"Monsters don't hide in the shadows.
They build mansions beside them."
We're going for:
Covert exchange
Human cargo feel
No paper trail
Underground filth meets elite silence
A terrifying contrast between how expensive it was… and how degraded she is
[Scene: 3:21 AM – Private Forest Road – Behind Riven's Estate]
No city lights. No neighbors. Only trees, mist, and mud.
A single truck sat deep in the forest clearing — no plates, no insignia, just matte black metal and humming engines. No headlights. Only a burner drone hovered overhead, watching the exchange.
A man stepped out of the shadows in a long coat — not uniformed, but armed. His hands were gloved. He didn't speak.
Riven waited nearby.
No guards. No cameras. Just him.
He didn't bring staff. This wasn't a delivery. This was a transfer of ownership.
[Scene: Inside the Truck – Rear Chamber]
Behind four layers of locked steel:
She sat.
Ash. Or what was left of her.
Shoved into a metal box no longer than a bathtub — padded inside with chains on the floor. No windows. Just darkness.
The smell of disinfectant, urine, and something chemical.
Her knees hugged her chest. Her hair matted. Collar pulsing faint red.
She didn't cry.
She just ticked — a subtle, repeated head jerk, from over-sedation and trauma loop conditioning.
Her eyes? Golden. Glazed. Awake, but not present.
[Scene: The Handoff]
The armed man typed a code into the back panel. Hydraulic locks hissed.
He didn't open the door.
He stepped back.
Riven did the rest.
He walked up. Looked at the reinforced bolts. Then the temperature sensor.
The chamber was kept just above freezing.
To slow down brain activity.
To keep the "merchandise" calm.
He pressed the release.
With a hiss, the back peeled open — not like a delivery truck… but like a morgue slab.
Inside:
Ash was curled, naked, chained loosely to the floor.
She didn't scream. She didn't flinch.
But she blinked at the light like it burned her.
Riven crouched.
No emotion on his face.
Riven (calm):
"You remember this cold, don't you?"
Ash didn't speak. Her throat had no moisture left.
He watched her twitch — barely moving — like something half-human, half-memory.
Riven (to the handler):
"No sedation?"
Handler:
"Per request. We gave her the full emotional retention treatment."
He handed Riven a black data drive.
Handler:
> "Twenty-two sessions. Three identities fractured.
You got what you paid for."
Riven took it. Slipped it into his coat.
Then stared into the box again.
Ash's lip trembled. One eye darted to the open forest. Then to him.
She didn't move.
Riven:
"Move."
Her collar buzzed. Not violently. Just enough to make her twitch.
She crawled.
Out of the box. Onto the wet dirt.
Her knees scraped rock. Her palms pressed into mud.
No one offered help.
No one dared.
She knelt at his feet.
Not because she wanted to.
But because she'd been engineered to believe there was nothing else.
Riven:
"She'll walk. Slowly. If she collapses, I won't pick her up."
Handler:
"Doesn't matter. The system's in her head now."
Riven (quietly):
"Then she'll walk."
He turned his back.
Started walking toward his estate.
Ash followed. On her knees at first. Then on trembling feet.
She limped through the forest like a ghost dragging her own chain.
No goodbye. No proof. No lights.
The truck vanished into the dark, just as silently as it came.
[Scene: Inside the Mansion – Servant's Entrance]
No main hallway.
No chandelier.
Just a back corridor meant for dirty things.
Riven opened the side door. Let her in.
No words.
He didn't even look at her again.
She stepped in.
Collapsed on the tile.
Door closed.
Inside the Mansion – Servant's Corridor
The walls were pale marble, veined with grey. Spotless. Sterile.
Not a place for family. Not a place for life.
Just silence.
Ash lay collapsed on the cold tile. Her limbs stiff, her hair still damp from frost.
Riven stood over her. Coat off. Sleeves rolled.
He didn't speak.
He knelt beside her. Lifted her wrist.
Pulse: faint. Skin: cold. Collar: still active.
He sighed.
"Let's make sure you don't rot on my floor."
He didn't drag her. He didn't cradle her.
He lifted her like one would a broken violin — delicate, expensive, lifeless.
Her head lolled against his chest, mouth slightly open. A whisper escaped, half-syllable, not even speech.
He didn't respond.
[Scene: Lower Quarters – Private Bathing Room]
Warm mist coiled in the air. Black stone tiles. Golden fixtures.
It smelled of eucalyptus and nothing else.
She twitched in his arms as the heat touched her. Her body wasn't used to warmth anymore.
He placed her in the tub.
Not gently.
Just... mechanically. Like removing filth from furniture.
The water was already running. Not too hot. Just enough to open nerve endings.
She whimpered at the touch. Like boiling needles on skin long-deprived of sensation.
Riven poured soap into his hand — unscented, medical-grade — and began.
He washed her like a thing. Not a woman.
Her arms. Her legs. Her back. Her face.
She didn't resist. She didn't blink. She just existed.
Only her eyes moved — flicking toward the ceiling light, then closing again.
He washed the bruises. The grime. The blood flakes still stuck to her ankles.
Her breath hitched once when his hand reached her spine.
He paused.
"Still human somewhere in there, huh?"
He said it without venom. Just... data.
Then he finished.
[Scene: Drying Table – Adjacent Room]
He lifted her again. Laid her on a black leather bench. Heated.
A stack of soft towels rested beside her. He dried her like a machine operator.
Quick, functional. No gaze lingered.
Then: a robe. Plain white cotton. Loose. Humiliatingly modest.
He wrapped her in it. Tied the knot. Not tight. Just secure.
She barely breathed.
[Scene: Riven's Private Quarters – The Bed]
This was no luxury suite. No romantic spread.
Just one heavy bed in the middle of a dim room — sheets black, lights low.
He set her on the edge.
She slumped sideways, head hitting the pillow like a corpse returning to grave dirt.
For a second… she whimpered.
A sound.
The first real human sound in days.
But Riven didn't flinch.
"Sleep. You'll need it."
She didn't reply. Couldn't.
Eyes closed.
Not from trust.
From shutdown.
Her breathing slowed. Muscles relaxed.
For the first time in days — no shocks, no whispers, no screens.
Only silence.
And him.
Watching.
[Scene: Final Moment – 4:11 AM]
He stood at the edge of the bed.
Looked down at what he paid for.
Not a person.
A result.
He sat on the nearby chair. Crossed one leg.
Slipped the black drive from his coat pocket and held it against the light.
Twenty-two sessions. Three fractured identities.
But none of that mattered now.
Because now... she was his.
Not through force.
Through design.
"Sleep well, Ash," he whispered.
"We start the real game soon."