ button. He pressed it – first level. Lin Wei's writing speed changed. He couldn't tell specifically, but he instinctively knew her pen tip had strayed from the normal path on the paper. Second level. Lin Wei put down her pen, her hands flat on her textbook, her shoulders pulled back. From Zhao Yu's angle, he could see a vein taut on the side of her neck. Third level. Lin Wei pressed her legs together. It was a subtle movement, but the hem of her jacket bunched up between her thighs, creating new folds. Fourth level. Lin Wei curled her left thumb, her fingernail digging into the fleshy part of her right hand. The intention of this action was too obvious – using pain to distract herself. Her nail dug into her skin, leaving white marks that gradually turned red. Zhao Yu kept the vibration at the fourth level, neither increasing nor decreasing it. He noticed her breathing begin to slow – inhale for two seconds, hold for one, exhale for two. This rhythm was fighting against the vibration frequency within her body, two forces wrestling in an unseen arena. The fourth level was the 'Hidden Butterfly's' mid-frequency. According to the manual, the vibration sound at this frequency was about forty decibels, faintly audible to a neighbor in a quiet room. But in the classroom, there was the teacher speaking, students flipping pages, phones vibrating – these background noises perfectly swallowed the 'Hidden Butterfly's' hum. She couldn't cry out. Couldn't speak. Couldn't run. The only thing she could do was sit there, listen to the teacher explain French verb conjugations, and dig her nails into herself to avoid being overwhelmed by the vibration on her clitoris. Zhao Yu turned off the vibration. Lin Wei's shoulders suddenly relaxed. She picked up her pen and wrote a few lines on the edge of her textbook, her handwriting likely very shaky. Her hands came out of her pockets and pressed against the wall. The wall was rough, cement granules digging into her palms. Her legs parted slightly—not by choice, but because she found that when her thighs clenched, the shield pressed tighter, the vibrations more concentrated. Spreading them a little, allowing a near-imperceptible layer of air between the shield and her skin, felt like it dispersed the sensation. But the dispersion was temporary. When the third setting kicked in, she began to pick at the peeling paint with her fingernails. The ring finger of her left hand found a pre-existing crack in the cement, the tips of her fingers feeling granular debris embedding themselves under her nail. This subtle pain was the only sensation she could control at the moment—she needed a bit of pain she could control to offset the uncontrollable vibrations. Fourth setting. Lin Wei’s knees buckled, the muscles in her quadriceps spasming, shooting down from her pelvis along her rectus femoris. She propped herself up with her elbows, forehead pressed against the back of her hands, her spine arched. The vibrations beneath the shield were no longer just a contact; it felt like someone was pressing directly on her clitoris and pushing inward—not in circles, but a sustained, fixed pressure. The vibrator on the anterior vaginal wall activated simultaneously, the two frequencies creating a resonance within her body, the sensation no longer localized to two points but spreading throughout her entire pelvic cavity. A short gasp escaped her throat, and she immediately pressed the back of her hand against her mouth. The fluorescent tubes flickered behind her. It was quiet all around. The administrator was in the duty room thirty-five meters away, the fire door closed, five rows of bookshelves in between. The dust in the old library absorbed sound exceptionally well; even her own breathing sounded muffled, as if through cotton. Fifth setting. Lin Wei slid down the wall. From leaning on it, to bracing against it, to… her knees hitting the floor. The sound of her kneecaps against the terrazzo was dull, transmitted through the fabric of her pants. She knelt between two rows of bookshelves, forehead pressed against the cool wall, hands gripping the sides of the peeling paint, like a specimen pinned to the wall. Her lips parted slightly, her exhaled breath condensing into a faint, blurry mark on the wall. The fifth setting was mid-high frequency. The noise was about forty-five decibels—she couldn’t hear it herself because the resonance within her body was too strong. She only knew her clitoris was no longer obeying her; that tiny organ was engorged and swollen from the vibrations, every nerve ending firing excessive electrical signals outward. She wanted to clench her thighs, but the shield locked her vulva in place, and the tighter she squeezed, the harder the shield pressed. She spread her knees wider—this position left her kneeling on the floor with her legs spread wide, her pants taut across her hips, the shield pressed against her vulva through the fabric, like a fist that would never let go. She heard a whimper escape her. Very soft, her mouth still closed, the sound squeezed from her nasal cavity. She quickly opened her mouth into a slit, blowing the whimper out with her breath. No sound—the administrator might be patrolling the corridor, the fire door could be opened at any moment. While the fourth floor was deserted, it wasn't absolutely empty. Her rationality was still struggling, but her mind and body had split into two separate entities. Her rationality was leaving fingernail marks on the wall, while her body was being pushed upward by wave after wave of vibration—all in the same direction, towards a destination she did not want to reach on the dusty floor of the old library. The vibration suddenly switched to pulse mode. Lin Wei’s body jolted violently, her knees sliding a few centimeters on the floor. Pulse—three seconds of vibration, one second of pause, then three seconds of vibration again, the intervals varying randomly. She never knew when the next wave would hit, and each short pause was not enough for her body to relax before the next wave crashed down. Her pelvic floor muscles began to ache from the repeated contractions, like being repeatedly clenched and released by a fist. She bit down on the flesh between her thumb and index finger. Her teeth sank into the skin and flesh on the inside of her hand. It hurt, but the pain kept her from crying out. She knelt between the third and fourth rows of bookshelves on the east side of the old library, facing a wall with peeling paint. The fluorescent tubes flickered behind her, dust settling on her hair and shoulders, the pulsed vibrations beneath the shield pushing her towards climax. And in her mind, there was only one thought— He wasn't coming. This thought pierced her with a sharpness greater than the vibrations. He had said he would wait for her in the old library, but he had no intention of coming at all. She had waited between the bookshelves for ten minutes, and then the vibrations had started precisely at ten past ten, not a second off. This meant he had been in control all along—he knew she had arrived, knew where she was, knew she was standing facing the wall, knew how many scratches she had made on the peeling paint after kneeling down. She could feel herself getting wet. The warmth beneath the shield wasn't from the vibrator—the vibrator was a mechanical hum, its temperature change negligible. That warmth was secreted from her own body, squeezed out from her vaginal vestibule by the vibrations, trickling down the outside of her labia. She stood on the empty stage, moonlight illuminating her shoulders and hair, the wind rustling her skirt, the moisture beneath the shield slowly creeping over the silicone edge in the third setting. If the vibration continued to increase, she would soak through the crotch of her panties—no, she wasn't wearing panties tonight. Because the command "wear a skirt" had defaulted to "no panties" back in the old library—beneath the shield was empty, and beneath the skirt, only air and wind. Setting four. Lin Wei knelt down. Not falling—she didn't want to be standing at setting four. Standing meant her center of gravity was too high; when her knees locked, the spasms in her pelvic floor would transmit to her lumbar spine, and lower back pain was more unbearable than weak legs. She knelt onto the stage, her knees making a dull thud on the concrete platform—it didn't hurt, the pleats of her skirt provided a slight cushion beneath her knees. She knelt facing the audience seats, moonlight hitting her from the side, casting the profile of her kneeling posture in front of her—her back straight, hands on her thighs, her skirt spread out in a gray circle around her knees. The kneeling posture automatically adjusted the pressure of the shield. When kneeling, her pelvis tilted forward, changing the angle between the shield and her clitoris from flush contact to oblique pressure. Oblique pressure meant the efficiency of vibration transmission was not high, with some energy absorbed by the elastic deformation of the silicone at the shield's edge. This was practical wisdom accumulated by her body, and she no longer distinguished whether it was "resistance" or "adaptation"—the boundary between resistance and adaptation had been pressed so thin that she no longer bothered to discern it. The wind picked up. The canopy of the plane trees swayed more violently than before, and a few dead leaves drifted down from above the stands to land on the stage. She watched the leaf fragments, illuminated by the moonlight, tumble across the stone steps, feeling as if she were kneeling on a deserted altar, waiting for an unseen god to press a hardware button. Setting five arrived. Lin Wei placed her hands on the concrete floor, her entire body arching into a quadrupedal kneeling position. In this posture, the pleats of her skirt completely flipped up to her waist, and below her waist, only the shield was exposed to the air. The matte silicone surface of the shield reflected a faint sheen under the moonlight. Two faint wet streaks ran down the skin beneath the protective film on the inner side of her thighs, one already reaching the bend of her knee. She supported herself on her elbows, her forehead resting on her clasped hands. The audience seats behind her blurred into indistinct shadows in her lowered field of vision. The wind blew from the direction of the stands, blowing her loose hair forward, its ends brushing against her arms. Her breathing shifted from diaphragmatic to short, thoracic breaths—the ultra-low frequency vibrations of setting five had exceeded the counteracting capacity of diaphragmatic breathing, and the respiratory muscles between her ribs began to become uncontrollable after the spasms from her pelvic floor were transmitted. She gasped for air with her mouth open, and the exhaled breath condensed into a slightly warm, damp spot on the back of her hands. She knew he was watching. She knelt on the stage, her skirt flipped up to her waist, her shield exposed to the wind, her forehead resting on her hands, her thighs trembling. She could feel that gaze shooting out from the shadows above the stands, hitting the back of her neck, her shoulder blades, the junction line between her narrow waist exposed by the flipped-up skirt and the bare skin of her lower back. That gaze had no weight but a strange texture—like someone tracing her spine with their fingertips through a thin layer of air, from the nape of her neck to her tailbone, vertebra by vertebra. She didn't look back. Not out of fear—the very posture she knelt in negated the option of looking back. Even if he hadn't commanded "don't look back," she wouldn't have. Looking back would mean she wanted to confirm who he was, and confirmation meant she still cared about whether the identity of the controller was acceptable to her. She no longer cared. She didn't care who it was. What she cared about was that he was there, watching her, controlling the speed of the thin stream trickling down her inner thighs in a way more direct than a remote control. The vibration at setting five lasted for a full four minutes. During these four minutes, Lin Wei maintained the quadrupedal kneeling position, her core strength continuously depleting, the hamstrings in the back of her thighs beginning to tremble. Her pelvic floor muscles were already sore—not the soreness of pleasure, but the aching and swelling of muscles in continuous contraction. However, the position of the vibrator made it impossible for her to slow down the accumulation of pleasure even in her fatigued state. The nerve endings in her clitoris continued to discharge under the mechanical stimulation, and the smooth muscles in her vaginal walls spasmed repeatedly in the emptiness—each spasm felt like an attempt to grasp something to fill itself. Setting six. Lin Wei's body collapsed from the quadrupedal kneeling position. Not a sudden collapse—first, she shifted from supporting herself on her elbows to resting her face on the concrete floor, then her shoulder hit the ground, and her body rolled onto its side. Her skirt had completely flipped up to her waist, the outer sides of her thighs pressed against the cool concrete platform, her knees curled up to her chest, her hands clasped between her legs. Not clasping the shield—the shield was locked in place and couldn't be penetrated—but clasping her own fingers. Her knuckles, separated by a layer of air, pressed against the outer surface of the shield, feeling the silicone vibrations transmit up to her fingertips. The hum emitted by the shield at setting six was nearly fifty decibels, but on the empty old stage, with the wind howling, the plane trees swaying, and insects chirping, this sound was swallowed by the night sky without a trace. But the sound within her was not forty or fifty decibels. It was immeasurable. It was all-encompassing. The two vibrator units resonated beneath the shield, turning the entire expanse of soft tissue between her clitoris and the anterior vaginal wall into a single vibrating membrane. Every nerve fiber in that membrane was sending the same signal to her brain—too fast, too dense, too much. She rolled over on the concrete floor, shifting from side-lying to supine. Her legs parted beneath the cover of her skirt—not intentionally, but due to the extreme fullness; her adductor muscles had relaxed beyond her conscious control, and her knees fell outward. This posture minimized the pressure between the shield and her clitoris, but at the same time, it shifted the position of the clitoral unit by a fraction of a millimeter—from directly above to one side. The lateral stimulation was sharper than the frontal stimulation, and she let out a short, muffled cry. Half of the sound was muffled by the concrete floor, and the other half escaped through her teeth, like a mouse whose tail had been stepped on. The orgasm struck her in the gap of her gasping breaths as she lay supine. There was no warning. A few seconds before, it was an accumulation of soreness and swelling, and then suddenly it crossed the critical point. The clitoral nerves collapsed entirely after exceeding the threshold, and the electric-like orgasm signal exploded from the clitoral nerve plexus, shooting down her inner thighs and up through her abdominal ganglia, shattering her lumbar spine. Her back arched off the concrete floor, her pelvis lifting off the ground, the shield momentarily separated from her vulva by a sliver of air—and then her body slammed back onto the concrete, her spine hitting the hard concrete section by section, a portion of the impact sound swallowed by the folds of her skirt. Her mouth was open, and what came from her throat was not a scream, but broken bursts of air: "Ah—ah—ah—." Tears squeezed from the outer corners of her eyes, not from crying, but from the autonomic nervous reflex of orgasm. The tears slid along her temples into her hairline, mixing with sweat, and flowed coolly down the back of her head onto the concrete. Shen Zhuo is no longer relying on photos and social media posts. He has escalated his attack from "private threats" to "public incineration." Although Zhao Yu has locked the anonymous wall posts, screenshots have already flown out. The screenshots her mother received can also be received by other students in the same department. Today, when she went to French class, people looked at her from the hallway to the classroom – maybe not, but the feeling from high school, walking into a classroom under dozens of pairs of eyes, returned. She had never forgotten that scene, only buried it. Now Shen Zhuo had kicked that door open. She stood up. She took off her pajama pants and put on dark gray trousers, tucking her white shirt into the waistband and fastening her belt. Just as she was about to leave, her phone rang – not a call, but a special notification from the Hidden Butterfly APP. She looked down, and a system notification from the manufacturer popped up on the screen: "Your device (Model: Hidden Butterfly · Female · SN70231) has received a reset request. The applicant is the original purchaser, Shen Zhuo. Review requires 3-5 business days. If you wish to cancel, please submit an objection through the 'Permission Management - Reset Appeal' channel within the APP." She stared at the notification for about twenty seconds. Then she slid down the wardrobe door and sat on the floor. Her back leaned against the cool composite wood door, her fingers pressing the phone screen until they turned white. The words on the APP blurred like reflections in water, rippling outwards. She knew what this meant: while Shen Zhuo was applying pressure by releasing photos through all channels, he had also found another, more fundamental path to break through – the manufacturer. He was the purchaser. He had the purchase invoice, order number, and payment proof. He only needed to tell customer service, "I accidentally clicked reset, the original device is still with my girlfriend, I don't want her to be locked out," or more simply, "I have been maliciously bound, I request the manufacturer to forcibly unbind." The design principle of Hidden Butterfly was "couple's intimacy," not "security confinement tool." The most common call customer service received was, "Help me unlock it." Shen Zhuo was bypassing the digital barrier with a live customer service representative and order proof – he had been using the wrong approach from the beginning, thinking he needed a technical breakthrough, only to realize later that returning to his original identity as the purchaser was the most direct way. He had overlooked this path before because he had been searching for the remote control and Lin Wei's initial password. Now he decided to bypass Lin Wei and directly use his ultimate identity capital, using his rights as the purchaser to remotely reset the device. If successful, Hidden Butterfly would forcibly unbind, and Zhao Yu's highest administrator privileges would also be cleared from the server. What was worse – after the reset, Hidden Butterfly would enter "pairing mode," waiting to be bound to a new remote control, just like when it was new from the factory. At that time, Shen Zhuo would only need to buy another remote control – or purchase replacement parts for the lost remote – to re-bind the device in Lin Wei's body from scratch. He would once again have the switch to her body. And by then, she wouldn't even have the protection of Zhao Yu's lock. Lin Wei stood up from the floor. She stood in front of the wardrobe door, her hand on her lower abdomen, feeling the shape of Hidden Butterfly through her pants and the shield. The dark gray silicone had been in contact with her body heat for seven weeks, and it no longer felt like an external object. She remembered the first time she was shocked on the floor of the girls' restroom in Chapter 3, biting her wrist. She remembered the bottle of ice water thrown from the darkness after an orgasm in Chapter 8. She remembered pulling out the remote control and placing it back in Zhao Yu's palm in Chapter 22, saying, "It's not his, and it's not mine. It's yours." If Shen Zhuo's reset was successful, all of this would be wiped clean. He would put everything that had been taken from him back into the hands of the old dominator who had tied her up with ropes, threatened her with photos, and electrocuted her in the girls' restroom for thirty minutes. She picked up her phone and sent Zhao Yu a message: "Shen Zhuo is going through the manufacturer's reset channel. I received the application notification." The reply was almost instantaneous: "Understood. See you at the lab." Zhao Yu sat at the workbench in the lab, enlarging the screenshot of the Hidden Butterfly APP system notification that Lin Wei had sent him on his computer screen. He read every field in the notification word for word – the applicant was Shen Zhuo, the application type was device reset, and the review period was three to five business days. In the bottom right corner was a small line: "If you wish to object, please enter the secondary permission management within the APP to submit a reset registration." After reading the notification, he opened the Hidden Butterfly APP's backend data and saw the current permission distribution on the "Device Status" page: Purchaser – Shen Zhuo; Highest Administrator – Zhao Yu; Bound Remote Control Holder – Zhao Yu; Initial Verification Password Holder – Zhao Yu. The last line was a grayed-out default field: User (History) – Lin Wei (Permission downgraded, cannot initiate reset or unbind). He turned the screen to Lin Wei, who was sitting opposite him. She was wearing a dark gray hoodie – not her own, but one he had lent her last week to wear back from the old site, which she hadn't returned. The hoodie's shoulder seams were half an inch wider, and the cuffs covered the back of her hands. She was curled up in the lab chair, holding a stainless steel thermos with both hands, the hot water inside having cooled. Nearly four hours had passed since she received the system notification. She hadn't cried, but her eyes were noticeably dry. "Three to five business days for the review period," Zhao Yu said, sitting down at the lab bench. "During this time, we can submit a reset objection. Although your secondary permission has been lowered, you can still submit an objection – the APP stipulates that the user has one objection right to a reset operation, regardless of their permission level, as long as the device is still bound to their body. Once submitted, the review will become manual, and the period can be extended to more than ten days." "And after ten days?" Lin Wei placed the thermos on her knees. "It will drag on until he finds another way. Or we find a permanent solution within this period." "What is the permanent solution?" Her voice was flat, as if asking a question to which she already knew the answer, just wanting to hear him say it. Zhao Yu pulled out the lanyard around his neck, the metal casing of the remote control glinting dully under the work light. "Destroy the remote control. He won't be able to get it, and he'll never be able to reset it." "What's the permanent solution?" Her voice was flat, as if asking a question she already knew the answer to, just wanting to hear him say it. Zhao Yu pulled the lanyard from around his neck. The remote's metal casing glinted dully under the work light. "Destroy the remote. He can't get it, and he can never reset it." Lin Wei's gaze shifted from the remote on his neck to his eyes. "Destroy it, and then what?" "Then the Hidden Butterfly is still inside you, but the only channel to unbind it—the remote signal—is gone. Factory reset requires the remote to be present; it's a security mechanism. Without the remote, his reset request will fail at the final step of verification. The Hidden Butterfly will enter a permanently locked, unalterable state, inaccessible to any external control." "Then I'll never be able to unbind it either." Zhao Yu remained silent. The knuckles of the hand holding the remote were white. This was the outcome he least wanted to see—the remote in his hand wasn't a tool to imprison her, but a key connecting them. Destroying it meant he would lose the ability to control Lin Wei's body—but more importantly, Lin Wei would be forever locked behind that three-millimeter layer of silicone. She would be unable to masturbate, unable to touch herself by disengaging the shield, unable to self-soothe in any way between feeling full and climaxing. The yearning of her vaginal walls, blocked by the shield, would continue to contract each night before sleep, and she wouldn't even be able to perform the basic physiological actions to alleviate those cravings. It would be a cage with no escape, and when he said "destroy it," he would be personally nailing shut the cage's final window. "He'll just buy a new one if you destroy it," Lin Wei said. She lifted her hand from her knees and placed it on the back of Zhao Yu's hand, the one holding the remote. "Even if you smash the remote and make his reset fail this time—he's still the purchaser. He can use his buyer status to return the old one for a new one, buy a second Hidden Butterfly, and re-pair it with a new remote. Then we'll have to fight him all over again. What you smash this time, he can buy back next time." Her voice was soft, but her logic was clear. Zhao Yu looked at her—her eyes were deep amber under the lab's fluorescent lights, devoid of fear, only the calm resolve she had shown when she first handed him the coarse hemp rope in the old studio. "I want it so that even if he takes it back, he can't unlock it," Lin Wei said. She lifted her fingers from his hand, then took her phone from her pocket. The screen was already lit up to the Hidden Butterfly APP's permission management page. She tapped on the "Transfer Primary Administrator" option, then flipped the phone screen-up towards Zhao Yu. The screen displayed two lines of text—Current Primary Administrator: Zhao Yu. Current Secondary User Permissions: Lin Wei (Downgraded). At the bottom was a button, in small gray text: "User voluntarily relinquishes all remaining permissions—including reset de-registration rights, low-level device query rights, APP login rights. This operation is irreversible." Her thumb hovered over that line of small text for a moment, then she looked at Zhao Yu. "Last time, I only gave you the initial verification password. This time, I'm giving you the rest. I don't even want the right to access the backend myself anymore." She looked into his eyes, as calm as she had been when she stood facing the wall in the old library, letting him press his buttons. "From today on, you are the only one who can unbind the Hidden Butterfly. You are the one who can submit a reset objection, you are the one who can access the APP backend. Not even I can check its remaining battery life." Zhao Yu stared at her face. The edges of her eye sockets had a faint, almost imperceptible redness—not from crying, but from the micro-vascular compression caused by the sheer force of will suppressing a monumental decision. She had probably looked at the notifications on her phone with a similar expression when she slid to the floor in front of the wardrobe earlier. "You've disabled your last remaining permission," he said. His voice was so low the lab's fan noise almost drowned it out. "Because since that night in the old studio, this lock has been more than just a lock," she said. She gently pushed the phone towards him. "It's something I want you to watch. And it's something he can never open until I tell him 'you're not worth my hatred.' Now that he wants to open it through the manufacturer, I'm welding shut the manufacturer's channel with my own final password. From now on, this lock will only work for one person—you." Zhao Yu looked down at the confirmation button on the screen, landing on the fingerprint recognition circle next to the word "irreversible." He raised his right hand and placed his thumb on the recognition circle. The phone screen flashed. A progress bar filled from left to right. A pop-up window appeared: "Primary Administrator Permissions Consolidated—Zhao Yu. Secondary User Lin Wei has transferred all remaining permissions. APP operation logs synchronized to server backup. Current sole user capable of reset/unbind/de-registration: Zhao Yu. This operation is irreversible." He handed the phone back to Lin Wei. She looked down at the now-grayed buttons on the screen—low-level query, battery status, device logs—all rendered inoperable. She lightly traced her finger over the row of functions she had just disabled, as if bidding farewell to a part of herself that had once belonged to her. Then she turned off the phone and placed it on the lab bench. She stood up from the lab stool and walked in front of him.