In a dimly lit office, two men sit before a bank of monitors, the glow casting sharp shadows across their faces. The screens flicker with a video feed: a young woman, now Pup M-17, curled in a dog carrier, tail swaying gently, her collar humming as she shifts in the padded confines. The men lean back in their chairs, one swirling a glass of Whiskey, the other tapping a pen against a tablet displaying data charts and neural response graphs.

“Flawless execution,” says the first, a man with a neatly trimmed beard, his voice tinged with smug satisfaction. “The subliminal pulses in the app’s audio, pure genius. She didn’t stand a chance. Three days in, and her brain was already rewiring for compliance.”

The second man, younger, with a sharp grin, chuckles as he zooms in on M-17’s feed. She’s wagging, fingers brushing her thighs, lost in the haze of obedience. “Hypnosis was the key, though. Those low-frequency affirmations? They slipped right past her conscious defenses. By the time she was crawling, she was begging for it. Look at her now, Pup M-17, fully converted. Didn’t even blink at the carrier.”

They laugh, a low, conspiratorial sound, as the bearded man pulls up a timeline on his tablet. “Two weeks to break down her identity, another to lock in the puppygirl mindset. We’ve got her eating from a feeder, barking on command, and she thinks it’s her idea. That’s the beauty of it, she chose to obey.”

The younger man snorts, leaning closer to the screen as M-17 whines softly, responding to an unheard prompt. “Chose? Come on. She clicked ‘YES’ on a screen she didn’t bother to read. No terms, no fine print, just a pawprint and a promise of ‘guidance.’ Classic.” He mimics her voice, mocking: “‘Oh, it’s just for a weekend!’ Now she’s wagging for an owner she hasn’t even met.”

The bearded man grins, sipping his drink. “That’s what makes it art. The app didn’t force her, it nudged. A little dopamine here, a vibration there, and suddenly she’s bagging her clothes and locking herself in a crate. Her future’s set, pet life, full-time. Probably headed to some collector’s estate by next week.”

They clink glasses, the sound sharp in the quiet office. The younger man tilts his head, watching M-17’s serene expression on the monitor. “You think she’d have read the terms if we’d shown them? All that legalese about data harvesting, behavioral modification, ownership transfer?”

“Nah,” the bearded man says, waving a hand. “Nobody reads terms. That’s the trick. You dangle something shiny, structure, calm, a bit of kink, and they hand over their free will. She didn’t even notice the address scrape or the neural mapping. Too busy chasing the next ‘good girl’ buzz.”

The younger man laughs again, louder, as he switches to a feed showing M-17’s first crawl, her hesitant movements evolving into fluid, eager loops. “Dangerous thing, trusting an app like that. Should’ve known better.” He pauses, smirking. “Well, you know what they say, if the app doesn’t charge anything, you’re the product.”

They both laugh, the sound cold against the hum of the monitors, as M-17 wags in her carrier, oblivious, complete.