The Final Preparation
The dreaded day arrived. Those who were once patients, now devoted slaves, were escorted out of the clinic to a shop discreetly tucked away in a neighborhood away from prying eyes. The place was a sanctuary of precision and elegance, where the scent of aftershave and leather chairs lent the air an almost suffocating density. The barber, a middle-aged man with piercing eyes, greeted them with a professional smile. He knew what was expected of him, every detail having been carefully dictated by Dr. Moreau. Without a word, he seated the slaves in front of large mirrors that reflected their apprehension. Lucas was the first to undergo the transformation. With an expert gesture, the barber shaved his temples, leaving a strip of hair that he trimmed into a short, precise crest. Then, with meticulous care, he dyed it a vibrant, bright red. Lucas stared at his reflection, oscillating between fascination and fear. The vivid hue contrasted cruelly with the pallor of his skin, accentuating his dehumanized appearance.
Marc was next. His treatment was identical, except that the mohawk was colored an electric blue. He looked at himself in the mirror, his features tense between resignation and a remnant of defiance. This new, imposed identity clung to his skin, an indelible mark of his submission.
Finally, it was Étienne's turn. Unlike the others, the barber slid his blades along the temples but left a wider strip at the top of the head. He then set about braiding this hair before dipping it in an emerald green dye. Étienne contemplated his image, mesmerized by this metamorphosis which, paradoxically, made him both fascinating and vulnerable.
The Hour of Judgment
Once their transformation was complete, they were taken back to the clinic. Dr. Moreau was waiting for them, savoring the results of his work. He reviewed every detail, caressing his gaze over the colorful crests, the faces marked by the imposed discipline. Everything was ready.
The day of the presentation to Emir Hassan Al-Faisal arrived. The room, arranged for the occasion, was lined with mirrors. Each reflection reflected the image of their muscular bodies, their tattoos, and their new hairstyles, frozen in this orchestrated setting. The Emir entered, scrutinizing each man with disconcerting attention. His gaze slid over them, gauging, gauging again, until a smile of satisfaction finally lit his features.
The slaves, lined up, stood straight, their rigid postures barely masking the pain and humiliation. But in their eyes remained a glow, an indomitable spark that neither discipline nor ritual could extinguish. They exchanged furtive glances, seeking each other's gaze, gathering what strength they had left.
Moreau stood beside the Emir, observing the scene with the certainty of having completed his masterpiece. But he ignored one crucial fact: beneath this apparent submission, a rebellion was brewing, ready to explode. For if their bodies were marked by enslavement, their spirits still refused to bend.
The fight for their freedom was not over. It had only just begun.
