Ray Lin –
The chains bite into my skin.
They're heavier than they look. Cold metal, rusted at the edges, too tight around my wrists, like they were made to fit someone smaller. Someone weaker.
Someone like me.
I can't remember the last time I stood without swaying. Can't remember the last time I ate something solid. My knees tremble as the guards drag me forward. My dress is torn—if you can even call it a dress. It's a thin slip of cloth, barely covering my body, stained with things I don't want to name.
They stripped me of everything.
Even my name.
"Walk," one of them snaps, yanking the chain. I stumble forward, nearly fall. My hair tangles around my ankles. I don't care. I gave up on fighting hours ago. Maybe days. Maybe weeks.
Time stopped mattering the moment he sold me.
Stepdad, I remind myself. No. Monster.
He auctioned me like I was a piece of furniture. Said I was finally worth something.
I wish I had screamed. Fought. Bit him.
I didn't.
I just cried.
Now the world is blurry around the edges, like I'm trapped in a fog I can't crawl out of. Everything's loud and hot and cruel. The floor is hard. The lights are blinding. And the men are worse.
They look at me like I'm meat.
Like I'm not real.
I keep my eyes down, but I hear the announcer talking about me. Lying. Saying words like "untouched" and "prized" and "pure."
I want to disappear.
Then I look up.
And see him.
He's standing at the back of the crowd, half-shadowed. Sharp suit. Sharper jaw. Ice in his eyes. He doesn't belong here. He doesn't reek of desperation or filth or sweat. He looks like power. Like money. Like he doesn't flinch for anyone.
But I know that face.
I saw it once. At a café. Months ago.
He was sitting by the window. I'd spilled my drink, apologized a hundred times, yapped about the stupid menu and laughed too loud, and he'd just stared at me—blank, unreadable.
Cold.
I remember thinking he looked like a prince.
A broken, ruthless prince.
And now he's here.
And I don't know why, but my chest stutters. Something desperate claws its way up my throat.
I look at him.
I beg him.
Not with words. My lips are too cracked, too tired. But I put every drop of my soul into my eyes.
Please. You saw me when I was still me. You know I'm not this. Please, help me.
For one breathless second, the world holds still.
And then I hear him speak.
"Ten million."
My heart stops.
The crowd explodes.
He steps forward like he owns the earth beneath him.
And when his eyes find mine again, they don't look past me like everyone else's. They see me.
And for the first time in forever…
I don't feel invisible.
I feel saved.
When he takes my chain, I flinch. But not in fear. In disbelief.
I fall into him. My body gives out. But his arms are iron. Steady. Warm.
And when he says, "You're mine now," I believe him.
Because I've never belonged to anything but pain.
And this… this feels like something else.
Something terrifying.
Something I've never had before.
Hope.
---
Sebastian Blake –
The underground auction is full of men who think they own the world.
They don't.
I do.
My boots echo across concrete as I step into the shadows, flanked by my men. The air stinks of sweat, smoke, blood money. Somewhere in the distance, a girl sobs. Another screams. Neither sound moves me.
I'm not here for them.
I'm here because a rival family tried to outbid me. That doesn't happen.
I don't lose.
Especially not to scum like them.
"Lot Forty-Seven," the announcer says. "Final girl of the night."
The room hushes.
Then she's dragged out.
Barefoot. Barely clothed. Collarbones jutting out like broken wings. Chains around her wrists. Her long, black hair hangs in tangled sheets down to her knees—matted, filthy, hiding half her face. But not her eyes.
Not those goddamn eyes.
Wide. Glassy. Swollen.
Begging.
She looks straight at me.
Not the floor. Not the crowd. Not the camera.
Me.
And she doesn't plead with words. She pleads with everything else.
With her trembling knees.
Her split lip.
The way she struggles to stand, even as the man next to her yanks her chain like she's a mutt on a leash.
There's blood on her thigh.
My jaw tightens.
I know her.
Not by name. Not by story. Just by presence.
I'd seen her in a café months ago, laughing with friends, spilling coffee, yapping non-stop while tucking that impossibly long hair behind her ear. She'd smiled at the waiter like she could heal him. Like she hadn't seen hell.
Now she is hell.
And she's being auctioned to men who won't keep her alive.
The announcer sneers. "Pure. Unbroken. Virgin–"
"Ten million," I say.
The room falls silent again.
Then chaos.
"You can't just—!"
"That's double the starting—"
"Is he serious—"
I raise my hand.
And they all shut up.
"Ten. Million. Dollars," I repeat. My voice could cut through bone. "Sold. To me. Or I'll burn this place down with your wives inside it."
The announcer gulps. Nods.
"Sold… to Mr. Blake."
I step forward. Every man steps back.
She stares at me like I'm war.
Like I'm salvation.
I reach for her chain, and she flinches.
Not away.
Toward me.
Her legs give out, and I catch her.
She weighs nothing.
Skin too cold, wrists too raw. She smells like cheap soap and old blood.
She doesn't speak.
Just buries her face into my chest like she's trying not to exist.
I look down at her and say, low, dark, and final:
"You're mine now. And no one will ever touch you again."