Nico's eyes fluttered open, and the world blazes in pain long before shape, light, or sound settle in his mind.
His skull feels like it's cracking inside, as if someone struck him with a hammer.
For a moment, there's only darkness and the roaring headache, and a sickening lurch of vertigo that pitches him sideways.
"Urg...!" He groans in pain, trying to orient himself.
His sense of direction is messed up, up feels like down, left like right, and it feels like he's falling down.
He tastes rust and something cold in his mouth, or maybe it's the air. The air is dry, stale, and hollow.
His lungs inflate slowly, taking a sharp intake of breath, but each breath rasped past his cracked lips.
Then, with agonizing delay, motion returns.
He draws his hand toward his face. His fingers were trembling. He blinks, but when his eyelids part, light shreds through blackness in shards.
Pale, dull, flickering.
At first, he sees nothing.
A pinpoint of faint dark gray, then the rough texture of stone beneath him.
Cold and damp. He flops onto his back, his muscles numb, and his head pounding like a drum in a cavern.
Vertigo shrieks; the floor tilts. He clamps his eyes shut again, and when he opens them, he is looking up at iron bars.
Bars. Not a window but a single grated aperture high above him. Beyond it, darkness. The walls closed around him like sharpened teeth.
He shivers; cold isn't a surprise. The nakedness he felt afterwards is. The cold air bit at his skin, and the fact that he was lying on the stone floor did not make it any better.
Chilling shame and panic twist through his spine. He crawls to his hands, his chest heaving. The breath whimpers out slowly, shallow.
He was naked, hungry, and exposed. Not the best way to wake up.
He flexes his hands. They looked foreign: The fingers were too long, the wrists too thin. His skin was whiter than he remembered.
The bones beneath protrude just under the surface.
He presses his palm against the stone floor, noticing, his arms are bone and muscle fade. Too skinny.
A memory flashed in his mind.
Bang! The moment he was shot, straight in the head.
He flinches, his body trembling from the memory. The moment was deeply ingrained in his mind with terrifying clarity.
I'm not dead?
He reached for his head, but the rattle of chains caught his attention. One on each wrist, metallic links weighted with years, maybe.
He lifts further, and cold confidence turns to rattling panic. He's chained to something: the chains dangle, anchored to something he can't see. Surely he can't be free to move far.
He puts a hand to his temple, his fingers feeling the spot where the bullet had landed. No sign of a mark.
Not like he was expecting any.
'Was it all a dream then? But then, where am I?'
The thought struck him like an answer he did not want. Something told him he had definitely died there.
'But then, what happened afterwards?'
He sits up, groggy, knees buckling beneath exposed ribs. He shivers, and then he becomes aware of his hair, long, thick, black.
It trails across the cold floor behind him. He pulls a strand before his face. It curves downward in a heavy wave.
He jerks back; that shouldn't be. 'My hair… it was always short.'
He wraps his hand through the length and pulls at it, the shock of missing memories jolting through his brain:
He wanted short hair last time he looked in a mirror. Now the length tangles coldly against the stone. He curls it around his fingers like a tether to something lost.
The dim enclosure is silent except for the hiss of his breath. He strains to remember—street corner, blood, an alley—faces. But there's only darkness, then repetition.
He rises, pulling at the chains. The weight jangles in resonance with ragged heartbeat. The metal is old.
He inches along the uncaring surface. The chains dig cold at his skin as friction hisses between link and link.
He moves inch by excruciating inch until he brushes the wall. A breath of dust rises. He presses a palm against it, mold, cold moisture, limestone cracks.
He wants to scream, but the sound might echo to someone outside. He holds.
The vertigo eases a little; focus sharpens. His vision darkens but then readjusts. He looks down at his body.
Sunken chest.
Grooves carved into ribs. No scars, no tattoos. No fiber of clothing. He remembers fabric. He was clothed. But where?
He rubs his cheek. His skin, thin, tight. He feels the bones of his face more than the flesh. He touches his jawline; his cheekbones seem exaggerated now.
He climbs awkwardly, pulling himself upright via the chains. He stands so slowly that sweat pours onto the cold stone before he disables a faint tremor.
He locates the edge of the cage: bars thick as thighs, set in a circle so tight he can just turn slowly inside.
He takes a cautious step and shifts. The chains allow just a few feet of motion.
He moves toward one narrow gap, just enough for fingertips to touch something beyond the bars.
He slides his fingers forward. The metal rings clink and rattle, echoing into the gloom.
His fingertip brushes the rim of a metal basin outside the cage. He drags it closer, dragging along the tethering chain.
It hits his fingertips.
Cold. Damp. He leans into it.
The basin shakes slightly. Whatever sound it makes is swallowed by distance. He lifts it. The steel scrapes the stone like a second heartbeat in the dark.
He lets it fall back. Every clang of metal makes him wince, pain and shame twist in his gut.
Why is he here? He tries to piece together fragments: A mission? A fight? A prisoner exchange? But his memory is a blank screen.
Later, or maybe sooner, he becomes aware of a shape shifting through the gray gloom: a figure in the corridor just beyond one set of bars.
He hears footsteps, soft, deliberate. Something drips from overhead grids, clattering far away. He freezes. His heart hammers in his rib cage.
Oslo. He stares at the corridor and fights to steady himself. He holds his breath further. The corridor empties but for shadows, but a voice echoes.
Nico's head snaps toward the sound. He struggles to push himself forward.
The chain yanks taut as he lurches; he falls backward onto his knees. His palms strike hard against the stone. The impact radiates up his arms.
Silence.
Then, a slow click, the sound of a metal key entering a lock. He looks up and sees the cell door begin to swing inward at a tortoise pace.
A slice of corridor light spills across his face. His pupils widen; frozen dread and confusion twist together.
Nico gulps. His mouth is dry. He tries to find words, but his voice fails him.
He swallows hard. The figure steps closer. He looks up and realizes for the first time how very tall this person is, cold, grainy light catching flat planes of unspoken authority.
The figure tilts its head. "Nico," the voice booms, deeper than Nico expected, and yet.
He tries again. A whisper. "Wh— why am I here?" There is nothing but a hoarse croak.
Nico's vision swims as the figure steps into the dim corridor, accompanied by a striking woman whose beauty threatens to dissolve his fogged mind.
She walks behind the man, who was tall but wiry, the kind whose teeth show too much when he smiles.
Yet it's her that shifts the air: Oiled skin that helped absorb the glow of torchlight, silk that gleamed emerald in the gloom of the dungeon hallway, tight folds hugging an hourglass form so flawlessly balanced it looked sculpted.
Everything about her felt impossible in this place.
She brushes her fingertips along the iron grating and peers in, lashes lowering, pupils widening. "Is this the slave?" she asks, her tone both cold and intimately amused.
The trader, Kyle, nearly swallows his crooked grin. "Yes, Madam," he says, too eagerly. "The lanky one. He's quite a find."
He steps closer to the bars, nodding to Nico. "His frame is raw bone, keen for conditioning. And his member size, he meets your… specifications, perfect for a sex slave."
His voice slides from business to boast. "One hundred gold," he makes counting fingers—"coins will make him (and you) yours." He pushes his own skeletal shoulder forward, his grin brittle.
Nico's heart stutters. "What? One hundred gold?" The words burn in his head, but he doesn't speak them; his throat feels parched and trapped. The word gold echoes like another cage.
'Where the hell did I end up!?'
The woman glides forward, observing him from beneath dark lashes.
Every curve of her is framed by opulent drapery fashioned to entice, not a hint of shame.
Her necklace, heavy and golden, clinks softly as she inclines toward the trader, voice silk over steel: "I expect he won't disappoint."
She extends a hand to the man. He responds by putting out his own palm as she hands him a thick velvet pouch. It clinks in his palm as he takes it and drops it into a hidden pocket at his waist.
She turns, steps back from the doorway, and gestures sharply: "I put in extra. Prepare him." The syllables are crisp. "Clean him up, dress him in fresh linen."
She pauses just long enough to let her skirts rustle a ghost of invitation, then glides away with the assurance of the wealthy in full control, leaving the trader's grin in the stale silence.
Once she's gone, the man releases a breath, sharp but nearly inaudible, but charged with relief.
His voice changes, rougher, now rushed: "Rejoice, slave," he breathes out, "for you have found a master."
He claps his hands once, and from the shadows emerges another figure: a young woman Nico hadn't noticed. She bows her head as the man orders, "Fetch water, fresh clothes, and clean him properly. From head to toe, gentle. The mistress paid well for proper presentation."
The assistant nods without hesitation: "Yes, Master." Her voice is so soft that Nico doubts he heard it.
She hurries away, the soft slap of boots echoing, leaving the man alone. He catches Nico's shaking gaze. "Worth every coin," he chuckles, but it doesn't reach his eyes.
The young girl's soft-footed return echoed not long after.
She pushes open the heavy gate, burdened by a wooden basin sloshing with water, a stack of coarse linen, and a rag that drips sweat-brown brine.
With hesitant grace, she enters the cage and kneels in front of Nico
He flinches at the sight of fresh garments, but relief tingles at another chill, as she raises the cloth.
It dances between them with scents of herbs and salt. He's never felt such tenderness before: a slave cleansed by another's touch.
He flinches in pain as the warm cloth stings his skin, but he manages to catch himself quickly.
The girl dips the cloth into the water. She wipes Nico's shoulders first, rinsing the grime from hips to ribs.
Bits of dried straw crumble off his back, echoing faintly in the stone-cold dungeon.
He suppresses a shudder. The soap bubbles his skin, exposing each bruised muscle strand. His breath catches — not shame, but disbelief at how hollow his limbs have become.
The girl lifts strands of his long black hair and dabs cold water to his face.
Under her fingertips, he feels the pulse flicker: damp hair, damp eyelids, a reflection of himself coming into sharper focus.
He stutters, "W‑where am I?"
She pauses, setting the bowl down with a whisper. Scrubs softly slide across his chest, releasing a residue of sweat and fear.
Then she looks at him, her expression calm. "You're in Sundale City," she says, voice more confident than she looks. "You're here in Master Draven's Slave Market."
Her words ripple through his mind.
Slave Market.
Just like he'd murkily imagined hearing earlier, a place where bodies were bought and sold as troves of commerce.
He thinks of heaps of naked forms, iron cages, and investors examining flesh like fruit; his heart, a caged avian, flutters faster.
TV Tropes' definition flashes across his memory; the relentless power dynamic in slave markets was more than a trope; it was reality here
"I'm... a product, then?"
She lowers her gaze. "I—" she takes a breath, "I belong to Draven. I'm his assistant-slave. He called for a fine 'condition,'—he expected pristine, clean, presentable."
She tugs the linen robe once; the cloth falls around Nico's waist. "He said you matched the 'specifications.'"
Nico looks at his washed, hairless torso, now pure under the cloth's rumpled folds. He touches his throat, arms; a memory pulses so gently that he fears it's not real. But then another strikes: My hair was short.My name used to feel right.Where I come from, I had—
He stares at her face, as though she contains a map that might guide him back. "I... I think I—I remember another life," he breathes, faintly. Another me, but this body was not my own. Reincarnated in another world, it wasn't a dream. It was transmigration, so widely known in isekai tales. He had woken here, not with memory, but with scattered shards of before.
The girl stands. She refolds the clean cloth and nods. Privately loyal boss or not, to her, the truth is compassion: "Master pays for condition. He pays for silence. You're his now." But there's something else there, something like sorrow, or pity.
He swallows hard. 'Transmigrated...'
She doesn't speak further but steps back and closes the basin. A single chain link dangles as she moves. It settles with a final click, echoing like a promise: nothing about this place is right, but he's not dead.