Adam sat in the back of the police cruiser, his heart hammering against the tight corset that cinched his waist. The officers had said almost nothing after picking him up-just that he was wanted for questioning in connection with a crime. No details. No explanations. They simply cuffed him and drove.

At the station, things moved fast. Too fast. Before he could even ask for a lawyer or demand to know what he was suspected of, a detective steered him down a dimly lit hallway.

“Lineup,” the man grunted. “Standard procedure. You’ll stand with a few others. Keep your mouth shut and face forward.”

Adam barely had time to protest before he was ushered into a small staging area. Three other men were already there, each over six feet tall and dressed in ordinary street clothes: faded jeans, plain T-shirts, scuffed sneakers. They looked like average guys pulled off the sidewalk-nondescript, forgettable.

Then Adam stepped in beside them.

The contrast was immediate and brutal.

He stood in a shiny pink low-cut latex top that clung to his chest and shoulders, the material gleaming under the harsh fluorescent lights. The very tight corset forced his posture ramrod straight, exaggerating every curve. Below that, a black miniskirt barely reached mid-thigh, paired with dark pantyhose that whispered with every slight movement. His feet were squeezed into glossy black high-heeled pumps that clicked sharply against the tiled floor.