Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The young man thrashed violently, his screams echoing through the gathered crowd. Two handlers restrained him with practiced ease, dragging his flailing body across the auction stage. His wrists were bound behind his back, his legs nearly giving out with each step. Panic twisted his beautiful face — finely sculpted features usually composed in smug calm now contorted with raw fear.

“You can’t do this to me!” he cried, his voice breaking. “I’m not a slave! I’m a noble! I’m not a FUCKING slave!”

The handlers ignored him. They had heard it before — the same denial, the same delusion, clung to like a last breath. The branding flame hissed softly nearby.

The crowd murmured, curious. This one was different. Not only young and clearly highborn, but strikingly beautiful. His long, light brown hair hung to his shoulders, slightly tangled but still clean — a clear mark of recent privilege. His skin was pale, untouched by the sun, untouched by hardship. His frame was delicate, elegant — made for leisure, not labor.

The new owner stepped forward. A man dressed in colorful finery, his posture relaxed, confident, owning not just the boy but the stage itself. He smiled faintly as he approached, amused by the boy’s screaming.

“Would you like to brand him now, sir?” asked one of the court officials, bowing slightly.

The master nodded, still smiling. He motioned behind him, and a woman in a collar — another slave, older, quiet — stepped forward and handed over a rod. Its metal end bore the engraved initials of the master, ornate and cruel in design. The official took it and pressed it into the flame.

The slave’s begging had grown hoarse, more pathetic by the second. “Please—please—I’ll pay it back—I’ll do anything—” His sobs punctuated each word, each one sharper than the last.

The handlers forced him to his knees, pulling down the robe at his shoulder.

The hiss of hot metal against skin filled the square.

His scream tore through the air like a wounded animal’s. The smell of burnt flesh drifted out, acrid and unforgettable. His body spasmed, his mouth wide open in silent agony before the sound came crashing out again. His cries slowly weakened, his eyes rolled back — and then he passed out.

—

He awoke with a jolt, gasping. For a fleeting moment, he thought it had been a nightmare. But the pain in his shoulder shot through him as he shifted. The rough fabric of the thin robe brushed against the fresh brand, and he cried out.

He sat up in a dark, cold room. Rows of beds. Bodies. Breathing. Some awake, some snoring. A low ceiling, crumbling walls. The air stank of sweat and old blood.

A slave quarter.

He froze.

One of the shapes stirred, then rose — tall, heavy, limping slightly. The figure approached, slowly, the boards creaking beneath him. The boy pressed himself into the wall behind his bed, trembling. His breath hitched in his throat. He felt the kind of fear no tale or nightmare could prepare him for — this wasn’t a ghost story. This was real.

The man struck a match, lighting a candle. The sudden glow illuminated his face — misshapen, scarred, one eye a milky white. The sight of him made the boy recoil further, shielding his face with his hands.

“You’re awake, little lord,” the man said in a rough, gravelly voice.

The boy sobbed harder, his shoulders shaking.

The man placed a heavy hand on his shoulder — not unkind, but not gentle either.

“Open your eyes. It’s alright. I’m not going to be hurting you today.”

That only made him cry harder. The sound roused others from their sleep. Quiet groans echoed around the room.

“Shh. No, don’t cry.” The man looked away, clicking his tongue, frustrated. “Look. The master doesn’t usually buy ones like you — soft ones. I don’t really know how to deal with this kind of mess. So stop crying or I will have to hurt you.”

The threat worked. At least partially. His sobs lessened into shallow, trembling breaths. His pale chest rose and fell rapidly. His lips were parted, dry.

“You’re disturbing the others,” the man muttered. “Let’s go talk somewhere else.”

He grabbed the boy’s wrist and yanked him upright. The boy screamed, twisting in his grip.

“I’m not a slave! Let me go! Unhand me, you stupid slave!”

The man sighed, completely unbothered. He picked the boy up and tossed him over his shoulder like a sack of grain. He kicked open the door and carried him through the dim corridor, the boy wailing and thrashing.

They entered another room — larger, colder, the air still. The man set him down in the corner on the floor.

He walked around lighting the lanterns one by one. Each flicker of flame revealed more of the chamber. A leather-strapped chair. A table covered in metal tools. A whipping post. A small cage. Chains dangling from the ceiling like vines.

The boy’s stomach turned. His mouth went dry. He huddled into the corner, hugging his knees to his chest, helpless. The robe he wore — a slave’s robe — felt like acid against his skin.

The man crouched in front of him, holding out a chipped glass of water.

The boy just stared at it, trembling.

“I’m not a—” he choked out.

The man cut him off, “I know. You were a noble. But now you aren’t. Now you’re a slave. Okay? Calm down. Drink this.”

“No! NO, I’M NOT! YOU are! I’M NOT!”

The man raised a brow. “Really? Then why are you here, sir?”

“You don’t get it!” the boy shrieked. “You’re just a slave! You’ll never understand!”

The man sat down fully in front of him with a tired groan. “Then explain it to me. Go on. I’m the handler here. Maybe I can help.”

The boy hesitated. He didn’t know why — desperation, perhaps. He wiped his face with shaking fingers.

“They… they broke into my house,” he began, his voice cracking. “They said—we were in debt. Debt. My father—he… he died just a few days ago, maybe he took the money, maybe it was his mistake—I don’t know!” He sobbed, rocking slightly. “They took my mother. And—and my little sister. She’s only four. Four! They can’t just—”

His voice broke entirely. He buried his face in his hands and wept.

“They said we were being punished for failing to pay.”

The man watched him without blinking. “Sounds like you are a slave, doesn’t it?”

“No!” the boy wailed. “It’s not my debt! It’s not mine…”

“I know it doesn’t seem fair,” the handler said flatly, “but your father’s debt falls on you. That’s how it works.”

“No… no… no… no…”

His breaths came faster, shorter, his chest rising in jerks. He repeated the word over and over again, eyes wide, nails digging into his arms so deep he left marks.

The man didn’t move. He had seen it before. The panic, the madness. He would adjust. They always did. Eventually.

After some time, the boy curled into himself and passed out, his cheeks still wet with tears.

The handler sat back, stretching his arms with a sigh. This one was going to be… interesting.

---

“Keep still, 23.” The handler gripped his wrist firmly with one hand, stretching out his arm as he scrubbed at the pale, tender skin with the other. 23 trembled, every muscle tense, trying to twist away, one arm desperately trying to cover himself. The handler's grip was iron, and the harsh cloth scraped over his skin, stinging where yesterday’s branding mark throbbed raw.

“It’s too hot! Get away from me! I can bathe myself!” he gasped as steaming water poured over his head, making him flinch back.

The handler sighed, not loosening his grip, his voice flat, almost weary, “Not here. It’s the master’s orders. He expects you clean. You’ll be presented to him formally today. The master despises filth.”

The handler didn’t seem cruel, exactly. But he didn’t soften either; his hands were practiced, efficient, scrubbing every part of 23 with detached routine, even when 23 struggled hardest at the intimate parts, squirming and whimpering in shame. The steam curled around them, thick and suffocating, as the handler tipped another bucket over his hair, rough fingers digging into his scalp.

By the end, 23 had stopped fighting, panting from exhaustion, his skin raw and flushed. When the handler finished, he wrapped him briskly in a thin towel, drying him off in quick, strong strokes that left him almost stinging. Then he draped a translucent robe around him — the fabric clung damply to his body, hiding almost nothing. It didn't exactly look bad, it couldbe best described as... humiliating.

“There,” the handler muttered, tying the sash. “Be on your best behavior, boy. If the master likes you, he’ll treat you well. Like the last 23.”

23 blinked at him, confused, but the handler had already turned, leading him up the stone stairs out of the bathing rooms and into the hallways above. The shift from the damp heat to the cool marble halls made him shiver, the thin robe doing little to protect him. He wrapped his arms around himself, looking at the elegant decorations, the fine carpets and polished wood trim. It almost looked like home.

He startled when the master’s voice boomed from across the room, smooth and commanding. “You are Thomas, yes? Son of Fredrick?”

23 froze. He looked up quickly and his breath caught. The man standing at the top of the small dais, draped in rich silk, was a familiar face. Walter. His father’s old friend, the one who had visited so often, laughing, sharing drinks and secrets with Father, ruffling Thomas’ hair when he was small. A rush of relief flooded him, so fierce his knees almost buckled.

“Uncle Walter!” he gasped, stepping forward, the words spilling out. “Yes, yes, I’m Thomas. Uncle, please — my mother and Daniella, you saw her, my sister — you can help them too, we need to leave here, please — ”

Walter smiled faintly, the corners of his mouth twitching in something like amusement. He let Thomas ramble on, the boy’s voice growing ragged with desperate hope.

Then he cut him off, voice cool and almost pitying. “Thomas … do you really think I bought you to set you free?”

23 blinked, his words faltering. The smile was still on Walter’s lips, but it didn’t reach his eyes. A hollow pit opened in 23’s stomach.

“No, boy,” Walter continued softly. “You were always so lovely. Even as a child, I noticed. That skin, that delicate face. You’ve grown into it well. I could not pass you by when I saw you on the block yesterday. My old 23 was aging out anyway.”

23 shook his head, backing away a step. “Uncle … you’ve known me since I was a child,” he whispered, voice trembling. “This — you can’t — ”

Walter chuckled, stepping down from the dais, closing the space between them. “Oh, dear boy. You think affection and desire are so different? They are not. I want you, Thomas. Or should I say ‘23’.”

He reached out and grabbed his wrist, fingers biting into the raw skin. 23 whimpered, trying to jerk away, but Walter pulled him close, brushing a thumb over his cheek.

“Tell me, Thomas,” he breathed, his breath warm and sickening on his skin, “Will you please me? As I desire?”

23 screamed, “No! Please, no!” He twisted frantically, pulling at the iron grip on his wrist. The raw panic in his eyes made Walter’s smile widen.

“Ah, you’ll learn,” Walter murmured, looking over his shoulder at the handler standing patiently nearby. “1, the introductions are over. Take him. Train him. I don’t want him insolent or clueless when I call for him next.”

“Yes, master,” 1 said evenly.

Walter let go abruptly and 23 stumbled, falling to the marble floor with a dull slap, his thin robe fluttering around his knees. He scrambled back, eyes darting to the window. He ran, slamming his shoulder into it, but the glass barely rattled. He spun and ran for the door, banging his fists against it, sobbing, “Please! Please let me out!”

1 stepped forward calmly, strong hands reaching out. He took 23 by the elbow, pulling him away from the locked door, ignoring his kicks and screams. 23 sobbed, calling for his mother, for anyone, but the hall stayed silent, the master’s laughter echoing in the background.

“Come now,” 1 muttered, dragging him along the polished floor. “It’ll be worse if you fight.”

"And also" the master called our after them, "No permanent damage 1, do whatever, but nothing permanent." 1 nodded and continued outside.

23 only cried harder, the sound ragged and hopeless, as the heavy door shut behind them.

---

Chapter Text

Thomas lounged atop the silk-covered mattress, arms folded comfortably behind his head, one leg lazily draped over the other. The late afternoon sun streamed through the stained glass panels, casting soft hues of ruby, gold, and violet across the bed and his pale, flawless skin. His hair fanned out around him like a halo, a prince in repose, radiant and untouchable.

He tilted his head slightly and caught sight of the petite figure seated stiffly in the corner of the room, her back ramrod straight on the cushioned chair. She looked uncomfortable, hands clenched tightly in her lap, her eyes fixed firmly on the floor. The simple black-and-white maid’s uniform she wore couldn’t hide the tremble in her shoulders.

“Tina,” Thomas called lazily, his voice soft but pointed, “why are you sitting so far away?”

She flinched, barely lifting her gaze. Her cheeks were already flushed, not from affection but discomfort. She shifted further toward the edge of the chair as if physical distance could undo the tension in the air. “Sir… please,” she said, her voice barely audible. “May I go now?”

He sat up, pushing himself off the bed with an exaggerated groan. “Ugh. How many times must I tell you not to call me that?” His bare feet padded against the marble floor as he crossed the room with slow, measured steps.

Tina instinctively shrank into the chair, her spine curling inward as he approached. Thomas placed his hands on either side of the backrest, boxing her in. He leaned down, eyes glinting mischievously.

“Are you shy, or just being difficult again?” he teased, tilting his head playfully.

“Sir… please…” she whispered again, eyes clenched shut as if willing herself invisible.

His fingers found her chin, gently but insistently forcing her to look up at him. “No deflecting, Tina. Remind me—what did I tell you to call me?”

Her lips quivered. “I… I cannot, sir. I am but a slave. Your name is not mine to use.”

Thomas raised an eyebrow, amused by her stubbornness. “So you’ll defy a direct order?” he asked, voice light, but laced with warning.

Tears welled in her eyes, clinging to the edges of her lashes. “Please,” she choked out, “please, let me go. If the master sees me here with you…” She buried her face in her hands, trembling. “I can’t take it anymore.”

Something in her voice made Thomas stop. His teasing expression faltered. “Did my father… do something to you?”

She didn’t answer right away. Her shoulders shook, and for a long moment, there was only the sound of her shallow breathing.

“Tina.” His voice hardened. “What did he do?”

Finally, she raised her head, her eyes no longer soft and frightened but cold and eerily calm.

“He exercised his right,” she said quietly. “I do not blame him. And neither should you.” She paused, her gaze steady and emotionless. “He was right to be angry. You… you kissed me. And he saw it. I should never have allowed it. I’m a slave. You’re highborn. I should never have touched you.”

Thomas blinked, caught off guard by her sudden clarity. He stared at her, wide-eyed. He had never heard her speak so plainly before. Never with such conviction.

“Tina—”

She held up a hand, cutting him off.

“Listen carefully,” she said. “This is the only time I will say your name. Thomas—” her voice broke slightly, but she pushed through, “—you cannot and will not love me. And I… I am not allowed to love anyone at all.”

She stood then, her movements slow but deliberate, and began to walk toward the door.

He caught her wrist.

With a sudden yank, he pulled her back and pinned her against the wall. The sunlight caught the sheen of sweat on her brow, the subtle tremble in her knees.

“You drive me wild with your words, sweet slave,” he murmured, breath warm against her cheek. “You speak like you're mine, and yet you deny me. You speak of purity, of stations, yet who tends to my bed when no one is watching?”

His eyes narrowed, lips curling into a smirk. “If my father has a problem with me fucking you, he can take his own damn life. But the idea that I would stop? That, my dear, is the funniest thing I’ve heard all week.”

Tina tried to respond, but he didn’t let her. His mouth crashed onto hers, rough, urgent. She stiffened. Her memories flared—being dragged out of his room by the guards, tied to the punishment post, the lashes biting into her skin, her screams echoing through the estate. The shame. The blood. The burning.

Her hands trembled against his chest. She could feel him pressing against her, his body warm and alive and overpowering. Despite everything, part of her responded—body trained, conditioned, broken-in. But every time her eyes darted to the open door behind him, her heart nearly stopped.

Thomas was young. Arrogant. Reckless. He always got what he wanted. He never asked, because he believed he didn’t need to.

And he didn’t understand—what he wanted could get her killed.

Thomas slid one hand down the front of her dress, enjoying the warmth of her body, he pinched her nipples making her squirm and moan against his mouth.

He trailed his mouth down her neck and further, ripping her dress off.

He started sucking and biting her nipples, while his hands ventured further down. The dress was mercilessly desecrated and discarded to the ground.

He pulled away and slapped her hard making her head spin, “You think you can deny me, slut?” He grabbed a fistful of her hair and pushed her to her knees, “Do you need a reminder regarding your role in this house?”

He unbuttoned his pants hurriedly, taking out his hard cock. He pushed her head down making her suck it, he bobbed her head up and down violently making her choke and gag, her hands clawing uselessly at his as she struggled to breath. “That’s it bitch. That’s your place.”

He took out a cigarette from his pocket and put it in his mouth, he released his grip on her, “Keep sucking. Do not make me remind you of your place again.” She complied but slower. Her tongue licked around his length, teasing his tip. He moaned in pleasure as he retrieved a lighter from his pocket and lit his cigarette.

He suddenly took his cock out of her mouth and lifted her up by her neck, blowing smoke on her face, she flinched.

He grabbed her arms and roughly pushing her onto the bed. He lifted both her legs up by the ankles with one hand. He slid his fingers over her wet slit, “Whore” he licked his lips.

“Sir, we can’t” Tina whimpered between sobs, weakly trying to get him to let her go, “What did I tell you to call me?” he rammed his cock into her making her cry out, “Thomas! Oh God!” She covered her mouth, wide eyed, afraid.

Thomas put her legs over both his shoulders and leaned down, sucking and biting her neck leaving red marks, “Relax Tina, you’re just following orders” He rammed into her again, groaning in pleasure.

He started fucking her hard and fast, one of his hands clasping around her neck, and the other running through his hair as he threw his head back in pure ecstasy. Tina moaned softly, trying hard not to, her hand still firmly covering her mouth.

---

They lay tangled in the center of the sprawling bed, their bodies half-covered by a single silk sheet that clung to their skin in the warm evening air. The scent of sweat, smoke, and rose oil lingered around them. Thomas rested flat on his back, one arm tucked behind his head, the other draped lazily around Tina’s shoulders. She lay curled against his side, her cheek pressed to his chest, her fingers splayed softly over his skin.

She was still crying.

Not loudly—just the quiet, exhausted kind, the kind that didn’t shake the body anymore, only dampened the skin beneath her eyes. Her breath came slow and shallow.

Thomas exhaled a trail of smoke toward the ceiling, the cigarette between his lips glowing briefly in the dim candlelight.

“Tina,” he murmured, voice low and casual, as though they were merely talking over supper. “You know I love you. Why do you resist me?”

His fingers brushed against her bare shoulder, then slid upward, threading through her tangled hair.

“I swear it,” he said after a moment, his voice full of conviction he believed to be truth. “One day, I’ll marry you. I’ll make you mine properly. No one will dare touch you again. You won’t be a slave anymore.”

Tina didn’t respond. She didn’t look up. She only inched closer to his warmth, as though seeking safety from the very person who had just taken it away.

He turned his head, studying her profile. “Don’t you want that? To be free?” His voice was softer now. “Don’t you love me the way I love you?”

He plucked the cigarette from his lips and gently brought it to hers. She took it in silence, inhaling slowly, her fingers barely twitching. The smoke stung her throat, but she didn’t cough. She exhaled, watching the pale plume rise toward the carved ceiling above them.

Thomas smiled, pleased by the quiet moment. He pressed a kiss into her hair. “You see?” he whispered. “This... this is all I want.”

She closed her eyes. He didn’t understand. He never had.

His words were sweet—his touch could be tender—but they were always followed by bruises, by forced silences, by punishments she bore alone when the doors were closed again.

Tina didn’t speak. She couldn’t. Because she knew—knew his promises were as fleeting as the smoke curling above them. Words he thought he meant, but ones he would never act on. Words spoken in warmth, but abandoned in daylight. Words that would never hold weight in a world that had already decided what she was.

A possession.

A comfort.

A secret.

He would not marry her. Not because he didn’t love her in his own selfish, fervent way—but because he couldn’t. Not in a house like this. Not as the son of a man like his father. And not while she remained the thing she was raised to be: obedient, invisible, disposable.

She nestled closer to his chest, more out of habit than affection, and let him continue his fantasies aloud. She didn’t correct him. She didn’t cry any louder.

She just lay still, holding his warmth, and waited for morning.

---

“No!” 23 dry heaved, his body folding over as he turned his head away from the bowl placed before him. “I’m not eating this shit! This smells like vomit!” he gagged, clamping a hand over his mouth as bile rose in his throat.

1 sighed heavily, crouched across from him with a growing weariness in his posture. “You haven’t eaten since you arrived,” he said flatly. “Neither have you drunk any water. If you don’t want to eat, just have some water, okay?”

23 shook his head, stubbornly keeping his back turned. His body trembled, a mix of hunger and fury simmering beneath the surface.

“Do you want to die?” 1 asked in an exhausted tone. There was no cruelty in it—just blunt inevitability, the kind of patience that had long been worn thin.

“Fuck you! I’m not going to eat or drink anything this dirty and disgusting!” 23 spat, voice sharp and shaking. “It’s meant for people like you, not me! I’ll die anyway if I do!”

“You’re acting like a child, 23,” 1 muttered, rubbing the bridge of his nose. His temple throbbed. “I really don’t want to punish you right now. I’m tired, and my leg hurts.”

“You can’t fucking punish me!” 23 shouted, turning now to face him directly. His face was contorted with rage, but his eyes were wild—glassy, confused. “You’re a stupid fucking slave!”

1 narrowed his eyes slightly, not rising to the bait. He studied him—how his breathing was uneven, how his fists clenched just a little too tight to be confident.

“Now fuck off,” 23 snarled, with a sudden bitterness, “run to your dumb master and complain.”

1 raised his eyebrows at the change in tone. Where had this come from? A few hours ago, the boy had curled up in a corner like a beaten dog. Now he threw insults like they might shield him.

He sighed. Maybe the boy could do with a little discipline after all.

He pushed himself up, wincing slightly as pressure returned to his bad leg. The movement was slow, deliberate. Immediately, 23 flinched.

A small gesture—barely a twitch—but 1 saw it. He always noticed those little tells.

“Get up, 23,” he said with a roll of his eyes. “Don’t make this difficult for yourself.”

“Fuck you!” 23 barked again. His voice shook slightly now, the false confidence cracking at the edges, but he didn’t back down.

“No?” 1 shook his head, disappointment flickering across his face. “Fine then.”

Without hesitation, he stepped forward and grabbed 23 by the forearm, yanking him to his feet with practiced ease. The sudden contact made 23 gasp and struggle instinctively. They were already in the dungeon. There would be no hiding, no witnesses, no one to help him.

“NO! YOU CAN’T!” 23 shrieked, twisting in his grip. His voice was desperate now, rising into a panic-stricken pitch. He still clung to denial, to identity, to dignity. He still believed—somewhere deep down—that this wasn’t his life.

Not yet.

Not without a fight.

He bit down hard on 1’s arm, teeth sinking in deep enough to draw blood.

1 hissed in pain, jerking his arm back, “You little—”

His patience ended there. He grabbed 23 again, this time with no gentleness, no attempt to reason. He hauled the struggling man to the whipping post, ignoring the wild kicks and protests, and slammed his arms into the restraints, tying him up with brutal efficiency.

“Let go of me! You don’t get to do this! I’m not like the others!”

1 didn’t respond. He limped over to the implements rack and retrieved a bullwhip from the wall, the leather worn smooth by years of use. “Ten lashes should do you some good.”

He returned, setting the whip aside for a moment, and without a word, reached for 23’s robe. The fabric was thin and loosely tied—it offered no resistance as 1 tugged it off. He let it fall to the floor, exposing the younger man’s bare back.

He ran his fingers lightly over the smooth, unmarked skin, making 23 shiver.
“A shame to ruin this perfect skin though,” he muttered.

23 began shaking violently. He didn’t truly understand how much authority 1 had. He had never seen a slave discipline another. In his world—his old world—his father had always handled the punishments himself. Slaves weren’t given this kind of power.

1 cracked the whip once in the air. It echoed like thunder in the cold room.

23’s breath caught in his throat. His whole body jerked involuntarily.

“No… no, oh God. Please, no, you can’t,” he began whispering, as if to himself, as if saying it might make it true. The fear took over now—real, paralyzing fear. He shook his head wildly, pulling at the restraints.

A second crack in the air, closer this time.

It broke him.

“No! Please! I’ll drink it! Just—please, untie me!” he sobbed, head whipping around to look at 1, eyes wide and full of tears. His voice cracked like dry wood. “Please! I’ll drink it—I’ll eat it—I’ll eat all of it!”

But 1 didn’t answer. He simply stepped into position.

The first lash came without warning.

It stunned him. A flash of white-hot pain exploded across his back, stealing the air from his lungs. He gasped, but couldn’t make a sound.

Then three more landed in rapid succession—clean, brutal, perfectly spaced. 1 was practiced. A master. He didn’t waste motion. He knew how to cut deep, how to draw pain like an artist.

23’s body jolted with each blow, his spine arching involuntarily. He let out a ragged scream, then another, until his voice gave out entirely. His breath caught, strangled in his throat. His muscles twitched uncontrollably beneath his skin. His mouth hung open, voiceless, drool slipping down his chin.

1 paused, judging his condition, then resumed.

Again.

And again.

And again.

By the time the tenth lash fell, 23 was limp. His head lolled forward, his restraints the only thing holding him upright. His skin was shredded—bloody red welts crossing pale flesh. Shock painted his face. His eyes were wide, unfocused. Drool dribbled from the corner of his mouth.

1 calmly cleaned the blood off the whip and placed it back on the wall with care.

Then he walked over to 23 and untied him. The boy collapsed immediately, crumpling to the floor in a heap. He curled into a fetal position, hands over his head, his entire body trembling.

“Let’s get you cleaned up,” 1 said quietly.

He gently lifted 23 by the arms and guided him back to his corner of the room. He laid him down on his stomach.

23 began wailing. Loud, uninhibited, ugly crying that came from someplace deep—childlike, primal.

“Mama!” he cried through broken sobs. “Mama!”

“Stay still,” 1 muttered, stepping away and retrieving antiseptic and cotton from the shelf. He returned and pinned 23’s writhing body down with one arm, cleaning the wounds with the other. The moment the cloth touched broken skin, 23 screamed again—high-pitched, throat-tearing.

But 1 didn’t flinch. He cleaned the lashes methodically, ignoring the flailing, the screaming, the begging.

“Alright then,” he said finally, wiping his hands on a towel. He patted 23’s shoulder lightly, almost gently. “That’s done.”

He rose to his feet, glancing down at the boy, who now lay gasping, sobbing, clinging to whatever remained of himself.

“Sleep now. After you get up, you’re eating.”

He turned and left, locking the heavy iron door behind him with a dull click that echoed in the silence.

Chapter Text

It was a normal day.

Thomas woke up, did a few pushups, and went down for breakfast. Everything seemed the same—the warm morning light, the scent of baked bread in the air—but something felt... off. Tina was nowhere to be seen.

That was strange.

He glanced around the hallways, peering into open rooms and glancing behind furniture like she might be tucked into a corner, folding laundry or polishing something.

Nothing.

He frowned but said nothing, making his way to the dining room.

He sat at the long, polished table as a few slaves scurried to bring him his meal. They knew the rules—he was particular about breakfast. He only ate soft scrambled eggs and lightly toasted bread. Anything different—too runny, too dry, too crisp—was immediately sent back. Sometimes he’d throw the plate at the floor, sometimes he’d storm off and refuse to eat until lunch. No one dared challenge it.

Today, it was acceptable.

He ate slowly, chewing with disinterest, eyes trained out the window. The gardener was outside, bent over the hedges, clipping away. The sun caught on the silver shears.

Thomas sighed. Maybe he’d go to the tennis club today. Or maybe he’d hit the bar with his friends. He hadn’t decided yet. He might even do both.

Suddenly, arms wrapped around him from behind. He smiled at the familiar embrace.

“Tommy, my baby. How did you sleep?” his mother cooed, her voice playful and loving.

He leaned into her touch, letting the warmth of her presence relax him. “Fine, mama,” he murmured. “Though Daniella’s crying kept me up for quite a while.”

“Is that so! Oh, my poor baby!” she said dramatically, tightening her arms around him before planting a kiss on the top of his head.

“Mama,” he mumbled.

“Yes, sweetie?”

“Where’s Tina? I haven’t seen her.”

Her arms loosened ever so slightly.

She sighed.

“I told you to stay away from that wench, didn’t I?” Her tone changed, a softness curdling into irritation.

“Yeah, whatever.” He waved her off, still chewing. “Where is she, though? I like her being around to assist me with… stuff.”

He turned to look at her. Her expression was unreadable. She didn’t meet his gaze.

She pulled away and walked around to the other side of the table, sitting down across from him with grace and care. “Sweetie, listen…” she began gently, clasping her hands. “We know you liked her very much, but…”

She hesitated. Looked away.

“You know you couldn’t be with her, right? It’s okay to… use her. That’s normal. But it isn’t okay to love her.”

“Huh? What do you mean?” he said between bites. “Mama, I don’t love her. Why would I?” The lie slipped out so easily he almost believed it. He hated lying to his mother, but sometimes he had to. Loving a slave was absurd to them. Dangerous even.

She exhaled, rubbing a hand over her temple. “Baby… a slave overheard you two talking. He informed us of what you said to her. It was already too much that you were spending time with her constantly. But this?” She shook her head slowly.

He froze mid-bite.

“Did you do something to her?”

His voice was cautious, suddenly stripped of the carefree arrogance from moments ago. He searched her face, but she still wouldn’t look at him.

“We… sold her, honey.” Her voice was almost a whisper now. “We couldn’t risk having her around anymore. You were getting too attached.”

Thomas shot up from his chair, the legs screeching harshly against the marble floor.

“What the fuck?! Buy her back right now!” he shouted, his voice climbing fast. “You can’t fucking do this to me!”

His hand lashed out and threw the plate against the wall. It shattered, yolk and egg splattering onto the clean paint.

“How could you?! She was mine!”

“Sweetie—”

“No! Fuck you and fuck father! BRING HER BACK!”

A new voice cut in—calm, cool, and commanding.

“Shut up, Thomas.”

His father had entered the room. He wasn’t loud. He didn’t need to be.

“You do not understand anything of this world,” he said firmly. “You are but a child in mind, even though your body has grown.”

“Father!” Thomas turned to him, red-faced and shaking. “How could you?! She’s mine and only mine! She can’t be anyone else’s!”

“You’ll do no more shouting,” his father said simply, walking out. “Go to your room.”

“No! I’m going to get her back!”

“I said—now.”

And then he was gone.

Thomas stood still for a second, breathing hard. Then he let out a scream—raw and enraged—and stomped upstairs.

He tore through his room like a storm, smashing glass, throwing books, ripping clothes from drawers. Pillows burst. Frames cracked. The mirror shattered.

Later that day, he lay sprawled on his destroyed bed, angrily smoking a cigarette. The air was thick with smoke and the sharp smell of spilled perfume. Ashes and cigarette butts were scattered across the floor and bed sheets like tiny graves.

“May I come in, sir?” a quiet voice asked from the doorway.

Thomas looked up through the haze. It was a young slave—he recognized him faintly as Tina’s brother. The boy was crying, tears already streaking down his cheeks.

Thomas sat up, exhaling smoke. “What do you want?”

“I’m just here to clean up, sir,” the boy said softly, eyes downcast.

“Go on,” Thomas muttered, watching him. The boy moved slowly, quietly picking up broken glass and torn fabric.

After a moment, Thomas spoke again without thinking. “Why are you so upset?”

“No reason, sir.” The boy didn’t look up, but sobs kept wracking his small frame as he cleaned.

Thomas narrowed his eyes. “Just fucking say it. Why?”

The boy paused, then looked up.

And for the first time, he met Thomas’s eyes directly.

“Because of you, sir.” His voice cracked. “You killed her.”

Thomas blinked.

The boy wiped his tears, but his voice rose as fury overtook him. “You fucking killed her, you bastard! She never did anything wrong! She was just a girl!”

He dropped to his knees, crying uncontrollably.

“All she did was follow orders!”

Thomas stared, stunned.

“What do you mean? She got sold, didn’t she?” He stood up, walked over.

“Sold?” the boy spat the word. “Sold?! They tortured her to death!”

Thomas froze.

“Why?” the boy screamed. “Because you raped her for years! How was any of it her fault?!”

“No! Shut up, you stupid scum!” Thomas roared. He kicked him hard in the chest. The boy fell back, gasping.

“My mother wouldn’t lie to me! Stop lying!”

He grabbed the boy by the throat and yanked him up, rage surging in his chest like wildfire.

But the boy didn’t look away. His voice was hoarse, but steady. “Look into my eyes, you absolute moron. Tell me—am I lying? Kill me if you want, but it won’t change the truth.”

Tears streamed down his face as he choked on his own sobs.

Thomas’s grip loosened. He stumbled back.

No.

No, this wasn’t right.

He’s lying.

Isn’t he?

He’s not.

He’s not lying.

She’s dead.

She’s… dead.

She’s gone. She’s not coming back. He was supposed to marry her. She was his.

His breath started to quicken. No, no, no. This couldn’t be happening. This couldn’t—

Everything went black.

He collapsed.

---

When he came to, Thomas felt empty. The kind of emptiness that didn’t go away.

He couldn’t eat. He couldn’t speak. For days, he didn’t even get out of bed. His mother sat beside him, brushing his hair back, wiping his face, whispering lullabies like he was a child again—but he barely registered her.

Eventually, he walked again.

But he didn’t really live.

He avoided his family. Drank with friends. Drank until he passed out in alleys or club lounges, only to be dragged back home unconscious.

The only time he came home was when someone brought him.

It took months.

He still thought about her sometimes, in fleeting moments he could never hold onto.

His mother had gotten him a replacement. A prettier girl. More obedient. More “willing.”

He used her.

But he never loved her.

He never would.

He had made do.

And that was all he did now—make do.

---

23 jerked awake with a sharp gasp, his entire body recoiling as pain tore down his back. The sudden movement sent white-hot sparks through every welt and bruise. For a moment, he didn’t know where he was—until the room came into focus. Cold stone, the sting of old blood in the air, and…

Screaming.

Someone else was screaming.

He looked up through bleary eyes just in time to see 1 dragging a struggling man into the room. The man’s body was already a mess—his lip was split wide open, one eye blackened, his bare feet dragging helplessly along the floor as he begged.

“Please, 1! Please! You know I didn’t start the fight! You know he did it!” the man cried, his voice raw with desperation.

1, as always, was composed. Detached. Mechanical. He said nothing, didn’t even acknowledge the pleading, as he dragged the man over to the whipping post and began securing his arms.

“1, please! No! I didn’t do anything!” the man thrashed wildly now, tugging against the restraints, trying to kick—but he was already too hurt, too exhausted.

“I decide whether you did anything or not,” 1 said plainly, voice level, devoid of emotion. “I think I made the rules clear, didn’t I?” His tone never rose above calm authority as he scanned the wall of implements. Then, without hesitation, he selected a spiked whip.

“Whoever fights will be punished. Both parties. No exceptions.”

23’s stomach dropped as he watched.

1 ripped the man’s clothes off without ceremony. Beneath them was a body marked by dozens of old scars—some healed, most not. 1 didn’t wait.

The first lash tore across the man’s back with a sickening sound of skin splitting. The man’s scream ripped through the room like a dying animal. 23 flinched, clutching his own arms, the memory of his own punishment rising fast.

There was a difference this time though. 1’s movements weren’t as steady as before. There was tension in his shoulders. His blows, though still accurate and practiced, carried a subtle edge of frustration—anger even.

Each strike made the man convulse, his feet slipping against the blood-slick floor. 1 didn’t stop. Fifteen lashes came fast, relentless, cruel. The spikes chewed into flesh with each hit. By the end, the man’s back was shredded, the skin in ribbons, blood pooling beneath him in a slow, steady stream.

And still, 1 didn’t look bothered. His face was stone.

He didn’t even bother untying the man before tending to his wounds. Rough, dismissive cleaning—snatching gauze, pressing antiseptic into open meat. The man barely reacted now. His screaming had died down to a faint groan. He had given up.

“You know I’m going to punish 56 now, right?” 1 muttered, as if casually reminding the man of a schedule. “Both parties.”

Then he finally untied him, slung one of the man’s arms around his shoulder, and half-dragged him out of the room.

For a while, the silence buzzed in 23’s ears.

Then the door creaked open again.

Another man entered—quiet, calm. This one didn’t resist. He didn’t speak. He didn’t even flinch when he was led toward the same post. 56, maybe?

He paused beside 23’s corner.

“You’re awake,” 1 said, matter-of-factly. “Your food is beside your bed. Eat it, okay?”

23 nodded quickly, his eyes wide with fear. He didn’t trust his voice.

Satisfied, 1 gave a short nod and walked to the implements again. This time, he chose the bullwhip—the same one he’d used on 23.

He wasn’t rough this time. He didn’t shout. There was no trace of frustration in his movements now—just quiet control.

The same number of lashes. Fifteen.

But 56 didn’t make a sound.

He just hung there, trembling. His breath hitched now and then, and tears streamed down his face, but he never cried out. Never begged.

23 watched in silence, shocked by the contrast. Afterward, 1 gently cleaned his wounds. He even whispered something.

“Rest now, okay? Don’t go picking fights,” 1 said softly, almost like he cared.

Then they were gone.

23 sat in stunned silence for a long time before forcing himself to eat. The food was barely edible—some kind of broth turned gelatinous from sitting out too long, with a smell like rotting meat. He gagged every few bites, the bile rising up in his throat. The texture was repulsive, and the aftertaste stuck to his tongue.

Still, he ate. Because now he was scared.

He thought of how 1 had treated the other man—the one he whipped with the spikes. He didn’t want that. Maybe if he disobeyed again, 1 would punish him like that too.

Suddenly the door opened again, and 1 stepped inside.

23 gasped, startled, choking on a mouthful. He doubled over coughing violently, his eyes watering. 1 sat beside him without a word and rubbed his back in slow, circular motions.

23 flinched at the contact. 1 noticed.

“Are you scared of me, 23?” he asked, settling back with a faint smirk.

23 tried to compose himself, shrinking slightly away. “No,” he said in a small, fragile voice.

1 chuckled lowly. “Should I give you something to be scared of, then?”

He reached out casually toward him.

23 jerked away immediately. “I am. okay? Satisfied?” he snapped, trying to sound braver than he felt, looking away.

1 inhaled slowly, rubbing his temple.

“Look, I’ll never treat you like I treated 19, okay? That one isn’t a nice guy. You’re not like him.”

23 blinked. “Why? What did he do?”

1 shrugged, leaning against the wall. “He’s raped 56—many times. When 56 resists, he says 56 is starting a fight.”

23 stared at him, confused. “Raped? Is 56 female? I thought he was a man.”

1 snorted and burst into laughter. “You think only women can be raped?” He stared at 23 like he’d just heard a joke. “Seriously? Oh, you naïve little boy.”

23 was completely bewildered. “How is that even possible? I mean, we don’t have a… we don’t have the woman parts.”

1 was clearly enjoying himself now, eyes glinting. “What do you think the master’s going to do to you?” He didn’t say it cruelly—just curiously.

23 shifted uncomfortably, unable to meet his eyes. “Make me work, I think,” he mumbled.

1’s laughter echoed through the room. “Really?” he said, mocking. “You actually think you were brought here to clean the floors?”

He leaned closer. “Let me make it clear, 23—your only purpose here is to satisfy the master’s sexual desires. That’s all. In this household, the no.23s are always for that purpose.”

23 looked horrified.

“So I have to… suck?” he asked, his voice barely audible.

1 tried and failed to hide a laugh. “Yes. And he’ll use your hole too, you know—the one you use for excretion.”

23 recoiled, his face contorting in disgust. “That’s… that’s disgusting! You’re trying to scare me!” Tears welled in his eyes.

He hadn’t even thought of that possibility. He remembered trying with Tina once, and how she said it hurt too much. He had just assumed that kind of thing wasn’t real. Wasn’t possible.

1 gave him a light shrug, still smirking. “Sure. Sure. I’m making it up. Don’t worry about it now. Finish your food.”

23’s crying intensified.

“I can’t! It’s disgusting!” he sobbed, his throat burning.

1’s expression hardened. “Do you want another punishment?”

23 immediately shook his head violently, still sobbing. He picked up the bowl again and forced himself to swallow more of the vile food, gagging after every few bites.

After a moment, 1 sighed and reached over. “Fine. You can stop now. Tomorrow, you can eat properly when the food’s still warm, okay?”

23 nodded, pushing the tray away with trembling hands.

“Go to sleep now. We begin training tomorrow.”

1 walked to the door, hand on the lock, when 23’s voice piped up softly behind him.

“Why can’t I sleep there?”

1 turned. “Where?”

“In the other room… where I first woke up. It was warmer.”

There was a pause.

“It’s better if you stay here,” 1 replied simply.

Then he stepped outside and locked the door behind him.

Chapter Text

23 cried out in pain as 1 struck him with a riding crop.

“I’m fucking doing it, aren’t I?!” he shouted, his voice hoarse and cracking. His eyes were bloodshot from crying, his hair a tangled mess sticking to his sweaty face.

“It’s not right, 23,” 1 said, voice flat but edged with exhaustion. “You’re not doing what I told you. Arch your back properly.”

23 began to cry again—not from the pain, but from the sheer humiliation of it all. He was on the floor, posed like a dog. His knees bent beneath him, shins tucked under his thighs, his palms flat against the cold concrete. He tried again, tried to force the arch in his back, but his body resisted. It wasn’t that he couldn’t—it was that he couldn’t make himself.

“I can’t do this anymore! This is fucking humiliating!” he snapped, the words slipping out before he could stop himself.

1 looked tired. He had been at this all morning. His knee ached, and his head pounded from the effort of trying to mold this defiant noble boy into a proper 23.

“Look, 23, it’s my job to teach you this,” 1 said, rubbing his temples. “And it’s your duty to learn. I cannot stop until both are fulfilled.”

He struck him again, this time on his lower back. A sharp snap. 23 flinched violently.

“Now, get into position.”

23 squeezed his eyes shut, trembling. “Fuck this! Do whatever you want—I’m not doing it,” he said, sitting up cross-legged in open defiance. “Fuck you!”

This was going to be harder than it seemed. 1 exhaled heavily and sat down himself, jaw tight with irritation. He was stuck in a dilemma—punishing 23 too harshly would likely break him physically; he wasn’t resilient to pain yet. But if this stalemate continued, he had no idea when the boy would start learning anything at all.

For a while, they just sat there—1 thinking silently while 23’s soft, choked sobs filled the room.

Eventually, 1 stood. “Come now, 23. We’re going somewhere.”

He grabbed his wrist and pulled him up.

“Where?” 23 asked in that same whiny, spoiled tone of his. It grated on 1’s nerves.

1 didn’t answer. He opened the dungeon door and walked him toward the slave quarters. It was daytime—many of the slaves were out working, but many still lingered. They looked up as the two entered, some pausing mid-task. All eyes were drawn to them.

“Now 23, you will be punished for your disobedience,” 1 said loud enough for everyone to hear.

23 looked away, jaw clenched in frustration. What was he going to do? He couldn’t inflict serious damage—not when the master wanted him intact. That much, he knew. But before he could guess, 1 reached forward and tugged at his robe. It slipped to the floor.

His breath caught. Naked. Exposed. His face went beet red in a flash of panic and rage. He gasped and tried to cover himself, crossing his arms and twisting away. But 1 was already seated on a nearby bed and pulled him across his lap in one swift motion.

“If you insist on behaving like a child,” 1 said evenly, “then I will not hesitate to treat you like one.”

“NO! You’re not doing—Aah!” The first slap cut him off, loud and sharp.

Then another.

And another.

“You will obey, 23. And you will not think.”

More slaps landed across his backside, each one stinging hotter than the last. His skin began to glow red, burning with shame. Around them, the other slaves watched—some grinning, others whispering. Amused. Mocking.

The pain wasn’t unbearable—but the eyes, the stares—that’s what gutted him. This was different from before. Until now, his humiliation had been private. This—this was a public stripping of his pride.

“You have no self-respect here. No pride,” 1 stated coldly. “You are a slave. And you will burn that into your mind.”

He spread 23’s legs slightly, targeting the sit spots now, the blows firmer, sharper. 23 whimpered, his body tensing involuntarily.

Finally, 1 stopped. He shifted 23 upright on his lap, not even allowing him the dignity to cover himself. Now, not only could he feel the stares—he could see them. Some slaves were laughing outright. Others stared hungrily.

Uneasiness crawled beneath his skin, mixing with the humiliation like poison. 23’s eyes darted from face to face, horrified. He tried to close his legs, shield himself, anything—but 1 held him firmly, keeping him exposed.

“Look at them, 23,” 1 said softly, almost like a teacher. “Don’t shy away. You are an object. Nothing more.”

Only then did 1 finally place him beside him on the bed. 23 immediately closed his legs, wrapping his arms around himself like a broken doll.

“You know why I didn’t keep you in here?” 1 asked, grabbing 23’s chin and forcing him to look up. “Because they would rip you to shreds. A pretty little thing like you would make them go feral. If I leave you alone in here with them, you would probably even be killed by how roughly they’d take you.”

23 shivered at his words. The threat wasn’t screamed—it was spoken quietly, plainly. That made it worse. His body inched unconsciously closer to 1’s side.

“The master keeps the men and women separate,” 1 continued calmly. “He doesn’t want them to multiply. So they make do. Everyone has urges, 23. And who better to take it out on than a weaker, prettier male—when there are no women?”

He smiled at the way 23 squirmed, at how the words dug into his skin more deeply than the slaps.

1 stood. “You know, if you don’t want to train today… maybe I’ll leave you here with them tonight. Maybe you’ll be more… malleable tomorrow.”

23 grabbed 1’s robe tightly, desperation breaking through his voice. “No… I’ll listen. I’ll try.”

His voice was barely a whisper—like even he didn’t want to hear himself surrender.

1 smirked. His plan had worked.

He would never actually let anyone harm 23. The master wanted him fresh—a virgin. Even 1 wasn’t permitted to touch him beyond training. The master wanted the breaking for himself.

“Are you sure?” 1 asked, raising an eyebrow.

23 nodded, eyes down.

“Then come. Let us get back to it.”

“Can I put on my clothes again?” 23 asked, voice small and hollow.

“No. You’ve lost that privilege. Now come along.”

23 didn’t let go of 1’s robe the entire way back to the dungeon. Not once.

Back inside, he obeyed. He didn’t argue. Didn’t speak unless spoken to. He moved when told, held positions in silence. He didn’t think of his pride. His past. His shame.

He simply followed orders.

1 taught him commands, positions, gestures. When to speak. When not to. Where to look. Where not to.

And he learned.

“That should be all for today, 23,” 1 said at last. “I hope you will remember it. Tomorrow, the master will be having you.”

23 sat silently on his mattress, head bowed, shoulders slumped. He didn’t move. He didn’t cry.

He had given up.

---

Thomas sat hunched on the sofa, gently rocking back and forth, his eyes glazed over. His father’s voice droned in the background like the ticking of a clock—constant, but utterly ignorable. He wasn’t really listening. His mind was elsewhere, drifting to more exciting thoughts. His new racquet. The club. Maybe meeting Amanda later. Anything but this tedious lecture.

“…and as the future heir to this family, you cannot afford to slack off in your tuitions,” his father said sternly.

“Thomas, did you hear me?” The slight rise in Fredrick’s tone snapped him out of his daze.

“Yes, Father,” Thomas replied flatly, barely masking his disinterest. “May I go now? My friends are waiting—we’re headed to the tennis club.”

His father exhaled sharply, frustration flickering behind his tired eyes. Most days, he let the boy’s inattentiveness slide, chalking it up to youth. But today had already been long, and Thomas’s indifference grated on his patience.

“No. You will not leave until you understand what I’m saying,” he said firmly.

“But Father!” Thomas whined, twisting around to glance longingly out the window. The sun was bright, and he could almost hear the laughter and clinks of glasses waiting for him.

“I said no, Thomas. You will sit right here,” Fredrick snapped, his voice low but final.

“No! No! No!” Thomas cried, kicking his legs out slightly and throwing himself back against the cushions. “I want to go now!”

His voice rose in sharp protest, loud and defiant. It was the tantrum of a boy who had never truly been told “no.” Not by anyone who mattered.

A gentle voice cut through the tension like silk.
“He’s just a boy, Fred. Let him go.”

Angela’s tone was sweet, sing-song almost, but it carried an edge—like something sharpened beneath velvet. She glided across the room, her heels silent on the marble floor, and stopped beside her son. She reached out and brushed a lock of hair off his forehead before turning toward her husband.

She shot Thomas a playful wink as she leaned in, which instantly drew a small smile from him, the tantrum already forgotten.

“I’m sure he understands,” she said as she wrapped an elegant arm around Fredrick’s. “You’re being harsh for no reason.”

Fredrick sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Angela, you spoil him beyond reason,” he muttered, but his voice had softened already.

She smiled wider, victorious. “Go on, Tommy,” she cooed, “go play with your friends.”

Thomas didn’t need to be told twice. He leapt up from the couch and bolted from the room, his shoes tapping eagerly against the polished floor, a wide grin stretched across his face.

Fredrick watched him go, then turned to his wife with weary eyes. “What?” she asked innocently. “He’s your only son, isn’t he? What’s so wrong if he’s a little spoiled?”

She traced a finger along the edge of his jaw, a slow, teasing motion that made his composure soften despite himself.

Fredrick exhaled in defeat and wrapped his arm around her waist, pulling her close. “You have me wrapped around your finger, you shameless seductress.”

Angela laughed, low and throaty, resting her head lightly against his shoulder.
“That’s precise,” she murmured.

---

“Then mama comes in and cuts him off!” Thomas laughed, as he passed the cigarette along with a smirk.

The other boys cracked up around him, all four of them huddled at the far end of the tennis club’s patio, where the adults wouldn’t hear them and the other kids weren’t brave enough to follow.

They weren’t laughing because the story was particularly funny—they were laughing because Thomas had told it. That was enough.

His laugh rang loud and clear, the kind that made people turn to look. Even here, away from the grownups, he looked like he belonged in a portrait: golden-brown hair tousled just enough to look effortless, smooth skin untouched by the sun, and a sharp smile that hovered between arrogant and charming. His posture, even slouched, had a kind of princely poise. Everything about him gleamed.

Thomas didn’t just have money and status—he had that look, the kind that made people pause mid-sentence. His friends didn’t just follow him because he was rich. They followed him because he was dazzling. They wanted to be near him like moths circling a flickering lamp.

“God, your mom’s the best,” Marcus said, wiping tears of laughter from his eyes. “If my mom ever spoke to my dad like that, she’d probably get exiled or something.”

“Exiled?” Eli echoed, snorting. “What is your house, a kingdom?”

“Feels like it sometimes,” Marcus muttered, before shoving Eli lightly. “Shut up.”

Thomas stretched out on the lounge seat like he owned the place—which, in a way, he did. “She winked at me right in front of him,” he said proudly, grinning. “He was fuming.”

“Your mom’s scary though,” Victor said, kicking his legs lazily. “Like, pretty and nice, but also… terrifying. You just know she could have someone beheaded.”

Thomas laughed harder. “Yeah, she probably could. Sometimes I wonder who’s more powerful—her or my father.”

“It’s her,” Marcus said quickly, trying to score points. “Your dad looks like a soggy biscuit compared to her.”

Eli elbowed him. “Don’t suck up so hard, you’ll break your neck.”

“Jealous?” Marcus shot back, grinning.

“Guys, focus,” Thomas said, smirking as he held up the cigarette between two fingers. “Are we gonna talk or are we gonna smoke?”

Victor took it next and fumbled with the drag, coughing and making the others laugh.

“Victor’s dying!” Eli hooted, slapping the table. “Should we call a priest?”

“I’ll do his eulogy,” Thomas said dramatically, placing a hand over his chest. “‘Here lies Victor, who thought he could handle a single puff.’”

Victor flushed, grinning sheepishly as he handed the cigarette away. “Screw you guys.”

Thomas gave him a half-smile. “Nah, we need you. You make us all look better.”

That drew another round of laughter.

They didn’t talk about politics or estate succession or diplomacy. They were still boys—bored, bratty, invincible-feeling boys who laughed too loud, teased too much, and followed the one among them who sparkled brighter than the rest.

And Thomas—Thomas knew it. He soaked in their attention like sunlight, smug but relaxed, the way only someone who had never been denied anything could be.

He looked around at them and smiled, not because of the joke he’d told, but because they were his. Every single one of them.

---

23 rubbed his eyes, groggy and cold. He had been rudely shaken awake by 1, whose voice cut through the dark fog of sleep.

The dungeon felt especially frigid today. Naked on the mattress no robe to protect him, 23 curled into himself. His teeth chattered, and he murmered, “Can’t I have sheets?” The question was barely audible, slurred with sleep.

“23. Get up. Now.” 1’s tone was clipped, all business.

23 blinked a few times, slowly waking. Then he registered where he was. What he was. That brought him to full awareness. “23,” 1 repeated, sharper now.

He sat up straight, still sluggish but now alert enough to obey without resistance. He didn’t want to push his luck.

“Come. Let’s get you cleaned up,” 1 said, already turning and walking ahead, knowing 23 would follow. And he did. His body responded before his mind had fully caught up, feet padding after 1 automatically, like muscle memory.

In the bathing chamber, 1 set to work. He was methodical and brisk—thorough, not cruel. 23 winced now and then, especially when the sponge scrubbed raw spots on his back or the bucket water hit him too hot. But he didn’t complain. Not even a word. That, more than anything, told 1 the training was taking hold.

When it was done, 1 dressed him.

The robe was... ornate. Embroidered silk, too fine for a common slave, yet clearly not made for a man either. It clung in places, fell loosely in others—meant to allure rather than conceal. Meant to seduce.

23 looked down at himself, discomfort prickling under his skin like ants. He wanted to rip it off, but his hands remained still at his sides.

“You do remember what today is?” 1 asked, tightening the sash with a practiced tug.

23 nodded. His head was bowed, eyes hidden behind the fall of his hair. But his brows were furrowed, jaw clenched. The night had done something to him. He had cried himself into a kind of clarity—not surrender. He hadn’t truly given up. Not yet.

“Good,” 1 said, relieved. “Then I hope you remember your training as well.”

Another nod. Stiff. Silent.

“Fine. Come.”

They walked down the same stone hallways as the first day, but this time, they turned before the grand staircase. 1 stopped before a heavy door, opened it, and stepped aside.

Inside stood the man.

The master.

Thomas felt his stomach lurch. That face—familiar and twisted now by power and perversion. The man he once called uncle. The man who had smiled over dinner and patted his head when he was a child. The man who now owned him.

He stood there smiling as if greeting an old friend. “You look ravishing, 23,” he declared.

Thomas didn’t react. Didn’t flinch. He just stared down, teeth gritted behind tight lips.

The master turned to 1. “Good job. Now leave us.”

Without a word, 1 nodded and stepped out, closing the door behind him with a soft click.

It was just them now.

“So, Thomas,” the master began casually, strolling forward with a kind of oily grace. “Tell me… how are things here? Comfortable?”

Hearing his name—his real name—after days of being only a number struck something in him. It echoed. It reminded him who he was… or had been. But the words, the way they were said, were a deliberate insult. A provocation.

Thomas didn’t respond. Didn’t look up. He stood stiffly, defiant in his silence.

“Answer me, 23,” the master said again, this time with exaggerated patience.

“It’s alright… master,” Thomas muttered, eyes on the floor. The title burned in his throat. He wanted to spit it out—literally spit it out—but he forced it through clenched teeth.

“Delightful to hear!” the man clapped his hands lightly, as though pleased by a well-trained dog. “Now, come closer, my boy. I want to see you properly.”

Thomas obeyed. His feet moved on command. He hated how automatic it was. He stopped a few paces away.

The master stepped forward, brushing hair out of Thomas’s face with a familiarity that made his skin crawl. “You are… beautiful,” he said, his voice reverent. Eyes gleaming.

Thomas scoffed before he could help it.

The man’s expression didn’t change. He simply tilted his head, amused. “What was that? Do you find my praise funny, my boy?”

Thomas looked up, forcing his voice into something flat. “Not at all, sir.”

There was bite in the tone. More than he meant to show.

“Good then!” the master beamed. “You’re ready, I assume? I trust 1 has told you what I expect of you today?”

Thomas hesitated, looking away. Then nodded, slowly.

“Shy, are we?” the master chuckled, turning his face gently with a finger under the chin. “You know… I’m not going to take you here. I have something special planned.”

Thomas blinked. Confused. What was that supposed to mean?

“We’re going somewhere,” the master said, eyes alight. “I’ve planned this for quite some time. I think you’ll like it.”

Before Thomas could respond, he was being led away again. Down another hall. Out through the back garden. A carriage waited—sleek and black, windows drawn. The master climbed in first and then motioned for Thomas to follow.

He sat far too close.

As the carriage began to move, the master’s hand landed on Thomas’s thigh, then drifted. Exploring. Possessive. Thomas flinched, jaw tightening, but said nothing. His eyes locked on the passing scenery, even though he barely registered it. Every muscle in his body was tensed.

He didn’t know where they were going.

But he knew it was only going to get worse.

The carriage rolled to a gentle stop. Thomas blinked, pulling himself out of his thoughts as the door creaked open.

The master stepped out first, motioning for him to follow.

Thomas hesitated, then climbed out. He looked up, confused. The building before him wasn’t a mansion or an estate—it was tall, narrow, with a velvet canopy and gold-lettered signage that made his stomach twist.

He’d been here before. A brothel.

He looked around slowly—at the painted windows, at the quiet shuffle of women behind silk curtains, at the heavy perfume that lingered in the air. Confusion crept across his face.

Why had he brought him here?

Before he could ask, the man rested a hand on his shoulder. “Come now, Thomas. There’s someone very special waiting to see you.”

Thomas’s brows knit together. His breath caught.

Something felt wrong.

Terribly wrong.

But he followed anyway.

Chapter Text

Thomas was stunned, frozen like a deer caught in headlights. He stood there motionless, his mouth slightly open, eyes wide with disbelief, his mind blank. He couldn’t comprehend what he was seeing.

Angela knelt in the middle of the room, posed suggestively, completely naked. She didn’t look up at first—she assumed it was just another client. They always told her when to raise her eyes.

“Mama?”

At the sound of that familiar voice, she snapped her head up—her eyes locking with her son’s.

Beside him stood Walter, the master, his expression smug and satisfied.

Walter glanced at Thomas with a grin. “Do you like what you see, 23?”

Thomas flinched at the name. His breath quickened. His heart pounded. “Mama!” he cried, suddenly bursting forward.

Everything else faded. Nothing else existed. Not the room, not the people. Not the training drilled into him. Not the robe he wore or the setting they stood in.

Only her.

He fell into her arms, weeping like a child, his body shaking uncontrollably.

Angela inhaled sharply, startled. “My baby…” she whispered, wrapping her arms tightly around him. Protective. Fierce.

She wasn’t naive. She could piece it together. Her son was dressed in a robe too fine for a slave, yet cut far too provocatively for any nobleman. His eyes were hollow, his demeanor stripped. Her stomach turned. He wasn’t just a slave—he had been trained for something far worse.

Walter's voice broke the moment. “Angela! Don’t be so cold. I haven’t done anything to him—yet.” His smile widened cruelly. “That’s what I brought him here for. So you can watch. Watch me break your precious little boy right in front of you… and you won’t be able to do a thing about it.”

“You will not touch my son, you monster,” she hissed, still holding Thomas tightly. Her voice trembled, but not with fear—with rage.

Walter chuckled as if amused. “Oh? And who’s going to stop me? You?” He laughed mockingly. “Angela, Angela… So much fire. Yet here you are, just another whore in a brothel.”

He turned toward the door and knocked twice. Within seconds, two brothel workers entered.

“I want her tied up,” he ordered casually.

They obeyed immediately.

One grabbed Thomas, yanking him from Angela’s arms. The other began binding her wrists and ankles behind her back, forcing her into a twisted, helpless position. Angela thrashed and kicked, but it was no use. Thomas struggled just as much, shouting and sobbing like a frantic child, but the man restraining him was far stronger.

They were both overwhelmed—Angela by sheer strength, Thomas by humiliation and horror.

He screamed as they pulled him away, reaching for her like a toddler being torn from his mother. “Mama! Please! No! Mama!”

Walter watched it all, delighted by the chaos. He clapped his hands once, amused. “Now…” he said, his tone playful as he paced slowly across the room, eyeing Thomas like a hunter toying with prey, “where shall I begin?”

He walked over to Thomas and grabbed him by the hair dragging him to Angela again, he threw him down in front of her. Thomas scrambled away from him towards his mother, towards safety.

Walter smirked as he ripped off his ornate robe. He grabbed him by the hips and lifted his ass in the air, spreading his legs wide open. "You're so pink Thomas" he licked his lips as he got down on his knees and touched his virgin hole, teasing him.

"No! Leave him alone! You can't do this!" Angela cried struggling hard against her restrains. Walter looked at her disapprovingly, "Gag her" he said to the staff still standing by, who did so immediately.

Her muffled cries and Thomas's incessant calling for his mother echoed through the room. "You're so tight little Tommy and I don't plan on using any lube, we do have to find a solution for that don't we?" he mused as he tried to stick his finger inside of him making Thomas clench and recoil.

He got up and walked over to cabinet, he brought a wooden dildo attached to a stick, a large one. "This ought to do us some good." He smirked.

"Hold him still" he ordered the staff, they complied, grabbing him. One held his head down pressed to the floor while the other held his hips up and ensured his legs were spread.

"Now, let us begin." He roughly thrusted the dildo into his small opening, tearing it. Thomas screamed, struggling against their hold, trying to move away from the painful intrusion. There was much resistance, which Walter wasn't really opposed to, he liked it. "Yes boy! Clench as hard as you can, resist it." He forced it in deeper, ripping another bloodcurdling scream from Thomas.

Blood oozed out from around the dildo, trickling down onto the floor. He pushed again, forcing it in till the end. "Good boy" he patted his ass as he pulled it out roughly, then shoved it back in again and again, drawing more and more blood. "You know blood is as slick as oil until it dries" he said calmly, though a sick excitement plagued his voice.

When he was finally satisfied with the amount of blood he removed the dildo. He crouched down and examined his work, admiring the torn flesh, "That should do beautifully!" he said as if talking about a dress he particularly liked.

He motioned for the staff to step aside. As soon as they let go of Thomas he collapsed onto the floor, his breaths shallow every movement agony. He only hoped for death now. Such unbearable pain was so foreign to him that he couldn't even have imagined it in his worst nightmares.

Walter grinned as he took off his pants and placed them on a table folded neatly, he stroked his semi hard cock watching Thomas squirm and struggle to breathe through the pain. His average sized penis already leaking precum grew in size quickly as it hardened, this was clearly turning him on beyond reason.

He approached Thomas with a skip in his step, he forced him onto his back, drawing yet another ear-piercing scream from him. Then he took a hold of his legs and bent them towards his head, bending him into an awkward position, but leaving his shredded hole easily accessible.

He rammed into it without ceremony, groaning and grunting in pleasure. The blood provided excellent lubrication and the raw torn flesh felt simply brilliant on his shaft. He came quickly, couldn't hold back when he was simply so turned on. He made eye contact with the horrified Angela as he emptied his balls into her destroyed son.

There was tragedy etched into every line of her face—her expression a contorted mask of defeat and raw agony. Silent tears streamed endlessly down her cheeks, as if they would never stop. It felt like her heart had been torn from her chest and shredded slowly, piece by painful piece, right before her eyes.

He pulled out of him, his cock softening. Thomas curled up into a ball, shaking, but silent. His hair, a tangled mess, fell over his face covering it completely.

Walter walked over to Angela and took off her gag, before she could speak or scream, he shoved his softening cock into her mouth, "You are a good mother Angela, wouldn't you clean your son's mess?" he said grabbing her hair and shoving his cock in deeper, "Suck whore, for that's all you are and that's all you were ever meant to be."

She gagged as the mixture of her son's blood, and Walter's cum filled her mouth, she didn't struggle there was no point now. She just took it, closed her eyes and took it.

In the background, Thomas’s body jolted violently as he coughed up a spray of blood, his chest heaving with the effort. Walter turned his head, unimpressed by the spectacle.
“Well, someone’s desperate for attention,” he remarked with a smirk.

Letting go of Angela, he strode over to Thomas and yanked him roughly to his feet. Thomas’s legs buckled instantly beneath him. He collapsed with a strangled cry, his limbs folding uselessly under his weight.

Walter clicked his tongue in irritation, then gestured sharply at the nearby staff.
“Hold him up,” he ordered, voice cold and dismissive.

Two of them stepped forward at once to obey, hoisting Thomas upright like a rag doll, his blood still dripping onto the floor.

"Now let us see, what can we do with this." He asked fondling Thomas's flaccid pink penis and balls, "They are very pretty we must put them to use." he declared as he started to lightly stroke it.

His hand proceeded further down into his ruined hole again making him thrash in the staff's hands, he cupped some blood and applied it to his cock, allowing him to stroke better. It hardened after many minutes of unpleasant stimulation but only slightly. Walter sighed, "I guess that will have to do."

He walked back over to Angela and began untying her. The moment the ropes fell away, she lashed out with everything she had—thrashing wildly, clawing at his face, biting like a cornered animal. Her nails tore at his skin, her teeth snapped, but it was no use. She was no match for Walter’s strength.

With practiced ease, he overpowered her and forced her onto a breeding rack, restraining her limbs one by one. She screamed and cursed at him through gritted teeth until he shoved the gag back into her mouth. Her voice was starting to get on his nerves.

He motioned for the workers to bring Thomas over, giddy with excitement. He got Thomas closer and whispered to him, "You're gonna fuck your dear mama now boy." Thomas was barely conscious now. His head lolled forward, and his body swayed limply between the staff members holding him up. His feet barely found the floor, dragging or slipping with each small movement as he rocked weakly in their grip.

Walter took hold of his haft again and brought it to Angela's slit, he shoved it in, like forcing something into an overstuffed bag. Then he moved Thomas's hips back and forth making him thrust in and out of her. Every few minutes he would stop and adjust his position again, to ensure it wouldn't slip out.

Angela's muffled screams filled the room, but she was helpless. Walter had started jerking off, very pleased with the scene he created.
Thomas passed out, his body going completely limp in the staff’s arms.

Walter rolled his eyes.
“Wake him up,” he ordered flatly.

“Sir, drugs are charged separately,” one of the staff reminded him cautiously.

“Whatever. Just do as I say,” Walter snapped.

One of them lowered Thomas to the ground while the other pulled out a syringe and filled it with adrenaline. The needle pierced Thomas’s arm, and within seconds his body convulsed. He jerked upright with a gasp, eyes wide and wild.

He screamed. His limbs flailed as he tried to crawl away, confusion and terror overtaking him—but he didn’t get far. The staff caught him with ease and dragged him back toward Walter.

“Calm down, boy,” Walter said with a grin, giving Thomas a casual slap across the face. “There he is.”

But Walter knew it couldn’t go on much longer. Thomas had already lost too much blood—he was fading fast.

He turned to Angela and untied her. Then, motioning to the staff, he ordered them to release Thomas too.

Angela didn’t hesitate. She ran to him, dropping to her knees and pulling him into her arms, holding him close as tears streamed down her face. She wanted to say something—anything—but the words wouldn’t come. She wasn’t sure they ever would again.

At first, Thomas shrieked and thrashed against her, terrified, not recognizing her at all. He clawed at her arms, trying to get away. But she didn’t let go. She just held on, sobbing into his hair.

Gradually, something in him shifted. His panicked breathing slowed, and his resistance faltered.
“Mama?” he whispered, voice trembling and unsure.

Then, like something inside him broke wide open, he collapsed into her embrace and began to sob uncontrollably.

But the moment didn’t last.

Her muscles tensed suddenly—just for a heartbeat—before going slack. Her arms slid from around him, and she dropped to the floor with a heavy thud.

“Mama?” Thomas said again, barely audible.

He looked up.

Her throat had been slit clean through. Blood poured from the gaping wound, pooling rapidly beneath her head like a crimson halo.

Walter stood above her, casually wiping his knife clean with a rag, a satisfied smile playing on his lips.

Thomas’s eyes locked on the scene. His mouth hung open soundlessly. And then he collapsed once more—this time from pure, overwhelming shock.

---

Walter waited in the marble-floored hall, his fingers tapping rhythmically on the edge of his cane as he paced. Every few moments, he checked his pocket watch. An hour had passed. He’d been waiting for a full hour.

He gritted his teeth in silent frustration.

Finally, the grand oak door opened and in walked Sir Fredrick Alwin, as relaxed and casual as if he were right on time. His smile was warm, carefree. “Walter! Have I kept you waiting long?” he asked, crossing the floor with an easy confidence.

Walter forced his mouth into a polite smile—the same forced smile he always wore around him. Around them. Around Sir Fredrick fucking Alwin.

“Not at all, dear friend,” he said smoothly. “Shall we get to work now?”

He took his seat at the heavy oak table as Fredrick settled into the adjacent chair, stretching his legs like a man who owned the very floor beneath him—which, Walter bitterly acknowledged, he probably did.

Clearing his throat, Walter opened his leather folder and began. “I’ve come up with something I believe will benefit both of us. You’ve spoken often about expanding into the southern districts. I’ve been keeping close tabs on the trade routes there—particularly textile and spice. If we pool resources—your capital, my connections—we could monopolize the supply chain before the next winter quarter. Profits would rise exponentially in the long-term.”

Fredrick tilted his head slightly, listening. But his expression slowly took on that familiar condescending amusement—the kind people use when they’re indulging a child. “Walter,” he chuckled, “your enthusiasm is admirable. But this sounds like wishful thinking. The southern routes are chaos right now. Bandit activity, shifting leadership, political instability—you’d be bleeding money before you even broke ground.”

Walter’s jaw clenched, but he kept his smile tight. “I’ve accounted for the instability. The right alliances—”

Fredrick waved a hand dismissively. “It’s not just about alliances. It’s about instincts. You need to know when to take a risk and when to hold your cards. You’re too... cautious. Too by-the-book. You don’t have the feel for this sort of thing. But I do appreciate the effort.”

Before Walter could respond, Angela entered the room gracefully, her presence commanding the space with practiced ease. She placed a delicate hand on Fredrick’s shoulder and smiled at Walter. “You’re still talking business?” she teased. “Poor Walter. Always trying so hard.”

Walter nodded stiffly. “Lady Angela.”

“Don’t be so formal,” she said sweetly. “We’re practically family by now, aren’t we?”

Fredrick laughed, throwing his head back. “That’s what I keep telling him! But Walter always acts like he’s being summoned to an audience with the King.”

Angela joined in the laughter, leaning lightly against Fredrick. “He does take himself so seriously, doesn’t he?”

Walter chuckled, a hollow, tight sound. “Alright then,” he said dryly. “I suppose I ought to work on my mind—seems it’s been rather dull lately.”

They laughed again, oblivious to how their mockery, however playful, dug into him like tiny needles. It wasn’t just the rejection—it was the way they delivered it. So casually. So effortlessly. As if he were some little man with little ideas, indulged out of politeness.

He stood, smoothing out his coat. “Goodbye,” he said, the word taut in his throat. He turned and left, his jaw set, thoughts circling bitterly.

How many times... how many fucking times had these people—especially that woman—mocked him?

Angela, with her honeyed words and smiling insults. Acting like they were equals. She was a woman. What gave her the right?

Out in the garden, sunlight filtered through the hedges. Children’s laughter echoed through the crisp air.

He spotted little Thomas playing near the fountain with a group of boys, their noble linens dirtied by grass and dust. Watching him always made Walter feel something strange—an odd flutter in his chest. The boy’s beauty was undeniable. There was a softness to him, a glow that drew people in without effort.

He called out gently, “Thomas!”

The boy turned immediately, recognizing the familiar voice. Walter smiled, pulling a wrapped candy from his coat pocket as the child approached.

Thomas beamed. “Uncle Walter!”

Walter crouched slightly and handed it to him, ruffling his perfectly combed hair. “What are you playing?”

“Catch!” Thomas grinned, already unwrapping the candy with eager fingers.

Walter smirked, watching him pop it into his mouth. “Good then... go on. Play.”

He watched the boy run back to his friends, the sunlight catching the sheen of his hair, the way his spit covered lips wrapped around the sweet. Walter’s eyes lingered, his thoughts darkening—warming.

The frustration of the morning faded—just a little.

Chapter Text

1 had not always been “1.” He had once had a name—he was sure of it. A proper name, spoken aloud by someone who might’ve cared for him, once. But it had been so long now that even the syllables had faded. The memory of it, like a whisper caught in the wind, had been lost to time and obedience.

He had been born the bastard son of a farmer—one of many children, but the only one not born of the farmer’s wife. His mother had been a field hand, and whatever passed between her and the farmer hadn’t exactly been consensual. Not that anyone cared. When the farmer’s wife found out, she said nothing. And when the boy turned ten, the farmer sold him off without hesitation.

His mother didn’t protest. She stood silently in the background as the deal was made, her hands folded before her, her gaze fixed somewhere far away. That silence told him everything he would ever need to know: he didn’t matter. Not then, not ever.

His first owner was Walter’s father—a cold man, but not cruel in the way his son would later become. He valued discipline, precision, and obedience above all else. 1—though not yet called that—was quick to learn. He followed orders like his life depended on it, because it often did. He found worth only in his utility. That was what determined whether he was fed, whether he was beaten, whether he was even allowed to keep breathing.

He became useful—exceptionally so.

By sixteen, he had replaced the old 1, the previous senior slave of the household. That was when he was given the title—1. A symbol of status, though not in the way most would think. It meant responsibility, not privilege. He was put in charge of the other slaves: monitoring them, reporting them, punishing them when they stepped out of line, and ensuring they stayed alive long enough to remain useful. In this house, slaves weren’t people—they were property. And property had to be maintained.

Death was a loss. Sickness, a waste. Disobedience, a liability. All things 1 was tasked with controlling.

He never rebelled. Never even thought to. He had been broken too young for that. He had no illusions of self-worth, no concept of fairness that hadn’t already been beaten out of him. He didn’t flinch when ordered to whip others, or to withhold food, or to carry away a body when one finally succumbed. His only focus was the job—doing it well, doing it without error. He became efficient. He even took a strange, quiet pride in it.

Justice, in his mind, existed. But it was warped. It had been reshaped and twisted over the years by the rules of the house. His justice wasn’t about right or wrong—it was about balance. Punishment kept order. Order kept peace. Peace kept the weak alive.

He became very good at what he did.

When Walter’s father died and the son took over, things changed. Walter was... different. Not a man of rules and order like his father, but a man of appetites and theatrics. Discipline no longer mattered to him—not unless it fed his perverse tastes.

Walter had once had a wife, a noblewoman from a respected family. She had killed herself. The staff whispered of it, the way servants always do. Some said she went mad. Others said she was never loved. But most said the truth plainly: Walter never touched her. Not the way a husband should. Instead, he made her watch while he took a 23—a pretty boy slave—to his bed, over and over again. She was made to sit and watch as he brutally defiled another, until something inside her shattered beyond repair.

After her death, the rumors grew worse. Walter, grief-stricken in public, never remarried. But within the house, he began selecting only boys to serve as 23s. It caused murmurs. Gossip in the halls. But outside the manor walls, he was still the tragic widower—the nobleman in mourning, too heartbroken to move on.

1 had watched it all.

He was observant by nature, a silent fixture in the background. But silence did not mean ignorance. He noticed every change, every deviation, every cruelty. Over the years, he had learned that some questions were better left unasked.

He moved with a slight limp these days—an old injury. He didn’t speak of it, and no one asked. In this household, scars were common and explanations rare. His presence was rarely questioned anyway; he was part of the structure now, like the walls or the chains.

He simply adapted, just like always.

He was a large man, broad-shouldered, his body built from years of labor and punishment alike. His skin was dark and weathered by sun, his beard unkempt but trimmed just enough to avoid reprimand. Streaks of gray threaded through his hair now. He would have been considered handsome under different circumstances but, his value wasn’t in his looks.

But he was always clean. The master demanded hygiene, especially from those closest to the 23s. That was the one rule Walter still enforced—vanity disguised as discipline.

So 1 continued. He walked the halls with his limp. He did his duties without question. He trained the 23s when told to. He punished when he saw it fit. And all the while, he remained invisible. Loyal. Quiet. Unseen.

Just as he had always been.

---

23 shivered and mumbled as 1 cleaned his wounds. He was lying face down, hips propped up by carefully folded towels. The position wasn’t comfortable, but it was necessary—it kept pressure off the worst injuries. He had woken up after days of unconsciousness, but even now, his skin was clammy and his body burned with a fever that refused to break.

The physician came once a day, checked his vitals, administered antibiotics, and left just as quickly. He barely said much. The diagnosis had been infection—deep internal tearing, bleeding, inflammation. His injuries had been serious, specifically severe rectal trauma. He’d lost a lot of blood. The pain was unbearable without intervention.

Now, he was given opium regularly, just enough to dull the agony. Without it, he screamed himself hoarse, sometimes until he blacked out again.

“Shh,” 1 murmured as he cleaned deeper with a damp cloth, carefully wiping away dried blood and pus. The moment his hand pressed into the swollen tissue, 23 squirmed and whimpered softly, though his movements were sluggish. The opium dulled most of his awareness, but he still had reflexes.

He didn’t cry or beg like he had before. Maybe he didn’t have the energy. Or maybe he had learned it didn’t change anything.

1 finished cleaning the area gently and lowered 23’s robe over his ruined body. He began to walk away.

“Cold,” 23 whispered suddenly, his voice small and cracked, barely above a breath. His glazed eyes met 1’s briefly—half-lidded, unfocused.

1 paused, sighed through his nose, and returned. Without a word, he picked up a clean sheet and draped it over 23’s body, tucking the corners in slightly. He turned again to leave, but behind him, 23 began mumbling something incoherent.

This time, 1 ignored it.

He went to the basin at the corner of the room, poured out the used water tinged pink with blood and antiseptic, and scrubbed the cloth clean. He washed his hands thoroughly, like he always did—up to the elbows, under the fingernails—Walter was strict about hygiene. Even now, the stench of sickness lingered faintly in the room, a mix of sweat, opium, and dried blood.

When he returned, 23 was breathing fast. The drug was wearing off, and discomfort was creeping in again.

1 retrieved a small glass from the shelf—quarter-filled with watered-down rum—and mixed a few drops of opium tincture into it. He crouched by the mattress and slowly, carefully turned 23 onto his side, supporting him through the movement even as it made the younger man groan and twist in discomfort.

Then, lifting his head gently, 1 pressed the rim of the glass to his lips.

“Drink this. It’ll help,” he said firmly.

23 kept his lips pressed shut at first, his eyes watery with confusion. But after a moment, he gave in, parting them slightly. 1 tilted the glass slowly, watching him swallow the bitter mix.

Once done, 1 wiped his mouth and shifted back.

As he turned to leave, again, 23’s hand reached up weakly and gripped his wrist.

“Are you in pain, 23? It should go away soon,” 1 said, trying to pull free. But 23’s fingers clung tightly—not with strength, but with desperation.

Then, barely above a whisper, 23 began to cry. His voice broke as he mumbled, “No… mama.”

1 let out a quiet, irritated breath and looked away. “I’m not your mama, 23. Let go.”

But 23 wouldn’t. His lip trembled. Tears streamed down his cheeks, not from pain but from some faraway place in his mind. His grip remained tight—like letting go would pull him back into that void of pain and memory.

1 stared at him for a moment longer. Then finally, with a sigh, he sat down beside the bed.

“Fine,” he muttered. “I’ll stay till you fall asleep.”

23 didn’t answer. His eyelids fluttered as the drug began to take hold again. Slowly, his breathing calmed. His fingers slipped free from 1’s wrist, and his hand fell limp beside him.

1 remained sitting there, silent, until he was sure 23 had drifted off completely.

---

Thomas came running in, sobbing, a boy no older than seven. His face was red, streaked with tears, his light brown hair tousled from play.

Angela looked up from her embroidery, alarmed. “What’s wrong, baby?” she asked, rising quickly and rushing to him.

“I hurt my knee!” he wailed, clutching at his leg like it was a mortal wound.

“Oh, my poor darling,” she cooed, kneeling in front of him and brushing his hair away from his forehead. “How did it happen? Show mama.”

Sniffling, he pointed to his knee. It was grazed—barely—but red and a little dusty from the garden path. Angela looked at it with a soft sigh.

Thomas had always been dramatic, deeply sensitive to pain, both real and imagined. Even the smallest discomfort turned into a tragedy with him. She wasn’t sure if it hurt that badly or if he simply needed the attention. Likely both.

“Come on, sweetie,” she said gently, taking his hand. “Let’s get that patched up, shall we?”

He nodded tearfully, still sniffling. She led him into his bedroom, sat him on the edge of the bed, and retrieved a soft cloth from the basin. She dabbed at the scratch with warm water, careful not to rub too hard.

“There we go,” she murmured. “Not so bad, is it?”

Thomas watched her quietly, his lip trembling, eyes still glassy. After a moment, he gave a tiny nod. But then his arms reached for her. “Stay with me, mama,” he whispered, gripping at her dress like a child terrified of being left alone.

She hesitated. She wasn’t blind—she knew she coddled him too much. Fredrick had pointed it out more than once. He said the boy was too soft, too dependent. But then again, what harm could it do? He was the heir to a vast estate, protected from the world’s cruelties. If anyone could afford to be spoiled, it was Thomas.

“Of course, baby,” she said softly, shifting onto the bed and gathering him into her arms. He curled into her burying his face against her shoulder.

Angela rocked him gently, humming something low and tuneless, just enough to calm him. He needed this. And maybe, just maybe, so did she.

What harm could a little comfort do?

Chapter Text

23 lounged on the thin mattress, his back propped lazily against 1’s side. He was murmuring again—soft, rhythmic syllables in that strange language 1 had failed to recognize. It poured from his lips like a chant, like a lullaby to himself. He smiled faintly as he spoke, eyes unfocused, distant.

It had been a month since the incident.

Physically, 23 was mostly healed. The fever had broken. The worst of the infection was gone. His wounds had closed, though they left behind ugly, angry marks—evidence of what had been done to him. But the most visible change was not on his body.

It was in the way he clung to 1.

At first, the dependence had been dismissed as an effect of the opium. He’d called 1 “mama” repeatedly in those first delirious days. But even as the medication tapered, and lucidity returned in fragments, the clinging remained. He had stopped confusing 1 for his mother—but didn’t stop needing him.

Perhaps it was because 1 was the only person who treated him with something resembling care. Or perhaps, 1 thought, it was simply about survival. The boy—no, the man—had been broken. And 1, in all his coldness, was the only steady thing left.

He tolerated the behavior. Not out of kindness, but because it was better than the alternative.

When left alone for too long, 23 would hurt himself. He had developed a compulsive habit—scratching violently at his own abdomen until his skin tore. Even when blood trickled down in slow crimson threads, he wouldn’t stop. He’d dig until it crusted under his fingernails, like he was trying to peel himself apart. He only refrained when 1 was present.

He even seemed… happy then. Or at least, less tormented.

Now, he leaned closer again, nuzzling slightly against 1’s shoulder as he continued his quiet muttering. The heat in the dungeon was beginning to rise with the changing season, and the closeness between them made it worse. Sweat clung to their skin.

1 shifted, uncomfortable. He had been sitting here far too long.

His mind drifted to the other tasks waiting for him. He had an entire house of slaves to manage—feedings, punishments, inventory, supplies. He’d already handed off a portion of the oversight to 2, but discipline remained his own responsibility. That was not a task to be delegated.

He began to pull away slightly.

23’s murmuring stopped. He turned and looked at 1 with a small frown, almost offended, before silently inching closer again, as if to glue himself back to him.

1 sighed audibly. “23, I have to go now. There’s much work to be done.”

23 didn’t respond. He didn’t look at him. He simply acted as though the words didn’t exist.

1 reached over and gently took hold of 23’s arm, moving him aside. “Fine then,” he said as he stood. “I’m leaving.”

“No.” 23’s voice was quiet, flat—almost childlike in its insistence. He didn’t plead. He didn’t beg. He just said it like it was a fact: that 1 couldn’t go.

But 1 had grown used to this.

He walked to the wall and selected a coil of cord from the row of neatly arranged implements. His movements were automatic. Familiar. The soft scrape of the rope as it unwound was the only sound in the room now.

Behind him, 23 remained motionless for a moment. Then realization seemed to hit. His body curled in on itself, limbs drawing close like a cornered animal.

1 approached the bed with a calm expression, the rope looped loosely around his wrist.

“23,” he said softly, almost gently, “you know I do this because I cannot allow you to damage the master’s property.” His voice held no malice, no cruelty. It was just routine.

He sat down beside him and took one wrist in his hand. The cord wrapped around it snugly—secure, but not harsh. “Surely you’ve gotten used to it by now,” he muttered as he took the other wrist and bound them together, then tied the joined wrists to his knees, which he bound next. It forced him into a tight, restrictive position. He gave the final knot a firm tug.

“There,” he said in a satisfied tone, giving it one last check.

23 whimpered, pressing his face into the mattress. The sound was soft, desperate. But 1 didn’t react. He’d heard it countless times now.

Still curled up, 23 looked up at him. There was something raw in his eyes—something like longing, or fear, or perhaps both. Then the tears started to fall. Slowly, silently.

“No,” he said again, but this time it wasn’t defiance. It was a plea.
1 didn’t respond. He turned and walked away, his heavy footsteps echoing faintly against the stone floor.

At the doorway, he paused. He looked back once, watching 23 sobbing, bound.

Then he closed the door behind him—softly, deliberately—but didn’t turn the key.

---

“Why do your prices keep rising, sir, even though your quality doesn’t seem to match them? In fact, it’s gone quite downhill,” 1 said sharply, arms folded across his chest as he eyed the young man standing in front of him.

The boy, barely twenty by the looks of it, wore simple work trousers and a sun-faded shirt with sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He leaned slightly on the cart he had arrived with, its wheels still caked in dry mud from the road. His smile was tight, unbothered. Clearly used to pushback.

“Feed and fertilizer have gotten expensive,” he replied coolly, lifting a brow. “We have to raise prices. Otherwise, there’s no profit for us. And what’s business without a profit, eh?”

1 sighed heavily through his nose. He wasn’t in the mood to argue. He had too much on his plate already—supplies, rotations, injured slaves, and now this boy with more cheek than sense.

“You can inform your master,” 1 said curtly, “that we’ll be changing providers if the quality does not improve—or if the prices don’t drop to match it. The contract simply won’t be renewed.”

The boy’s brows drew together. “I thought the contract was for two years.”

“No. One,” 1 corrected sharply. “And the farm adjacent to yours looks to be doing quite well. I may visit it myself.”

The boy pursed his lips but said nothing more. He gave a short, tight-lipped smile and turned to walk away, shoulders tense. The wheels of the cart creaked as he pulled it back down the path, a little faster than he’d come.

1 watched him go, then turned back toward the main house, crossing the gravel courtyard with slow, deliberate steps. The sun was already high overhead, baking the stone walls of the estate. The weight of the upcoming day already pressed heavily on his shoulders.

“1.”

The voice stopped him in his tracks.

He turned and bowed his head immediately, spine straight. “Master.”

Walter stood at the top of the steps, dressed in his usual finely tailored attire, a walking cane loosely held in one hand—ornamental, not necessary. His expression was calm, neutral, but his eyes always had that same glint, the one that made people nervous even when he was smiling.

“I wish to have 23 for the night,” Walter said plainly. “Prepare him.”

There was a pause—brief, but noticeable.

1 hesitated.

He kept his eyes on the stone floor, not daring to look Walter in the face. “Master… 23 is not in the best of health. Perhaps you would wish to postpone.”

Silence.

The pause lingered too long, and 1 felt it like pressure on his chest. He didn’t know how Walter would take that. He had asked—never refused. Still, he couldn’t help but try. Walter hadn’t summoned 23 since the incident. Maybe some sense of restraint remained in him or maybe he understood the extent of damage he has inflicted on 23.

Walter’s voice broke the silence, steady and calm. “Still? It has been very long.”

“Yes, master. His recovery has been… a perilous one,” 1 said carefully.

Walter seemed to consider this. His head tilted slightly to the side as if calculating. The smirk that followed was small, but one which came from a place of cruel amusement.

“Ready him. Bring him,” Walter said, voice light now—almost pleasant. “I do not wish to be as harsh as last time.”

With that, he turned and walked away, his boots clicking against the stone with every step.

1 stood frozen in place until Walter was fully gone.

Only then did he exhale, long and tired. His hand went to his face, dragging down across his beard.

The order had been given. That was that. No room for debate.

He wasn’t worried for 23 in the way one worries for a person they care about. His concern was pragmatic. If the boy died—if his body gave out under the strain—then he would be the one held responsible. It would be seen as a failure of care, of preparation, of duty. A loss of value to the master.

And in this house, failure meant punishment.

1 turned back toward the slave wing, jaw clenched. There was no time left to stall.

He had work to do.

---

“What do you even want from me, 23? You do know I can’t protect you from the whims of the master. You are his… and so am I.” 1’s tone wasn’t loud, but there was a sharp edge to it — frustration carefully restrained, simmering just beneath the surface.

23 clung harder to him, his fists balled into the fabric of 1’s shirt as he sobbed into his chest. “I can’t! Please!” he wailed, the sound raw and desperate.

“23, steady yourself. I am going to clean you now,” 1 said, attempting to shift away. But 23 only tightened his grip, clinging to him like a frightened child.

“I want to go home!” he cried, his voice high, pathetic — filled with the aching innocence of someone still hoping escape might be possible.

1 exhaled through his nose, a long breath filled with weariness. “Except you don’t have a home to go to,” he said coldly, reaching down to try and loosen 23’s fingers from his shirt. “Let go, 23.”

When 23 didn’t respond, 1’s patience snapped. “Now.” His voice was suddenly sharp, commanding.

23 flinched violently but still didn’t release him. Something about the boy’s defiance, even in weakness, ignited something bitter in 1. He grabbed 23 roughly and shook him. “You can’t escape this, no matter how much you cry.”

With force, he pried 23’s hands off and dragged him across the room. There was no softness in his movements now, only efficiency — the mechanical, trained motions of someone who had done this too many times. He washed 23 with precision, wiping and dressing him in silence. His fingers worked with the detached focus of someone doing a job, not tending to a person.

All the while, 23 cried and begged, loudly, desperately — the kind of cries that grated on the ears. He pleaded with every ounce of voice he had left, but it didn’t stop 1’s hands from moving, or his grip from remaining firm. He didn’t waver. Not even once.

When it was done, he sat him down on the bed, fully prepared — hair combed, robe smooth, hands folded awkwardly in his lap.

“I can’t offer you protection, 23,” 1 said, kneeling in front of him. “But keep this in mind. The master likes a fight. It excites him. If you comply — if you remain soft and obedient — he will surely go easier on you.”

He placed his hands on 23’s shoulders as he said it, gently but firmly. A practical gesture, not a comforting one.

23 didn’t reply. His hands were twisted in his robe, pulling and wringing at the cloth anxiously. The tears hadn’t stopped, though they were softer now — a constant, silent stream. He wouldn’t meet 1’s eyes. There was something in the way he looked down at the floor — as if blaming him.

As night fell, 1 led 23 through the hall toward the bedroom. The air felt heavy with dread.

He opened the ornate door and guided 23 inside. Walter was already waiting, seated on the edge of the bed, a gleam in his eyes. He rose slowly as they entered, his smile widening.

“You look better, Tommy,” he cooed — the name like poison. It twisted in 23’s soul, dragged a shudder through his limbs. It was what his mother used to call him.

The sound of it hit harder than anything else.

He froze, breath catching in his throat. His mind flashed — not in full memories, but fragments. The first blinding pain. Her screams. Blood — too much blood. Her slit throat, red gushing from the wound. The scene never stayed fully, but it never faded for long either.

Instinctively, 23 took a step back, as if every nerve in his body urged him to run.

“Don’t just stand there, 1,” Walter said, tone smooth as honey, the edges of cruelty barely veiled beneath the surface. “Bring him closer.”

1 obeyed quickly, leading 23 forward.

Walter reached out and grabbed his wrist, pulling him down onto the bed beside him. His grip was strong — not aggressive, but final. Possessive.

1 turned silently to leave.

“No, 1,” Walter’s voice called out. “You are to stay.”

1 paused in his tracks. He looked back at the master — a flicker of surprise in his eyes.

Why?

Chapter Text

“Master… are you sure? You have never involved me in such activities.” 1's voice was low, uncertain, eyes flicking between Walter and 23 with barely masked apprehension. His tone lacked its usual composure, and his gaze lingered on 23, who stared back at him wide-eyed, frozen in place.

Walter leaned back in a creaking rocking chair a few feet from the bed, his posture relaxed, almost bored, but his eyes glinted with quiet menace. “I am quite sure, 1. He is mine—and so are you. I can make you do whatever I want, can’t I?” His smirk curled as he said it, the words slow and deliberate.

He waved a hand as if bored with the conversation. “And I want you to undress him." he tilted his head, "Now.”

1 hesitated only for a moment. He didn’t need to be told twice. The air felt like it had thickened around him, weighing down his limbs as he stepped forward, hands working automatically. He slipped off 23’s robe with careful fingers. 23 didn’t move. His eyes didn’t blink. They stayed locked onto 1, wide and pleading—quiet desperation screaming out from behind the silence.

“Fold it. You know I dislike messes.”

1 immediately turned to the task, folding the robe with quick, precise movements, placing it neatly on the bedside table. He didn’t let himself look back at 23 until he heard Walter again.

“Stand up, 23.”

No response.

23 just stared blankly ahead, unmoving, his focus still entirely on 1. It was as though the sound of Walter’s voice didn’t register to him—didn’t matter.

“23,” Walter repeated, more sharply this time.

Still nothing.

1 felt a cold ripple of panic rise in his throat. He reached forward without hesitation, his fingers wrapping around 23’s arms. “Come on,” he muttered under his breath, hoisting him up to his feet. His expression stayed neutral—like always. But inside, something wavered.

Walter squinted at 23, clearly annoyed. “What’s wrong with him? Can he not hear me?”

1 kept his eyes on 23’s face, scanning it. The hollowness there wasn’t new—but the look of panic was deeper now, more raw, more childlike.

“He has become… complicated, Master.”

“Ugh. Fine. Bring him here.”

1 took a breath and nodded, reaching to guide 23 forward—but just as he moved, 23 latched onto him.

“No,” 23 whispered hoarsely, clutching at 1’s shirt with trembling hands. “Please don’t.”

His voice cracked on the last word, and for a split second, 1 couldn’t move. There was something in 23’s eyes—something broken. Wild. Terrified. It wasn’t just fear of the master. It was something deeper. Helplessness. Betrayal. A silent, desperate need.

1 had seen pain before. He had inflicted it. He had survived it. But this... this was something different. Something personal.

“What’s the delay, 1? I’m getting impatient.”

Walter’s voice snapped him back. He blinked and swallowed hard, forcing his body to move, even though his legs felt rooted to the ground. He began guiding 23 forward, even as the man clung to him like a drowning child to driftwood.

He didn’t understand what he felt. Not really. But when 23’s fingers clutched his shirt like that, when those glassy eyes looked only at him—it stirred something inside him. Something unfamiliar. Something dangerous. And still, he buried it. This wasn’t the time to feel. Or think.

He brought 23 in front of the master. Close enough for Walter to touch, inspect, command.

“Can you not make him release you?” Walter asked, brow furrowed in mild annoyance, not looking at 23—only at the inconvenience.

“I’m sorry, Master.” 1 tried to pull away gently, working to untangle the thin, shaking fingers wrapped around his shirt. “23, let go,” he murmured low, barely audible.

But 23 didn’t let go.

Instead, he stepped closer. His arms wrapped around 1’s torso tightly, almost desperately, and he buried his face into his chest like a child seeking shelter. His whole body trembled.

1 froze.

He didn’t know what to do—his hands hovered, unsure whether to push him away.

There was a long pause. The room was silent, heavy.

Then Walter’s voice, unexpectedly calm.

“It’s alright. Let him.”

Walter got up, he crouched down and grabbed 23’s ankles, pulling them apart. Muffled whimpers escaped from 23 at his body being handled.

He got up and firmly gripped 23’s hips, positioning them in a way which displayed his scarred hole.

“1 spread him, I would like to examine his recovery.” 1 reached over the now crying 23 and spread his cheeks apart with his fingers.

Walter’s fingers traced the scars, deep pink ridges of once-torn flesh, healed now, but still ugly in their permanence. Raised and smooth, they whispered of torment.

“He recovered splendidly, didn’t he, 1?” Walter said casually, as though he were admiring fine craftsmanship. His gaze flicked up expectantly.

“Yes, master.” 1 replied without looking up, his voice steady but distant. He kept his eyes averted, his hands stiff at his sides.

“Then why did you tell me he was still unwell?”

A chill ran down 1’s spine. His stomach turned. This wasn’t about 23. This was about him—punishment. 23 was merely the weapon Walter had chosen to use.

“Master, I just didn’t think he was ready for another session,” he said carefully. “I’m sorry if I misjudged.”

Walter smirked. “Well, that’s just lying, isn’t it? Or am I misjudging your situation?”

“You are always right, master. I wouldn’t dare to question you.”

He felt backed into a corner. Every word he spoke felt like stepping onto a landmine, never sure which one would explode. There was no correct answer—only the one that pleased Walter in the moment.

Walter stood slowly, deliberate in his movement, amusement playing across his face. He tilted his head. “Then tell me, 1... why did you lie? You think you can protect your lover from me?”

1 flinched internally. His breath hitched just slightly, but he kept his expression blank, trained through repetition. “Master, I assure you—my intentions weren’t to defy you. He is not my lover.”

Walter raised an eyebrow, then dragged a finger slowly down 23’s spine. The boy trembled violently at the touch, tightening his arms around 1’s waist as if clinging to life itself.

“Then what is this?” Walter asked.

“He’s mad, master,” 1 replied quickly. “He is not well in the head.”

He began to pull 23 away, rougher now. The boy whimpered in protest, his body shaking uncontrollably, small sobs escaping him. His hands clung stubbornly, refusing to let go.

“23, let go now.”

He gave one final tug and broke the grip, pushing 23’s arms off him. 23 stumbled back, but didn’t fall—his hand quickly found 1’s arm again. He looked down, shoulders hunched, eyes spilling over with tears.

“No, please,” he cried softly, his voice cracking. “Don’t leave me.”

He said it aloud, open and bare. Begging. Like a child.

1 clenched his jaw. Fuck. This is bad.

Walter sighed, drawing the moment out before settling into the chair again, the old wood groaning under him. He leaned back, letting the chair rock lazily as if watching a show.

“Then give him what he wants, 1. If he wants you so bad, he can have it.”

The words hit like a slap.

“Master?”

1’s head jerked up. His composure cracked slightly, disbelief etched into his face for the first time. He hadn’t meant to look Walter in the eyes—but he did now, unable to help himself.

“I don’t think I understand,” he said slowly.

Walter laughed, the sound cruel and mocking. He waved his hand, as if the whole situation was boring him now. “Tonight, you will have 23. And I will watch. Is that clear enough for you?”

“Master—”

“No more arguing, 1.” Walter’s voice hardened. “Get on. Lay him on the bed and have at it.”

1 stared at him for a second longer, but the decision was already made for him. Resistance wasn’t allowed here. He turned back toward 23, his hands like lead. His mind fought the command, but his body obeyed. That’s what he’d been trained to do.

He gently placed his hands on 23’s arms and began guiding him toward the bed.

“Lay down, 23. It’s okay.” He kept his voice low, quiet, as if trying not to frighten a wounded animal. His hands trembled slightly as he bent forward and eased the boy down onto the sheets.

23 whimpered in protest, reaching up to grab 1 again, but this time, 1 pulled his arms away abruptly. He couldn’t afford softness now.

He took a deep breath. A wave of nausea rose up from his gut. His skin crawled. This wasn’t like anything he’d ever done. He had never… with a man, and certainly never like this. It felt twisted. Perverse. Like violating something that wasn’t even sexual in the first place.

23 didn’t look at him with lust or want. He looked at him like a child who didn’t want to be alone in the dark.

1 couldn’t bear to meet his eyes again.

“Is it okay if I flip him over, master?” he asked numbly, grasping at anything to slow things down.

“Do it however you want to.” Walter’s tone was disturbingly even. “And no more questions.”

1 nodded faintly and moved quickly, flipping 23 onto his stomach. The boy offered no resistance, just a soft sob as his cheek hit the mattress. His shoulders rose and fell with shallow, rapid breaths.

1 leaned down, his lips close to 23’s ear.

“Just relax,” he whispered. “I’ll try not to hurt you.”

23 clutched the sheets tightly beneath him and went completely still.

1 slowly took out his cock, significantly bigger than Walter’s. He spat on his hand and started stroking himself, thinking of women, anything, anything but this.
Slowly, very slowly, he started to get hard. His cock grew, blood rushing to it, he spat again, coating it in a thin, shiny layer of spit.

He spread 23’s legs as far they could go. He placed a hand on his back, and leaned down to his ear again, “Shh, relax. Everything’s fine.” He positioned his tip at 23’s entrance, realizing the spit was already drying.

He didn’t know how to do this, what was he even supposed to do? He crouched down and spread 23’s cheeks, he spat and rubbed it in. Pushing slightly into the hole.

He stood up again, he needed to make this quick before the spit dried, he readied himself and thrusted, shoving it in as much as possible in the first thrust.
23 cried out, instinctively clenching and jerking away. His legs closed as he tried to scramble forward.

“23, No” 1 grabbed his ankles and pulled him back, pinning his flailing arms behind his back.

“You can’t!- This- No! Please!” 23’s please were barely coherent, the wailing getting louder. 1 thrusted again, and again, harder each time.
He had to get this over with. It wasn’t like this was pleasant for him, the lack of lubrication meant he felt every crevice of the poor ruined hole gripping him.

1 grimaced, closing his eyes tightly, continuing this forced violation. Soon he began to feel something warm on his shaft, the movement easing. He looked down, Blood. Oh fuck! His tears were opening up again. He paused “master-“

“Keep going”

He breathed for a moment before commencing, this time he just kept the tip in, quickly moving in and out. 23 had gone still now, like a broken doll.
1 pulled out and came on 23’s lower back, quickly cleaning it with his own shirt.

Walter rose from his chair, stretching with a satisfied sigh as though he’d just finished a fine meal. “That was delicious,” he murmured, running his tongue slowly over his lips. He didn’t look at 1 or 23—his attention remained entirely on his own pleasure. With a lazy grin, he stepped forward and dropped onto the bed beside 23’s motionless body.

23 lay on his stomach, completely still, his breathing shallow. There was no resistance left in him. No will. Just quiet.

1 stood at the foot of the bed, hastily shoving his cock back in his pants, his hands trembling slightly as he did so.

“Master… his wounds,” he said carefully, almost in a whisper. “They’ve reopened.”

There was blood trickling out of his ruined hole. The skin had split again, raw and red. It soaked slowly into the sheets beneath him.

Walter turned his head lazily, propping himself up on one elbow. His gaze landed on 1 with contempt.

“What do you suggest we do, 1? Since you’re the expert now.”

1 stiffened. His mouth opened, the words caught in his throat.

“Master, I’m just—”

“Shut the fuck up, you bumbling idiot.” Walter sat up fully now, voice sharp and venomous. “Don’t I have eyes?”

He raised his hand and delivered a sudden, loud slap across 23’s backside.

The boy didn’t even flinch.

“See?” Walter muttered, almost to himself. “He’s fine.” He exhaled and looked back toward 1, completely unmoved by the damage or silence in the room.

“Take him. Get him cleaned up.” His voice returned to a calm, unnervingly casual tone. “I'll have him again soon, and this time for personal use.”

“Yes, master.”

1 moved immediately, stepping to the side of the bed. He reached down and carefully slid his arms beneath 23’s limp frame—one under his shoulders, the other beneath his knees. The boy felt lighter than ever. Boneless. Hollow.

As he lifted him, 23’s head lolled against his shoulder.

1 bowed his head toward Walter without speaking, he turned and walked out, the door creaking softly shut behind them.

---

Fredrick sat slumped at his desk, his head buried in his hands, the weight of his world pressing down on him like an anchor. He looked every bit the picture of a man unraveling—his suit rumpled, his tie loosened, dark circles shadowing his eyes. The once orderly desk was now in disarray: papers scattered haphazardly, some lying crumpled on the floor like casualties of his panic. Bills, notices, debt statements, all with red ink and cold bureaucratic words screaming the same truth.

No.
He couldn’t.
He had thought about it—briefly, in those dark moments at night—but he couldn’t.

His business was failing, gasping for air. Years of hard work, of reputation, of standing in the community—crumbling. Worse, he owed a staggering amount to the state, and every day the interest mounted like a noose tightening around his neck.

He hadn’t told Angela. Not yet. He’d always thought it was a temporary thing—he’d manage, as he always had. He was Fredrick, respected, known, connected. It would work out.

But then came the setback—the failed investment. That was the blow he hadn’t planned for. That was when the fantasy cracked, and reality bared its teeth.

Now… now, he wasn’t sure he could come back from this.
He wasn’t sure they could.

His throat tightened. He should tell Angela. She didn’t deserve to be kept in the dark. But how could he just walk up to her and admit that their whole life was on the verge of ruin?

He groaned in frustration, dragging his hands down his face before letting his forehead fall heavily onto the wooden desk with a dull thud. The wood was cold. His thoughts raced.

What the fuck was he supposed to do?

He pictured Angela, then Thomas—Young, spoiled, with a whole life ahead of him.
How could he support them like this? How could he protect them?

Maybe… maybe he could go to a minister, someone who owed him a favor. He still had some influence left. He could call in a debt, pull a few strings. It wasn’t over yet.

“Fred?”

Angela’s voice cut through the spiral of thoughts like a sudden gust of wind through a storm. He straightened instinctively, trying to compose himself, wiping his face with trembling fingers.

“Hmm?” he replied, his voice a bit too high, a bit too quick.

She stepped into the room, concern already on her face. Her hair was pulled back loosely. She looked tired, but soft. Steady. The kind of steady that made it even harder to lie to her.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, stepping closer. She crouched beside him, leveling her gaze with his. “You look so worried.”

Fredrick forced a smile. He could feel the tightness of it on his face.
“Nothing, sweetheart.” He reached out and brushed her cheek with his fingers, just for a moment, then pulled away.

She didn’t believe him. But she didn’t push.

And maybe… maybe she wouldn’t have to know. Not yet. He would handle it.
He’d use what power he had left. Make the right calls. Fix things.
He’d do it for her. For Thomas.
Because no matter what happened, they wouldn’t be alone.
Not while he was still here.

---

The Next Day

The funeral was brief. It was a heart attack, as simple as that.

The sky was overcast, heavy with the kind of gray that seemed to swallow light. Rain had fallen earlier, and the earth still smelled of it—muddy, damp, cold.

People came. Many, in fact. Faces familiar and unfamiliar, drawn by obligation or respect. They lined up to offer shallow condolences, murmured words that didn’t land, then trickled away one by one, leaving only the family behind.

Thomas sat near the back, turned away from the coffin, still, distant. A few close friends sat around him, silent, unsure whether to comfort him or give him space. His hands were clenched tightly in his lap. His eyes didn’t move from the ground, hair hung like curtains partially covering his face.

Angela stood by the casket. Still. Silent. Her hand rested over Fredrick’s—cold, stiff, lifeless. His fingers didn’t return her touch. That had always been his strength—his hands, the way they worked, the way they held her.

Now they were just… still.

Her eyes were dry. She hadn’t cried, not yet. The weight hadn’t fallen yet—it was suspended above her, waiting.

She whispering under her breath, whispers meant only for Fredrick, no one else.

Neither of them knew what was coming.
Neither of them had the faintest idea how far things would fall.

Chapter Text

1 grunted in pleasure, his head thrown back against the plush velvet of the master bedroom’s pillow. The room around him was stunning—ornate crown molding traced the ceiling, gold accents glinted from the mirror frames, and the scent of expensive perfume lingered heavy in the air, clinging to the silk sheets like a second skin. It was beautiful, pristine.

But he wasn’t thinking about any of that.
All he could focus on was her.

Genevieve—the mistress.

She looked untamed, wild, flushed with exertion. Her golden hair tumbled around her face in a tangled halo, her once-elegant dress now crumpled and half-falling off her slick, sweat-drenched body. Her lips were parted, breath coming in gasps as she moved over him with hypnotic intensity. Her hips rose and fell in a rhythm that felt primal, fevered, and impossibly captivating.

To 1, she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

His hands found her waist, instinctively gripping her, trying to slow her down—he was close, too close. He didn’t want to finish inside her, didn’t want to take that risk.

But she was faster, stronger in that moment. She slapped his hands away without missing a beat, then leaned down, kissing him deeply—her lips crashing into his with bruising passion. Her pace slowed slightly, just enough to torture him.

“What’s wrong, 1?” she whispered against his mouth, her voice low, thick with want. Her finger traced along his jawline, making him shudder beneath her. He couldn’t meet her gaze.

“Mistress, I—”

“Shhh…” she hushed him with another kiss, then bit his lower lip—hard. He winced at the sudden sting, the metallic taste of blood blooming across his tongue, but the pain only made the moment more intense.

He didn’t move. He couldn’t. He was dizzy. Floating. The room, the lights, the feel of her—it was too much. She was too much.

Genevieve sat back up, wiping the smear of blood off her lip with the pad of her thumb, eyes locked on him with amused delight. She looked radiant in that moment—savage and divine all at once.

1’s eyes rolled back as he came, unable to stop himself, his body trembling under her as he released into her. She didn’t flinch, didn’t shy away. She stayed still until his cock began to soften inside her, and only then did she slide off, collapsing beside him with a content sigh.

“How long do you think we can hide this?” she asked softly, her voice teasing, but tinged with something else—something darker, uncertain.

1 blinked slowly, still catching his breath. He turned his head toward her, dazed.
“Uhh… I don’t know.”

She laughed lightly, then exhaled, rolling onto her side to face him. She began tracing slow, lazy patterns across his chest with her fingers, her voice almost wistful.

“You know, 1… this house is hell. And you, you’re like a merry devil dancing through it. I don’t know how I’d survive in here without you.”

1 swallowed hard. He still couldn’t believe this was real. She looked like a goddess—too perfect, too soft for someone like him. He didn’t feel worthy to even breathe the same air as her, let alone share her bed.

“I should get back to work, mistress,” he murmured, reluctant. “It’s been a while.”

But his eyes remained on her, reverent. She looked at him like he was hers.

“Oh, 1! Don’t be like this.” She laughed again, gently pulling him back toward her. “There’s still time. Just… stay. Let me look at you longer.”

She tilted his chin down and kissed him again, slower this time—deep and drawn out. It made his head spin all over again.

He still didn’t fully understand how it had started.

---

The mistress had arrived months ago—Genevieve, the master’s new wife. At the time, 1 hadn’t thought much of it. He didn’t even look at her, didn’t dare to. He had his duties, his silence, his place.

But the walls were thin.

He’d heard her crying at night in the master’s bedroom—screams muffled by thick curtains and stone walls. It wasn’t surprising. The master had a way of breaking people. He made everyone cry eventually.

One day, 1 had found her in the garden.

It was late afternoon. The sun was dipping low, casting orange light through the wrought-iron gates. She was sitting alone on a stone bench by the roses, her face streaked with tears. When he passed by, she reached out suddenly and grabbed his wrist.

“You are 1?” she asked, her voice raw and cracked.

“Yes, mistress.”

“Sit down, 1.” Her grip was firm, urgent, pulling him toward the bench.

“Mistress, I cannot—”

“It’s funny,” she interrupted him, then started to laugh—a sharp, unhinged sound. “He doesn’t even touch me. He only touches those sweet little boys. Rips them apart. And yet I’m the one who screams more than they do.”

Her words sat heavy in the air. 1 stared at her, unsure. Should he speak? Sit? Leave?

But then she pulled herself against him, sobbing now, truly breaking down.

“I can’t do this anymore,” she wailed, clinging to his arm. “He’s Satan himself.”

1 hesitated, then raised a trembling hand and placed it awkwardly on her back. She clung tighter, her whole body shaking. She wept like she’d been holding it in for years, like she’d never had anyone to hold onto until now.

Eventually, her sobs quieted. She sat up slowly, wiping at her face with trembling fingers. Then she turned to him, her eyes red but blazing.

“I want you.”

1 stiffened.

“I need you to touch me.” She took his hand and guided it to her breast. “Touch me, 1.”

He froze, his breath catching. He had never touched a woman before. Never been this close.

He stared down at where his hand rested over her chest, her heartbeat thudding beneath his palm. Her breathing was shallow, rapid. She pulled his hand lower, slipping it beneath the neckline of her dress. Her warmth enveloped him.

Something surged inside him—curiosity, desire, fear.

He moved, slowly at first, gentle, barely applying pressure. Then, with her encouragement, his fingers became bolder—exploring, squeezing, drawing small moans from her lips. Her reactions thrilled and terrified him all at once.

She leaned forward and kissed him. He had no idea what to do. He let her take the lead—her mouth warm and soft against his, her tongue slipping between his lips. It felt foreign, invasive, but intoxicating.

She kissed his jaw, then down his neck, each touch making him shiver. She unbuttoned his shirt slowly, lips trailing after her fingers, down his chest, down to his stomach.

When she reached his groin and began tugging at his pants, he suddenly panicked.

“Someone will—”

“Hush,” she said, gently. “There’s no one here.”

And he believed her. She pulled down his pants and revealed his half erect shaft. She ran her nails across the length making 1 whimper.

She placed a sift kiss on his tip, “Have you ever done this before?” 1 shook his head, a mixture of fear and overwhelming desire clouding his mind.

She smirked, making his whole length disappear inside her mouth at once. 1 moaned loudly, his body twitching away.
“Mistress… ahh!”

She grabbed his balls making his whole body jerk, he covered his mouth with his hand, muffling his moans of pure ecstasy.

Her mouth moved up and down, her tongue flicking over the sensitive underside of his cock. He spread his legs instinctively, throwing his head back, running a hand through his hair. “Fuck!”

He came quickly, the new sensations too much, too overwhelming. She left soon after, there wasn’t much time for Walter to return.

The next time they met was in the slave quarters. She had snuck in quietly, her silken skirts bundled in one hand, hair pinned loosely under a shawl. It was daring, almost reckless—if anyone caught her, the punishment wouldn’t just fall on her, but on 1 as well. Yet she didn’t seem to care. That was the night everything changed.

Everyone else was out working, the quarters nearly empty save for the dust particles dancing in shafts of light from the small, grimy window. She had found him sitting on his cot, cleaning his boots. When he looked up and saw her there, his face went blank for a moment—like his mind couldn’t comprehend what was standing before him.

She didn’t say anything at first. She only walked toward him and sat down beside him on the rough straw mattress, eyes meeting his in a silent, magnetic pull. Without a word, she kissed him. Slowly, deeply. Her hands found his shirt, unbuttoning it again like the first time, only this time with more certainty. When he tried to speak, to protest, she placed a finger to his lips.

“Don’t talk,” she whispered, eyes dark with desire. “Just feel.”

That was the first time 1 had sex. It made him feel like a man, like someone who had agency—even if that agency was borrowed, even if it was dangerous. It was raw and clumsy and intense, their bodies pressed together on the creaking cot, his hands trembling, her moans muffled against his throat. When it was over, she lay draped across him, flushed and glowing, their chests rising and falling in sync.

That was the moment he started to worship her—not just as a mistress, but as something divine. She had become his goddess.

They met frequently after that. It became a ritual. Every time Walter was away on business or gone late into the night, she would come to him. Sometimes she would summon him quietly to the master bedroom under the pretense of needing help with something trivial. Other times, she would wait for him to sneak up. The space between them grew shorter each time, their touches more familiar, their kisses less hesitant.

Those stolen hours in the grand, perfumed bed of her husband were unlike anything 1 had ever known. In those moments, he didn’t feel like property. He didn’t feel like a slave. She would hold him afterward, tangled in the expensive silk sheets, and whisper stories about her girlhood in the South, about her hatred for Walter, about the loneliness that gnawed at her every day in this golden cage.

They were careful. Meticulous. No signs left behind, no scents out of place, the sheets always smoothed, the pillows fluffed. No one who mattered ever noticed a thing.

Of course, the other slaves knew. Eyes lingered. Whispers passed between hushed mouths over water and under candlelight. But no one said anything aloud. 1 was the handler. He had a certain authority—respected, feared, and above all, left alone. No one dared betray him. Besides, everyone knew what kind of man Walter was. If 1 had found a crack in that cruel, unyielding world—a hidden place where he could feel human—who were they to take it from him?

Still, the secret weighed heavily. The risk was constant. And yet… neither of them stopped. They couldn’t. Something about this hidden connection made both of them feel alive, even as it danced dangerously close to ruin.

---

23’s eyes were open, but glazed over—fixed on nothing, hollow and vacant. He didn’t flinch, didn’t move, not even when 1 dabbed antiseptic onto his reopened wounds. His lips were parted slightly, breath shallow, face empty. The room was quiet except for the soft, rhythmic sound of cotton swabbing skin.

“23? Does it hurt?” 1 asked gently, voice low and careful. He guided him to sit on the edge of the bed. 23 allowed it, passive as a doll, offering no resistance, no acknowledgment—nothing.

1 studied his face, searching for any sign of recognition. There was none.

He drew a slow breath. “I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I didn’t expect… the master would…” His words trailed off, shame creeping into his tone. “I’m sorry,” he repeated, softer this time.

He sat down beside him and eased 23 sideways, guiding his head to rest against his shoulder. 23 was stiff, the weight of his body more dead than relaxed. 1 ran his fingers gently through his hair, combing it back with slow, repetitive strokes.

“Sleep,” he whispered. “Everything’s fine now. Just sleep.”

But 23 didn’t close his eyes. He kept staring forward, unseeing, as if something had disconnected inside him and refused to come back.

After sitting like that for a while with no change, 1 shifted. Carefully, he lay 23 down on the bed. He didn’t bother restraining him tonight. He’d deal with it tomorrow if 23 started scratching again.

He pulled the thin bedsheet up and tucked it around him, smoothing it gently over his chest and shoulders. “Do you want me to stay a while?” he asked.

Silence.

23 didn’t blink. Didn’t move.

1 exhaled slowly, the sound almost weary. A knot of guilt twisted in his stomach—tight, bitter—but what was he supposed to do? He couldn’t have stopped what happened. The master had made him. It was an order. This wasn’t his fault.

…Was it?

Maybe it was. Maybe trying to delay 23’s session earlier had made it worse. He had angered the master, this was all his fault. His jaw tensed at the thought. No. No, he couldn’t let himself think like that. That was dangerous thinking.

He stood up quietly and smoothed down the bedsheet again, even though it didn’t need fixing. “Okay, 23. I’ll be back tomorrow, alright?”

No reaction.

He stood there for a few more seconds, looking down at the still, blank-eyed form on the bed. Then he turned and walked out, closing the door softly behind him.

But even as the latch clicked shut, the sense of failure clung to him. Heavy. Muddled. He couldn’t say exactly how or why—but something in him knew he had done wrong.

And it wouldn’t leave him alone.

Chapter Text

The porridge slipped out of 23’s half-open mouth, dribbling down his chin in slow, viscous trails. His lips were cracked, and the dull sludge clung to the dry skin before dripping onto his collarbone.
1 sighed and lowered the spoon, voice heavy with frustration and helplessness. “23, please. Just eat.”

But 23 only stared—no, not at him. Through him. Past him. His eyes were glassy, vacant, holding nothing behind them but a cold, unreachable stillness. It had been four days. Four days without a single word. Not a flinch. Not even the twitch of a finger. His body was there, slack and heavy, but whatever made him him was gone, curled inward or shattered to dust.

1 had managed, somehow, to keep him hydrated. A trickle of water, poured carefully between cracked lips, head tilted back, mouth held closed until his throat reflexively swallowed. But food? No. It wasn’t even refusal—it was like the very concept had ceased to register. His mouth opened and closed like a puppet’s, mechanical, unseeing. And the moment 1 let go, whatever was inside would just slide back out.

He tried again now, hopeful in a way that was more desperate than optimistic. He lifted another spoonful of porridge and brought it to 23’s lips. They parted slightly. The spoon entered. He closed his mouth. Progress, maybe.

1 waited. Then his mouth opened again, letting the food slide out again, dropping with a soft splat into his lap.

A low growl of frustration escaped 1’s throat as he slammed the bowl aside. He grabbed 23’s shoulders and shook him—hard, harder than he meant to.

“Snap out of it, 23! You can’t keep doing this!” His voice cracked, bouncing off the cold stone walls. But 23 remained a limp puppet, limbs still, head lolling against the wall behind him.

1 backed away, dragging a hand down his face, fingers trembling. What was he supposed to do? How the hell was he supposed to fix this? Maybe… maybe pain would reach him. Wake something up inside.

He stepped forward and lifted 23’s face, cradling his jaw for a moment. “I’m sorry,” he murmured—though to himself or to 23, it wasn’t clear. Then he slapped him. Once. Lightly.

Nothing.

Again. Harder. Then again, and again, until blood welled at the corner of 23’s mouth, mixing with the remnants of the porridge.

Still nothing.

Fine. If this didn’t work—he’d escalate.

He stood and gripped 23’s arm, roughly yanking him to his feet. There was no resistance. No stumble. Just dead weight and slack limbs. 1 half-carried, half-dragged him across the cold stone floor to the whipping post. The iron rings were already bolted into the wall, as permanent as the pain they invited. He tied 23’s wrists high and tight, his body sagging forward like a rag doll.

He hesitated. For just a second. Then turned away to the rack of implements. His hand hovered—then selected a two-tailed whip, the kind that split skin easily. He cracked it in the air, the sound echoing like a gunshot.

23 didn’t even blink.

1 gritted his teeth and brought the first lash down with force. The whip sliced the air—and then skin. A line of red blossomed across 23’s back. Then another. And another.

Still nothing. No scream. No flinch. No sound beyond the sickening rhythm of flesh being torn open and the whip cracking like thunder.

By the time 1 dropped the whip, the floor beneath 23 was speckled with blood, and his back looked like it had been painted crimson by a careless god. 1 threw the whip to the side and crouched down, his breath ragged, sweat beading on his forehead. He cradled his head in his hands.

“What do you want from me, 23?” he whispered into the cold, damp air. “Why won’t you fucking respond?” His voice echoed off the dungeon walls, swallowed by the silence.

23 hung limply from the restraints, chest barely rising, blood dripping in slow, steady trails. His eyes—still open—stared straight ahead, focused on something far, far away. Something no one else would ever see.

1 staggered to his feet, his limp more pronounced now, and moved to untie him. The ropes loosened, and 23 slumped into his arms like dead weight. He carried him back to the narrow cot in the corner of the room.

He cleaned the wounds with mechanical precision, hands firm, his movements only growing rougher the more frustration welled inside him. Every new smear of blood on the cloth seemed to accuse him. When he finished, he bandaged the torn flesh, then rolled 23 onto his back. Maybe… maybe the pain would force him to shift. No one could lie on wounds like these and stay still.

But 23 didn’t move.

He lay there, thin as a ghost. His cheeks were hollowing out, skin stretched taut over his cheekbones. His eyes had sunk deeper into their sockets. His collarbone jutted sharply beneath the skin, the whole frame of him wasting away. But even now, in that ruined body, there was something ethereal—like he didn’t belong to this world.

1 leaned over and cupped 23’s face, turning it toward him with both hands. “I’m sorry, okay?” His voice was barely audible now, fraying at the edges. “I couldn’t disobey the Master’s orders. You can’t hold this against me. You can’t…”

But 23 didn’t blink. Didn’t look at him. Didn't see him.

1’s hands fell away. He stood slowly and turned toward the heavy iron door. Without another word, he left the room.

---

1 walked the halls aimlessly, his steps slow, mechanical. He was supposed to be attending to his duties—he knew that. But only one thought pulsed like a drumbeat in his mind, eclipsing everything else: the Mistress.

She was with him constantly, even when she wasn’t. Her absence never felt like absence, when he lay in bed at night, it was as though she lay beside him. He could feel her—truly feel her. The weight of her body next to his, the press of her warmth. Her breath on his neck, slow and humid, making the hairs rise on his skin. The curve of her voice whispering obscene promises into his ear, soft and wicked. God, just thinking about it sent a shudder down his spine. It was exhilarating. Addictive.

Before her, his life had been a wasteland. A long, grey crawl through nothingness. But she had ruined that nothingness with color. She was the sun after a grueling, endless winter. She was the rain after a brutal everlasting drought. She was simply everything. He would find himself praying, something he had never done, but not to the god in the skies, but to the woman who possessed his very being.

“1.”

The voice snapped through his trance like a whipcrack. He stopped mid-step, heart kicking once in his chest. Instantly, his posture straightened, and his head bowed low.

“Master,” he said.

Walter stood before him, arms crossed. His gaze was hard, impersonal—always the same.

“I need you to run over to the market and get me some things.”

“Certainly, Master,” 1 replied quickly, eyes still lowered. “I’ll tell one of the boys at once. Would you like me to—”

“No, you idiot,” Walter cut in. “I want you to go. No one else.” He shoved a folded piece of paper into 1’s hands. “And this must stay secret. You’ll tell no one what’s written there. Understood?”

“Yes, Master.” 1 tucked the note into his pocket and bowed again, holding the gesture just a heartbeat longer than necessary. Then he turned and walked away.

He headed through the back garden, slipping out onto the street. A rare sunny day bathed everything in gold—no clouds, no wind, just a lazy, saturated blue above. He greeted the other slaves he passed, nodding to familiar faces, but his mind wandered. Lately, he’d started noticing days like this. He found himself watching the play of sunlight on stone, or the way leaves rustled in the breeze. He even smiled sometimes—for no reason at all. It was strange. Almost suspicious.

As he neared the market, he pulled out the note and unfolded it.

Coconut oil. Iron spike-headed rods. Six meters of rope. Rouge. Lip color.

His brow furrowed.

Makeup? For women?

But the Mistress never wore makeup. She didn’t need it. She was flawless—savage and elegant and real. Was the Master buying this for someone else? The current 23 maybe. But he was a man wasn't he?

The thought unsettled him, but he shrugged it off. It wasn’t his place to question. He moved through the market with mechanical ease, gathering each item in silence, paying in coin and nods, then tucking everything carefully into a cloth bag before heading back.

As he stepped through the gates of the estate, a sudden grip on his arm startled him.

He jumped and turned—ready to apologize—until he saw her.

The Mistress.

She was, as always, ravishing. Her smile was unforced, casual, but there was a spark of amusement in her eyes that made his chest tighten. She looked at him like she knew what he dreamed about. Like she was always a step ahead of his mind.

“Why’re you so jumpy today?” she teased, her fingers trailing off his arm.

He scrambled for words, managing a smile. “Mistress,” he said, with a half-bow. “I was just picking up something personal for the Master.” He lifted the bag slightly, showing her.

“Ahh,” she said, glancing at it with zero interest. “Go give it to him. Then meet me in the dungeon.”

She winked. And just like that, turned and walked away.

1 stared after her, entranced. The sway of her hips had its own rhythm—measured, fluid, hypnotic. It was like watching a song come to life. A song only he could hear.

---

The dungeon was cloaked in darkness, the air damp and biting cold, but their bodies radiated heat—an almost feral warmth born of desire. Their skin glistened with sweat, breathless gasps puffing into the stale air like smoke, mingling, clinging. Their hearts pounded in unison, each beat syncing perfectly with the rhythm of their tangled bodies.

1 had her pinned against the rough stone wall, hips moving with a desperate urgency. Genevieve clung to him, legs wrapped tightly around his waist, her thighs pressing into him with a grip that bordered on possessive. It was as if she were trying to pull him inside her completely, to devour the distance between their bodies, to obliterate the space where one ended and the other began.

The air was thick with their sounds—moans, gasps, the occasional ragged cry that echoed off the stone and danced through the shadows. In this desolate underground, carved for punishment and pain, they created something obscene and sacred all at once. A holy desecration. Sinful. Electric.

And when it was over, they collapsed.

Spent and slick with sweat, they sat together on the cold stone floor. 1 leaned back against the wall, legs stretched out, chest rising and falling in deep, shaky breaths. Genevieve nestled between his legs, reclining against him, her bare back warm against his torso. Her hair smelled faintly of rose oil and earth, soft against the skin of his chest. Their bodies were cooling now, but the silence between them hummed with heat.

Neither of them spoke. Words felt too sharp, too clumsy for something this tangled and fragile.

Then she stirred.

Genevieve tilted her head, her cheek brushing his collarbone as she looked up at him with a small, curious smile. “What is your true name, 1?” she asked softly. “You’ve never told me.”

He stared upward, eyes tracing the black stone ceiling as if it held the answer. “I don’t remember,” he said after a pause. His voice sounded thin, distant, like it had come from another room.

“Really?” she asked, her tone light, but her brows drawn slightly together. “You don’t?”

He turned his head toward her slowly, and their eyes met. Her gaze was fierce and green, luminous even in the near-pitch darkness. Eyes that never blinked at pain, that saw straight through him.

“No,” he said. “It’s as if I never had one.” A soft, hollow chuckle escaped him. “I’ve always been a number, Mistress.”

“Oh,” she murmured, her expression dimming slightly. She looked down at their joined hands and began absentmindedly playing with his fingers. “That sounds… sad.”

It was sad. But he didn’t say that.

Instead, he watched her as she toyed with his hand, delicate and thoughtless, like he wasn’t an object, a toll, a simple convenience. Like he was a person.

In his mind, three words rose unbidden, pounding like a drum behind his ribs.

I love you.

The thought repeated itself again and again, relentless, like a chant at a forbidden altar. He loved her. It was the one truth he had. A terrible, holy truth.

But he could never say it.

What would change if he did? Nothing. He couldn’t protect her from the Master. He couldn’t take her away. He couldn’t give her a life—not when he had none of his own to offer. He was a number, a weapon, a slave. What future could love have in a place like this?

And yet, he couldn’t stop the words from burning inside him.

So instead, he smiled.

He rested his chin gently on the crown of her head, breathing in the scent of her hair. He closed his eyes, and let the warmth of her body fill him like a dream he didn’t dare believe in.

For now, this moment was enough.

---

The evening sun slanted lazily through the tall, arched windows, casting warm golden light across the opulence of the Master’s chambers. Dust danced in the glow, drifting through the silence like ghosts. The room was, as always, extravagantly adorned—velvet curtains, dark polished wood, gilded furniture—but none of it could disguise the rot at its center.

23 sat on the edge of the bed, the silk sheets beneath him wrinkled and untouched. He was visibly thinner than before, his bones pressing sharp against skin that had grown pale and almost translucent. His eyes were sunken, ringed with dark circles that made him look almost hollowed out. He stared at nothing. Not the room, not the figures in it—nothing. Like a marionette with its strings cut, he simply sat there, still and silent, drifting somewhere unreachable.

Walter’s footsteps echoed as he paced in front of him, slow and deliberate, but there was a tension in his movements—a frustration barely restrained.

“What is wrong with him?!” Walter snapped, rounding on 1 with a sneer. His hands clenched and unclenched at his sides. “He just sits there. Like a corpse!”

1 stood a few feet back, posture straight but gaze averted, his hands loosely clasped behind him in practiced subservience. “I do not know, Master,” he said, voice flat, emotionless. “He is simply… unresponsive. I have tried everything.”

He lifted his eyes for the briefest moment, just a flicker of movement, then dropped them again.

“Perhaps we should call the physician,” he added softly, his voice quieter this time, less certain—as if the suggestion itself was dangerous to speak aloud.

Walter turned on him, face twisting with something between anger and insult. “I decide that, 1. Not you.” His voice was sharp, cold. “Now leave. Let me deal with my pet as I see fit.”

“Yes, Master.” 1 bowed his head, his face blank as stone.

He turned and stepped out of the room, closing the heavy door quietly behind him. The latch clicked into place with an audible finality.

Outside, in the corridor, 1 exhaled slowly, his shoulders sagging just a little. A wave of relief washed over him—relief that he hadn’t been made to stay. Not this time. But that relief was already curdling into something else.

Dread.

He didn’t want to admit it, even to himself, but it was there. Cold and coiling in his gut.

He should’ve felt nothing. He used to feel nothing. He had seen dozens of 23s before this one—boys and men with the same name, the same role, interchangeable and disposable. They came. They obeyed. They broke. They vanished. He had watched them with indifference, sometimes irritation, never sympathy.

But now...

Now he found himself caring. For this 23. For the way he had fought back, once. For the way he'd gone so quiet, so completely still. For the way his silence seemed louder than screams.

1 stood outside the door for a few seconds longer, listening. Not for words—he knew there would be none—but for the sounds that made him feel sick. The sounds he could not stop.

And then, without another word, he turned and walked away down the gilded hall, his footsteps muffled on the plush carpet, leaving behind a door that would never truly close.

Chapter Text

The air in Walter’s chambers was unnaturally cold. Not just the kind of chill that crept from stone walls, but the kind born from something rotted—a space heavy with anger, frustration, and control. It clung to the silk sheets and the ornate furniture like mildew. It pressed down on the room like a weight.

But 23 didn’t seem to notice. Or perhaps, he couldn’t.

He sat motionless on the edge of the bed, his posture slouched, eyes dull and vacant. His skin was pallid under the fading gold of the sun, every hollow and sharp edge of his face made more pronounced by his starvation. He didn’t blink. Didn’t flinch. He was a statue carved from fatigue and silence.

Walter stood across the room, jaw clenched, chest rising and falling in steady irritation. Then, slowly, he crossed the space and sat down beside him, the bed dipping beneath his weight.

“So you want to be difficult, Tommy?” he muttered, his voice low, almost coaxing. He reached out and brushed a thumb along 23’s cheekbone, letting his fingers trail over the boy’s sunken face. “Look what you’ve done to yourself… poor boy.”

There was mock pity in his tone, sugar-laced venom. His fingers moved with gentleness that wasn’t real—hovering where bruises had bloomed, tracing the outline of a body wasting away.

Then, without warning, he shoved 23 backward onto the bed. The body folded easily, offering no resistance, no sound, no spark of life. Just the dull thump of limbs meeting silk.

“I guess I’ll have to fix that, huh?” Walter said, voice catching with something between breathlessness and thrill. He leaned down and kissed him—rough, forceful, biting. Teeth caught on 23’s lower lip, drawing blood. He didn’t react.

Walter pulled back, eyes flicking over him hungrily.

“You’re still pretty, though,” he muttered, almost to himself.

With hurried hands, he began tugging off 23’s clothes—ripping and yanking, casting the scraps to the floor in a heap. The boy remained limp beneath him, as pliable as cloth.

“This little act…” Walter breathed, now hovering over him, voice turning darker, more jagged, “It won’t protect you, Tommy. Believe me. If you think going blank will save you…” He leaned in, his lips close to 23’s ear now. “You’ll only make it worse for yourself.”

23’s eyes stared up at the ceiling, unfocused. His chest rose and fell, slowly, steadily. But he didn’t see the man above him. Didn’t feel the hands or the voice or the breath on his skin. He had drifted far from this place, far from this body.

And Walter didn’t notice. Or didn’t care.

To him, 23 was still there. Still his.

He raised his legs up and thrust his fingers into him. “Still tight I see.”

He unzipped his pants and let his raging boner loose, aligning himself with his opening and thrusted in. He plowed him relentlessly, looking at his blank face the whole time, when he saw nothing he just went harder, but nothing changed. 23 stayed the same, unmoving, unchanging.

When he finally came, Walter pulled out with a frustrated grunt, his body twitching with unsatisfied rage. He released his grip on 23’s legs, letting them drop limply to the bed.

He stared down at the boy beneath him—at the pale, bruised skin, the slack mouth, the vacant eyes—and something inside him snapped.

“What the fuck is wrong with you, Tommy?!” he roared, staggering back, his chest heaving. “Goddamnit!”

He yanked the belt from his trousers with a hiss of leather, the motion violent and erratic. The first strike came down with a crack, slashing across 23’s bare thighs. The boy didn’t move.

Another lash—this time across his chest, welts already rising.

Another—directly across his genitals, the kind of pain that would have sent anyone else screaming.

Still, 23 lay silent.

Walter kept swinging. The belt landed haphazardly, wildly, not with the precision of punishment but the chaos of fury. Across his ribs. His legs. His stomach. The leather kissed skin again and again until it left long, blooming bruises in sickly purples and angry reds.

By the time Walter stopped, he was panting—his body shaking, his belt-hand limp at his side. 23’s skin was painted in pain, a grotesque mural of welts and contusions. His lips were slightly parted, dry. His eyes were still open, still staring—but into nothing. Through Walter. Through the walls. Through the world.

“You are useless!” Walter spat, the words drenched in disgust. He leaned forward and spat directly into 23’s face.

The glob of saliva slid down the side of his cheek.

Then Walter turned and stormed out, slamming the door behind him hard enough to rattle the frame. The echo of it lingered long after he’d gone.

Silence settled.

23 remained exactly as he was, limbs sprawled, his body a ruined canvas of flesh. His breath was shallow. Slow. Mechanical.

His eyes didn’t blink.

They were open—but empty. Staring at nothing. Seeing nothing. The world around him—the fine sheets, the blood-streaked belt on the floor, the fading sunlight on the wall—no longer existed.

He had long since left his body behind.

---

1 worked quickly, but with trembling hands. The dungeon was dim, lit only by the weak flicker of a lantern in the corner. The air was cool and damp, heavy with stone and silence.

He knelt beside 23, gently wiping dried blood and spit from his face with a damp cloth. “God,” he whispered, his voice thin, shaking. “What did the Master do to you?”

Walter hadn’t explained. He never did. He’d only instructed 1 to “take him away.”

And so here they were again—back in the dungeon, the place where so many things had broken.

1 slid a thick robe over 23’s frail, battered body, carefully covering the deep welts and purpled bruises that ran like rivers across his skin. The boy didn’t resist. He never did. His limbs were pliant, useless. Just bones and bruises now, held together by barely enough life to breathe.

1 rubbed his arms briskly, trying to warm him. “Better?” he asked, knowing full well there’d be no answer.

23 just sat there, limp and hollow, his head resting lightly against the stone wall. His silence no longer unnerved 1—it had become familiar, like background noise. But that didn’t make it easier.

He lowered him onto the mat with exaggerated care, making sure every movement was slow, gentle. “I’m sorry, 23,” he whispered, brushing hair from his face. “I really am.”

He didn’t know why he said it. He hadn’t been the one to hurt him. He hadn’t chosen this life, hadn’t made these rules. But still, the words came. And they felt right.

There was something about 23’s eyes—always open now, always distant—that disturbed him in ways he couldn’t explain. Every time he looked into them, a thought circled in the back of his mind, unwelcome, unspoken, awful.

He sat on the cold floor beside him, leaning back against the wall. The dungeon was quiet, save for the drip of distant water and the quiet rasp of 23’s breathing. His mind buzzed—not with thoughts exactly, but with that strange, numbing static that came when he didn’t want to think at all.

The door creaked open.

2 entered, her voice calm but brisk. “1, the carpenter’s here.”

He blinked and looked up, the spell breaking. “Uh… yes. I’m coming.” He stood, body stiff, knees cracking as he rose. He paused at the door and looked back one last time. 23 hadn’t moved.

He returned the next morning, earlier than usual. There was a different energy to him—not fast or frantic, but decided. His limp still slowed his pace, but his movements had purpose.

He carried a narrow rubber feeding pipe, coiled carefully, and a small glass beaker filled with a cloudy, pale soup—watered down broth and ground vegetables. It wasn’t much, but it was life.

23 lay exactly where he’d been left, though now asleep—if it could be called that. His eyes were closed, mouth slightly open. In that moment, he looked… normal. Peaceful, almost. But it was an illusion. A trick of stillness.

1 set the pipe and beaker on the nearby table, crouched beside him, and placed a hand gently on his shoulder.

“Hey,” he said softly. “Wake up.”

He shook him lightly. “23.”

The boy’s eyes opened slowly, unfocused and glassy. He blinked once, then returned to staring past him.

1 sighed. He didn’t expect anything else. “Okay,” he murmured, sitting up straighter. “Today, you’re going to eat. One way or another.”

He lifted 23 carefully, propping him against the wall to keep his airway open, then returned to the table. Taking the pipe, he lubricated the end with a dab of oil, checked the funnel and beaker, and took a deep breath.

He opened 23’s mouth with practiced care. There was a moment’s resistance—a faint clench of the jaw, purely reflex—but it passed. He gently began threading the tube past his tongue, toward the back of his throat. 23 gagged once, a small, helpless retch, his eyes watering.

“I know,” 1 said quietly, voice low and calm. “I know it’s awful. Just breathe through it.”

He continued, slowly, carefully, angling the tube downward. Another gag, weaker this time. 23’s throat spasmed once, then stilled. 1 kept his hand steady, measuring by instinct and feel.

When the tube was finally in place, he fitted the funnel to the end and slowly poured the soup in, keeping the flow smooth and controlled. He watched the liquid disappear down the funnel, waited between pours, giving it time to settle.

23 didn’t resist. Didn’t move.

Just like before.

When the beaker was empty, 1 waited a few seconds. Then, just as carefully, he withdrew the tube, inch by inch. 23 gagged again, a wet, animal sound, but didn’t vomit.

“Good,” 1 murmured. “Good.”

He laid the pipe aside and wiped 23’s chin, then moved him gently to the floor. The bedsheets were soiled, he stripped them, replaced them with clean ones from the shelf, then hoisted 23 in his arms with quiet effort.

He carried him to the bathing corner, sat him upright on a stool, and washed his body with a cloth and basin. The bruises were worse today. The belt marks across his thighs and chest had turned a deep, angry purple, the flesh tender and swollen. But 23 didn’t flinch—not even when the cloth passed over raw skin.

He dried him carefully and dressed him in another robe, soft and warm.

“There,” 1 said, his voice almost cheerful. “You look better already.”

He walked him back to the bed and laid him down on his side, folding the robe snugly around him. He smoothed his hair once, brushing it away from his eyes.

“I have work, 23. But I’ll be back, okay?”

No response.

Still, 1 gave him a final glance—lingering longer than he meant to—before limping quietly out of the room. He closed the door with exaggerated care, making sure it didn’t slam.

Letting the silence return to what it was.

---

A few months had passed.

Walter had stopped calling for 23 entirely. Maybe he no longer saw the point—maybe the lack of resistance bored him, or maybe he considered the boy a personal failure. Either way, it had given 1 time—enough time.

Physically, 23 had returned to something like his former self. His face wasn’t sunken anymore; there was color in his cheeks again. His body, once skeletal, had filled out. The worst of the hair loss had stopped. His skin, though still marked by old bruises and fresh scars, no longer looked translucent. He looked alive—at least on the outside.

1 had made it his mission. The feedings had become routine. His gag reflex had dulled through repetition, through patience. The pain was less now, or at least managed. And 1 had gotten better at it—faster, gentler. Always with a soft voice. Always with care.

He brushed his hair. He changed his robes. He sat beside him for hours, sometimes reading aloud from books no one had touched in years, sometimes just talking into the silence. And sometimes, he told stories. About what he remembered from before he was 1. About things he didn’t even know were true, or just made up to fill the space.

And he grew fond of him.

Not in the way the Master would have. Not with possession or hunger. But something quieter. Stranger. A hollow closeness.

As if 23 belonged to him somehow—not in the literal way, not even emotionally. But like a stray fragment of something they’d both lost.

He never deluded himself. He wasn’t foolish enough to imagine 23 was his. But still… he couldn’t stay away.

Even when other duties called, he always found time for him. Always returned. He had even laid another thin mattress on the stone floor beside 23’s bed. Slept there most nights. Close enough to reach out, if something happened.

This morning was like most others. The sun outside was dull, covered by clouds, casting a pale grey light through the narrow window above the stairwell. But the dungeon, deep underground, remained unchanged—unmoved by weather or time.

1 had placed 23 in a chair beside the wall, propping him up straight. It kept his muscles engaged, gave his bones a break from the bed.

Suddenly, the door burst open with a slam that echoed through the stone corridor.

A girl—no more than fifteen—stormed in, her boots clattering against the floor.

“Why do I get the worst job?!” she huffed, arms flailing like a tantrum in motion.

1 stepped in behind her, calm but unamused. “Because you’re only suited for that. Now bend over, 10.”

She spun on her heel, her expression a blend of mock outrage and childish defiance. “Ugh! You pervert! Why should I?!”

She stuck her tongue out at him in a grotesquely playful way. The motion would’ve been almost cute if it weren’t so jarring in this place— a literal torture chamber.

1 sighed, already tired. “10, I’m trying to be easy on you. Would you prefer the whip?” He gestured toward the table—his tone still casual, but with an edge that made it clear he wasn’t bluffing.

She rolled her eyes, dramatically placing a hand on her hip. “Fine, fine, old man. I’ll bend over for you. Just don’t go too hard on me.”

She walked to the table, exaggerated in every step, and bent over in a theatrical pose, wiggling her hips. “You like that?” she grinned, maddeningly.

“You’re a child,” 1 muttered flatly. “Now shut up.”

He picked up the paddle and delivered ten strikes in quick succession. She yelped, squealed, moaned—none of it real, just loud and absurd, like a parody of pain.

“Ow! Oof! That's my butt, sir!” she cackled.

When it was done, she rubbed her backside dramatically, pouting. “Hope that made you happy, stupid old man.”

1 chuckled, surprisingly. “You get the day off. Just stay out of sight—someone might get jealous.”

He left, and with that, 10 was alone in the dungeon.

She skipped around the room like she was in a playground, humming a tune that had no melody. Her movements were light and erratic, a child playing pretend. Then she froze.

Her gaze landed on 23.

She tilted her head, blinking slowly. Her brows knit together in confusion, then curiosity.

“Hello, fine sir,” she said, cautiously walking toward him. “Are you a ghost?”

Her voice was small now. Less mocking. More… enchanted.

“Sir?” She waved a hand in front of his face. No response.

“Do you haunt this place? Did you die here?” she gasped, her tone shifting into theatrical fear.

She reached out slowly, then touched his cheek with two fingers. Her eyes widened. “Fuck! You’re real?!”

She stepped back, her hands flying to her chest in shock. “I thought you were a ghost. Jesus. You scared me.”

23 didn’t blink. Didn’t move.

“Why don’t you speak, you madman?” she asked, eyes narrowing suspiciously. “What, you don’t like me?”

She placed her hands on her hips and spun in a circle. “Does my feminine charm not work on you?”

She marched back to him, grabbed the back of his head, and pressed a kiss to his lips. “Wow. You really do seem dead.”

She giggled, delighted with her own joke. Then, as if struck by sudden inspiration, she slipped two fingers into his mouth and pulled at his tongue.

“There!” she crowed. “Now you just look silly!”

She threw her head back, laughing madly, the sound echoing off the stone like something that didn’t belong in the world.

She danced across the room and grabbed a mirror from the wall—an old thing, cracked at the edge—and brought it back. She held it up in front of his face.

“Look at yourself!” she said, beaming. “You’re so funny!”

She bounced on her toes with glee. “People tell me I’m crazy, but they haven’t met you!” She placed the mirror in his lap like it was a gift.

“Alright then, sir,” she said, giving him a little bow. “I think I will leave. For now.”

She winked and skipped out the door, humming again.

And then there was silence.

23 didn’t move. Didn’t shift.

But after a while—long enough for the dungeon to settle again—his lips twitched.

A small, almost invisible smile curled on his face.

Not joy.

Not recovery.

Just a flicker.

A ghost of something waking up.

Chapter Text

Alice was twelve when she got married.

She had never worn anything so white. The dress scratched at her collarbones and the waistband was too tight, but she beamed anyway, twirling in front of the cracked mirror like a girl who thought she’d won something.

She had seen her husband before. Once. From a distance. He had thick arms, rough hands, and a beard streaked with silver. He looked like he could carry a cow on his shoulders. Alice had decided that was romantic. He looked strong, and strong meant safe, didn’t it?

The women in the house had told her she was lucky. They braided her hair, powdered her face, told her to smile. Smile big. Smile pretty. Smile like she meant it.

So she did.

Even when the carriage stopped in front of the house and her heart dropped.
Even when she saw the peeling paint, the rusted door hinges, the yellow-stained curtains in the window.
Even when she stepped inside and realized it smelled like mold and meat and something she couldn’t name.

The house was dirty. Ugly. Not like the storybook homes. It didn’t smell like baking bread. There were no flowers in vases. No warm bed with ruffled sheets.

Just a mattress. Stained.

He came into the room that night, his boots tracking mud on the floor. She was sitting on the edge of the bed, clutching her hands together. Her mother’s words were still echoing in her ears:

“Do what he says. Always listen. And no matter what—smile.”

He sat next to her, too close. She could see now that he had wrinkles beneath his eyes. His breath smelled of something sharp and sour. She didn’t know what it was. He looked at her like she was dinner. Like he’d already eaten, but wanted more anyway.

She smiled.

That night, he took her by force. He didn’t ask. He didn’t look at her face. She bled and didn’t know why. Her body screamed and her mind tried to float somewhere far away, but she kept hearing her mother’s voice.

So she kept smiling.

After that night, she never stopped.

Months passed. He watched her constantly. Every time she looked at another man—even just to say hello—he accused her of cheating. Said her eyes were full of lies.

The first time he hit her, it was because the mailman had asked if she was doing alright. He locked her in a room, broke a wooden bat over her thighs until she couldn’t walk. She crawled around for weeks, dragging her body from one end of the room to the other. Her teeth were always showing. Always.

He beat her with whatever he could find. Belts, sticks, fists. Especially when he was drunk. His favorite words were:

“Whore.”
“Liar.”
“Mine.”

She would laugh sometimes—on purpose. Just to see if it would make him stop. Sometimes it did. Sometimes it made it worse. She never knew.

Then he lost his job.

They ran out of money. First went the furniture. Then her dresses. Then her jewelry.

Then, her.

He sold her the same way he sold the old radio. Like junk he was done with.

Her first buyer liked her. Or maybe just her act. He thought she was funny. He liked how she laughed at everything, how she acted silly, how she flirted and danced and made a game out of pain.

He called her “wild.”
He called her “entertaining.”
He called her “mine.”

She played along. Why wouldn’t she? She already knew the rules: If you act like it doesn’t hurt, they’ll hurt you less.

But eventually, he got bored.

And when he did, he sold her too.

That’s when 1 bought her. Quiet, slow-speaking 1, who looked at her like he saw every crack in her that she tried to hide.

She smiled at him the way she smiled at everyone. Loud. Ridiculous. Cartoonish.
He didn’t laugh.
But he didn’t hit her either.

She liked that. That silence. That strange, humming stillness.

So she kept performing. Not because she thought he liked it—but because she didn’t know how else to exist.

Somewhere along the way, her name had stopped mattering. She wasn’t Alice anymore. Just “10.” A number. A worker. A little broken clown in a house full of rot.

And she smiled.

Because if she didn’t, what else would she do?

Cry?

She forgot how.

---

"Why do I have to clean the toilets?! Sir! This isn’t fair!" Alice’s shriek echoed off the stone walls like a tantrum wrapped in tinsel. She stood at the foot of the stairs, mop dangling from one hand, the bucket already tipped and spilling soapy water across the floor like some tragic theatrical prop.

“Do I look like I belong there?” she whined, then immediately shifted tones, posing like a model on a filthy runway. She slid her hands down her sides, curving them over her hips with exaggerated flair. “I mean, come on—aren’t I hot?”

1 stood at the top of the stairs, holding a ledger and trying not to groan audibly. “10, back to work,” he said, voice flat, tired. “I have more important things to deal with.”

“Like the ghost in the dungeon?” she chirped.

He paused mid-step and turned, his brow narrowing. “What?”

“The ghost!” she said with a dramatic gasp. “I met him. He’s funny. All moody and hollow-eyed. Doesn’t say a thing. He just stares.” She grinned wide enough to show all her teeth. “Kinda like a sad painting that might strangle you in your sleep.”

1 exhaled sharply. “I see. You met 23.”

Alice skipped over a puddle, arms swinging like a child. “That’s his name? 23? I like ‘Ghost Guy’ better. Why doesn’t he talk?”

“He just doesn’t,” 1 said, his voice dipping into something quieter, more weary. “Now go on. Don’t make me punish you again.”

“Oh!” She pointed a finger at him, twirling it like a wand. “You want to bend me over again, sir? Naughty, naughty.”

She stuck her tongue out and backed away a few steps. When 1’s glare hardened, she turned on her heel and bolted, laughing so loud it echoed down the corridor, bouncing off the stone and steel.

1 rubbed his face with one hand, fingers digging into his temples. “Why do I do this to myself?” he muttered, then adjusted the ledger under his arm and disappeared up the stairs, one slow step at a time.

---

1 sat beside 23, as he did every night. The room was dim, shadows curling around the edges like smoke. The thin tube had just been removed from 23’s throat, the remnants of the evening's broth still sitting in a glass nearby. But something about it had been off—23 had gagged more than usual, shuddering like the fluid had scraped something raw on the way down.

1 frowned slightly, chalking it up to bad placement. Maybe he’d pushed the tube too far. Maybe he was just tired. He leaned back against the cold stone wall, wiping his hands with a cloth, when the door creaked open.

“Sir?”

He turned. Of course. 10.

“What do you want, 10? Go to sleep,” he said, voice low, but worn.

“I cannot sleep, sir,” she announced cheerfully, stepping inside like she owned the place. “Oh my! The ghost!” She skipped forward with mock reverence, hands clasped like she was greeting royalty. “Hello again!”

Before she could get too close, 1 stood and grabbed her arm, pulling her back a few steps.

“Don’t,” he said, more forcefully this time. “Go back. Now.”

“Jesus,” she muttered, yanking her arm away, stumbling in the process. “You don’t have to get so angry—I’m just trying to say hello. We’re friends!”

But in her haste, she lost her balance and tipped forward, landing hard against 23’s thin chest with a dull thud.

“Fuck! Sorry, Ghost—I mean, 23!” she blurted, scrambling to her feet, brushing dust from her skirt with dramatic flair.

1 reached for her—but then froze.

Because 23 moved.

Slowly, as if testing the weight of his own bones, 23 sat up. His back uncoiled from the wall like he was rising from deep water. His eyes blinked—not wide, not fast, just deliberate. Awake.

1 stared. Shock split through him like a jolt.

“23?” he breathed, stepping forward. “23?”

He pushed 10 aside without looking at her and grabbed the boy’s arms gently but firmly, staring into the hollow face he’d come to know too well.

“Can you hear me?” he asked, voice cracking now. “You’re here? You’re—?”

He didn’t wait for an answer. He just smiled, wide and unfiltered, and pressed a kiss to 23’s clammy forehead before letting him go. He didn't do anything else, but this, this was enough for now.

“I made him move!” 10 declared proudly, throwing her arms around 1’s shoulders from behind. “I am magic!”

Her giggle broke the tension like a child popping a balloon.

1 didn’t even push her off. He just sat down slowly, dazed. A wave of disbelief, then hope, then something too fragile to name swept over him.

23 had moved.

Not twitched. Not shifted.

Moved.

He glanced over his shoulder.

10 was grinning, her chin resting on his shoulder, her arms still looped loosely around him like a scarf.

He looked at her differently now.

“…You?”

Chapter Text

“Genevive, concentrate!”
Walter’s voice cracked like a whip, low but sharp with irritation.

She blinked hard, trying to focus, but her hands were shaking. Her knuckles had gone white around the boy’s frail arms. He thrashed weakly beneath her grip, his body too underdeveloped, too starved, to even put up a real fight.

“You’re not holding him properly,” Walter muttered, furrowing his brow as he steadied the syringe between two gloved fingers. His precision made it all the more horrific—how calm he was, how controlled.

Genevive flinched as the needle pierced the boy’s scrotum. The child shrieked—an unnatural, high-pitched, animal sound. The kind of sound that didn’t just ring in the ears—it sank into the bones.

Tears streamed freely down her cheeks now. She couldn't stop them. Sobs built up in her throat, desperate to rise, but she swallowed them down. If she made a sound—if she looked away—he’d notice. He always noticed.

Walter slowly pushed the plunger, injecting the clear liquid into the child’s trembling body.

The boy arched violently, spine bending in ways it shouldn’t. His scream reached a horrible, wet crescendo, like something ripping from inside him. His genitals began to swell grotesquely, the skin darkening with an ugly, mottled hue. Blood vessels burst beneath the surface.

Genevive’s vision blurred further—mercifully—though the swelling shapes and garbled cries were still visible enough to haunt her for the rest of her life. She didn’t dare shut her eyes. She had made that mistake once, and Walter had punished her in ways that didn’t leave visible bruises but lingered all the same.

He moved forward again, eyes glinting with anticipation. Another syringe. The same viscous, clear liquid.

“No—no, Walter, please—”
She spoke without meaning to, her voice barely a whisper, but it slipped out all the same.

He turned to her. Just for a moment. That brief flick of his gaze was enough to silence her. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to.

He grabbed the boy’s face, pulling his mouth open. The child was barely conscious now—his skin had gone clammy, lips blue at the edges, breath stuttering in erratic, shallow gasps. Still, Walter forced his tongue out between his lips like he was prying apart a chicken wing.

And then he did it—he slid the needle into the soft, pink tissue. Pressed the plunger again.

Genevive choked on bile. The boy’s tongue ballooned grotesquely in seconds, swelling until it nearly filled his mouth. His eyes rolled back, his chest heaved desperately for air.

She could hear his lungs straining, that awful gurgling noise as his throat tried to pull in breath that wasn’t coming.

Walter just watched, head tilted slightly to the side like he was admiring a painting. The syringe dangled loosely in his hand. His grin was subtle, but it was there. That smug, satisfied curve of his lips.

He licked his lips backing up and lifting the boy’s legs up, he started fucking the limp body shuddering with its last breaths.

When he was done, Walter stood, as casual as if he’d just finished a chore. He wiped his hands with a cloth, humming under his breath, and strolled out of the room without a word. The soft click of the door behind him was obscene in its normalcy.

Genevive didn’t move.

She couldn’t.

Her arms were still locked around the boy’s body, stiff with death, his skin cooling rapidly against hers. He felt so light now, like whatever spark had been keeping him tethered to the world had finally slipped free—and with it, part of her had gone too.

His head lolled against her chest, mouth still slightly open, tongue grotesquely swollen and discolored. His eyes were half-lidded, glassy, staring through her. She dared not close them. It felt wrong to pretend this had ended peacefully.

Her own body felt numb. Her back ached, her knees throbbed where they pressed against the floor, but she barely registered the pain. Her ears were ringing, and her breath came in shallow, almost panting gasps, like she’d just outrun something huge and monstrous—and failed.

The stench of chemicals, sweat, and blood clung to the room like it was soaked into the walls.

She looked down at the boy again.

His tiny chest, now still.

His bruised, broken skin.

His life, gone.

Gone.

A sob clawed its way up her throat, but it died in silence. She had cried too many times. Screamed too many nights into pillows, behind locked doors, in dreams. There was nothing left now—only this crushing stillness, this suffocating knowing.

She hadn’t stopped it. She hadn’t saved him.

She’d held him down.

Genevive felt hollow. Rotten at the core.

She didn’t know how long she sat there, time had stopped meaning anything.

Eventually, her lips parted. A whisper escaped—dry, cracked, and almost voiceless.

“I can’t do this anymore.”

It wasn’t a vow. It was a confession. A eulogy. A death rattle of whatever was left of her soul.

And for the first time in years, she meant it.

---

The mistress's wails echoed through the basement halls, sharp and guttural, clawing at the walls like an injured animal. Her hysterical breaths hitched against 1’s chest as she clung to him, her sobs soaking into the fabric of his shirt.

“I can’t!” she choked out, voice cracking like glass underfoot. “I can’t do this anymore, 1!”

It had been nearly eight months since their affair had begun. In the beginning, she had used him like a drug—escaping into his arms, dissolving her pain in his body, silencing her mind through need. But reality, like rot, eventually found its way in. The things the master did to her—the things she witnessed, endured, enabled—were finally catching up.

Her voice dropped to a trembling whisper, raw with horror. “It was a child, 1. A fucking child.” She pulled back slightly, just enough to look up at him, her eyes bloodshot and shining with disbelief. “He’s a monster.”

1 didn’t respond. He simply held her tighter. What could he possibly say? What comfort could a slave offer a goddess? What did she expect from him—absolution? Revolution?

He was just a number. A thing. She was supposed to be the one with the power.

Then, all at once, she shifted.

Her head snapped up, locking eyes with him. Something had changed—there was no fear now. Her eyes were crystal clear, too bright, too wide, and her lips curled into a defiant, broken smile.

“We can leave,” she said suddenly. Her fingers wrapped around his arms with a feverish grip. “We must leave, 1. We can’t stay here anymore.”

1 stared at her, stunned. The words barely made it through the static buzzing in his mind.

“What?” he finally managed.

“We can do whatever we want!” she declared, rising to her feet and beginning to pace the stone floor, barefoot and wild. “I’ll gather money from the locker, enough to get far. We’ll leave tomorrow. Early morning, that’s when it’s quietest!”

She paused mid-step, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “The slaves are loyal to you, are they not? They wouldn't say anything?” Her expression softened as quickly as it had sharpened. “Of course they wouldn’t. What am I thinking? You’ve always had their respect.”

“Mistress,” 1 said softly. His voice wasn’t pleading. It was simply… final.

She froze, half-turned toward him.

“We can’t,” he said.

Just that. Two words. Solid. Irrevocable.

Her breath caught in her throat. She stared at him like she didn’t recognize him. Then, without warning, she dropped to her knees in front of him and cradled his face in both hands, fingers trembling as they brushed his jaw.

“I love you, 1,” she whispered. “Don’t you love me?”

The question shattered something inside him. His chest caved inward with it, but his face remained still. He didn’t know what love was. He didn’t even know who he was. He was a body. A tool. A name that wasn’t even a name.

He just looked at her, and she looked at him.

They stayed there for a long time, both crumbling from the inside, but in two different ways.

Finally, the mistress stood. Her expression had softened again, but not with hope. It was grief now. Acceptance. Maybe even peace.

“I’ll meet you in the garden, 1,” she said quietly, her voice like mist. “Tomorrow. Four a.m.” She hesitated, then smiled—soft, sad, and certain. “Or we’ll meet again in the afterlife.”

Then she turned and walked away, leaving 1 alone in the quiet, with nothing but the echo of possibility slipping through his fingers.

---

1 smiled quietly as he watched 10 flit around the room like a child playing a game only she understood. She was goofing around again, spinning in circles, narrating her own imaginary soap opera, while 23 sat propped against a cushion, silently observing her.

He didn’t move much—he rarely did—but his eyes tracked her now. They followed her gestures, her skipping, her spinning fingers. That was enough.

It had only been a few weeks since that first flicker of response, but in that short time, 23 had begun eating on his own again. It was clumsy, slow, and often messy, but it was real. It meant 1 no longer had to force a tube down his throat, no longer had to watch him gag and twitch in silent protest. That guilt had been heavy—too heavy—and now that it had lifted, even slightly, 1 found himself breathing easier.

23 was alive again.

He still didn’t speak, and his movements were sluggish, uncertain. But his eyes—they were different now. No longer empty. No longer glassy and dead. They looked at people. They noticed things.

And it was all because of 10.

1 didn’t know why 23 had responded to her, of all people. Maybe it was the sheer chaos she brought into a room. Maybe it was her voice, bright and loud and full of nonsense, a sharp contrast to 1’s quiet sadness. Or maybe 23 had just grown tired of 1, and needed a different kind of presence to remind him he was still here.

Whatever the reason, 1 wasn’t complaining. For the first time in what felt like years, he felt… happy. And that was worth something.

“Give it back, Ghost! It’s not yours!” 10’s voice pierced the moment like a siren. She was tugging at a ragged strip of cloth clenched tightly in 23’s hand.

1 sat up straighter, watching her with concern as she tried to pry his fingers open. “Give it back!” she whined, scratching lightly at his knuckles in frustration.

“10—stop that.” 1 pushed himself up, wincing as he steadied his limp, and crossed the room. “Get away from him.”

“But the cloth! It’s mine!” she crossed her arms and jutted her chin out like a defiant child, her voice climbing an octave.

1 placed a hand gently between them and gave her a small shove backward—not rough, just enough. “No scratching, 10. Don’t make me punish you.”

She stared at him with wide, wounded eyes, then dropped them to the floor, scuffing her foot like a scolded puppy. “But he took it,” she mumbled, pointing again at the cloth.

1 sighed and crouched beside 23, examining the closed fist. “Look, I’ll give it back to you later, alright? Can’t he have it for a little while? You like the ghost, don’t you?”

10 stood still, clearly thinking. Her brow furrowed in dramatic concentration as if she were calculating the emotional cost of this betrayal. Finally, she huffed, “He will give it back?”

“He will,” 1 said softly, unsure if it was true but knowing it was the only right answer.

“Fine.” She leaned down suddenly, crouching nose-to-nose with 23, who blinked at her with that same soft awareness he always reserved for her.

“You have to give it back, Ghost,” she declared solemnly, as if she were delivering a contract to a monarch. Then her expression shifted, lightened.

She reached out, brushed a strand of hair from his face, "Cute ghost!" without warning, leaned in and kissed him.

It wasn’t the wild peck of a teasing girl. It was slow, deliberate, and oddly intimate—deep and oddly gentle. Then she giggled, wiped her lips with her sleeve, and danced backward before 1 could react.

“Mmm,” she said to herself, spinning again. “Tasted like turnips. Or maybe soup? What did you have for lunch, huh, Ghost?”

She skipped away, already off in her own world, narrating her latest thought spiral to no one in particular.

1 stood there, stunned, jaw slightly slack.

Then, slowly, a smile crept across his face.

He sat down beside 23 and took his hand, running his thumb softly over the bruised knuckles. 23 didn’t look at him, but he didn’t pull away either. His grip remained, cloth still held tight, fingers wrapped not just around fabric—but maybe, just maybe, around something else too.

Something fragile. Something like life.

Chapter Text

Guys, I'm going through a rough patch right now. I'm sorry I haven't been writing and I apologize in advance because I won't be writing a new chapter for some more days.
I will try to get back to it as soon as possible.♡

Chapter Text

The bright morning sun streamed through the tall windows of Thomas’s house, flooding the room in soft gold. It was a beautiful day—too beautiful, almost. He took a moment to look outside, something he rarely ever did.

The trees swayed gently in the wind, their leaves whispering secrets to each other. Sunlight glinted off the surface of the pond in the garden, scattering tiny diamonds of light across the grass. It was beautiful. It was perfect.

“Thomas!” his mother’s voice called from downstairs.

“Coming, Mama!” he answered instinctively, already smiling.

He descended the grand staircase two steps at a time, the wood cool beneath his bare feet. At the bottom, she was waiting for him— poised and polished as always, sitting at the dining table with baby Daniella in her lap. Her hair was flawless, not a strand out of place.

He smiled wider and took the seat beside her. He reached over to pat Daniella’s little head; she was adorable when she wasn’t screaming or crying.

“I’m starving, where's breakfast?” he asked, looking expectantly at his mother.

She didn’t reply.

“Mama?”

Nothing.

What the fuck?

He frowned. She was still looking at him—but it wasn’t really at him. Her eyes were fixed, hollow, like she was staring through him.

He turned, confusion tightening his chest. His father stood in the doorway, still as a statue, watching.

“Father?”

No response.

A chill crawled down Thomas’s spine.

Then—hands. On his thighs.

He gasped and looked down, heart pounding.

Under the table.

“Tina?” His voice cracked. “Tina—weren’t you—?”

She was crouched between his legs, her face tilted up, eyes blank and unblinking. The same empty stare as the rest of them.

Thomas’s breath hitched. His skin flushed hot, his pulse spiking. The room seemed to tilt. The air thickened. He couldn’t breathe—

---

“Twenty-three.”

1 tapped his cheek lightly. He just kept staring at the sky, making those strange, broken sounds again.

It had been five months since he’d first shown signs of life—since that empty shell of a person had started… waking up. He’d recovered faster than 1 expected. Now he could walk, though he stumbled often, like he was still learning how to use his body.

But he still hadn’t spoken. Not a word. Sometimes he gestured vaguely, his hands trembling midair, but mostly he lived in silence.

The Master had moved on, of course. Got himself a new Twenty-three—a younger boy. He’d asked about this one for a while, but interest fades quickly when you have replacements.

Lately, 1’d been taking Twenty-three with him to the market. He figured being around people might do him some good—the noise, the colors, the normalcy. Maybe it would spark something.

But today, something was wrong. He looked… agitated, staring up at the sky like he saw something only he could see.

“Twenty-three,” 1 said, shaking him gently.

He blinked a few times, then turned his head toward him.

“What’s wrong?”

No response. Just that vacant, frightened look.

Then he started rubbing his eyes violently, digging into them with his fists.

“Hey—no, don’t do that.” 1 caught his hands and held them down.

He clenched and unclenched his fists, then looked away, jaw trembling.

1 sighed and took his hand again, leading him toward the next stall.

They shopped for a while, then began the walk home. 1 decided to take the long route—perfect weather today, bright but mild, the kind of day you could almost forget who you were.

The streets were wide and clean, lined with tall trees and the occasional mansion with marble balconies.

1 glanced beside him—

He was gone.

“Twenty-three?” his stomach dropped.

1 spun around, scanning the street. Nothing.

“Twenty-three!” His voice cracked. He never wandered off.

1 started retracing his steps, heart pounding, until—there.

He was on his knees in front of a house, staring up at a balcony like he’d seen a ghost.

“Fucking hell…” 1 muttered, hurrying over. “You had me worried, damn it.”

1 grabbed his arm, tried to pull him up. He wouldn’t budge.

“Come on!” 1 tugged harder, frustration rising.

He turned toward him—and that’s when he saw it. Tears streaming down his face. His mouth opening and closing, like he was trying to force words out of a body that had forgotten how.

“Twenty-three?” 1 crouched beside him, alarmed. “What’s wrong?”

He shook his head violently, clutching at 1's sleeve.

“What? What is it?”

He pointed, his arm trembling.

1 followed his gaze.

Up on the balcony stood a little girl. No older than six. Thin as a reed, skin a map of scars—fresh and faded both. Her light-brown hair had been hacked short and uneven. She wore a stained tunic that hung loosely over her frail frame, barely reaching her knees.

A slave.

She clung to the iron railing, eyes wide, wet with tears.

1 looked back at Twenty-three. “You… know her?”

He nodded furiously, gripping his arm like he might sink through the earth if he let go.

1 stared, not knowing what to do. “We’re already late,” I muttered, half to himself. “Come on.”

He refused to stand.

1 sighed and bent down, lifting him off the ground. He thrashed immediately, twisting and kicking.

“Twenty-three, stop it!”

He bit into 1's shoulder, hard enough to make him drop him. He hit the ground and curled up, sobbing.

“What do you want from me?!” 1 snapped. “What am I supposed to do?!”

He pointed again, hand shaking so badly it barely looked human.

“What about her?!”

He looked up at 1, his voice breaking for the first time in months.

“S-sister—Daniella—”

1 froze.

He’d spoken. He spoke.

1 knelt beside him, grabbing his shoulders. “You spoke! 23! You spoke!”

“My sister,” he gasped between sobs. “She’s my sister! Please! We have to—we have to help her!”

1 blinked, stunned. He remembered him mentioning a sister once, long ago. But even if this girl was her… what could 1 possibly do?

23 stumbled to his feet, running back to the balcony. “Daniella!” he shouted up at her. “It’s okay! I’m here!”

The little girl’s tearful eyes met his.

Then, from behind her, a woman appeared. Her face twisted in disgust as she looked down at him. She grabbed the girl by the arm and dragged her inside, slamming the door shut.

“No!” 23 screamed. “No, please!”

He dropped to his knees and slammed his head against the ground. Once. Twice.

“23!” 1 rushed to stop him, catching his shoulders. “Stop!”

He fought 1, trying to hit his head again. 1 scooped him up, throwing him over his shoulder. He screamed, kicked, bit, but 1 didn’t stop.

By the time they reached home, he’d gone quiet. Limp.

1 carried him down to the dungeon, laid him on the thin mattress. He curled up immediately, facing the wall, silent tears soaking the sheet.

1 stood there for a long moment, unable to think straight. Then he turned and left. There was work to do.

---

1 walked down the corridor. It was evening now; the others were preparing dinner. The master was to have guests this evening, and he had to make sure the food was up to standards. It was a formality, mostly—the slaves assigned to cooking knew what they were doing.

He turned a corner and entered the kitchen. As expected, everything was running smoothly. The air was thick with heat and sound—the rhythmic chopping of knives, the hiss of boiling pots, the faint hum of weary voices that had long forgotten laughter.

He had assigned 10 to be part of the cooking team. Despite her… quirky personality, she was surprisingly decent at this.

He saw her sitting in a corner, chopping vegetables. Good—she was making herself useful.

“33.”

One of the slaves, an older woman, looked up from her work and walked toward him. “1?”

“Everything running on schedule, I hope.”

“Of course. Would you like to see?”

1 smiled faintly. “Not necessary. I will be leaving.”

“Alright then.” She returned into the blur of moving hands and tired faces.

1 walked away.

He made his way outside. He sat down on a stone bench in the garden. The cool night air made his skin tingle; he took a long, slow breath, savoring the feeling. He placed his hand upon the bench beneath him, feeling the cold stone pressing back into his palm, as though the earth itself reminded him it was still there.

He looked up at the moon—bright, full, suspended in the velvet dark. It shone clear and proud against the sky, illuminating the endlessness that stretched beyond comprehension. How was such a feat possible? he thought.

His thoughts drifted to 23. He sighed. He had been caring for him for so long now… he couldn’t help but think—why?

Why had he created this almost sacred space in his heart? Why was he even thinking of him right now?

Was it because the master had forced him to partake in his undoing?

1 flinched. Even the memory of it was painful. He remembered how 23 had looked under him that ghastly night—so small, so frightened. He remembered the way the master had enjoyed it—watching the destruction of the poor boy as though it were sport.

He knew the master was perverse, horrible, a monster in his own right. But with 23, it had felt… different. As if the man were exacting some private vengeance, some unspoken punishment that no one else could understand.

And 1 couldn’t help but wonder—what could 23 possibly have done to the master?

Why did he even feel bad for him in the first place? He used to be one of them, a master. But he wasn’t anymore.

Still, he couldn’t help it, could he? He had been born into it—just as 1 had been born into his own horrible circumstances. Neither had a choice.

His thoughts drifted again, this time to the little girl on the balcony. Was that really 23’s sister? She did look similar, in retrospect. Maybe. Whatever she was, he was glad 23 had begun to speak again. It was a small, personal victory for 1—futile perhaps, but a victory nonetheless.

But still, 23 was in anguish. And 1 couldn’t keep ignoring that. He couldn’t avoid checking up on him forever. When he finally did, he would surely find him broken.

He sighed, getting to his feet. He should do it now. Get it over with.

He started limping back through the hallways.

Then he stopped dead in his tracks.

He heard… screams.

They came sharp and raw from the direction of the kitchen.

He rushed toward them, the sound of chaos growing louder, sharper. And then he smelled it—something burning. The rancid, choking stench invaded his nostrils and clawed at his throat.

When he reached the kitchen, his eyes widened. Brightness. Blinding brightness—fire, alive and moving.

The other slaves were panicking, shouting, stumbling over one another as they tried to put out the fire. They threw water upon the person engulfed in flames, but it did nothing—the fire clung to flesh, unyielding, unholy.

1 couldn’t move. In his mind, he compared it to the moon he’d seen just moments ago. The same brightness. But this light did not soothe—it screamed.

The burning figure’s cries rose and then stopped, abruptly. The fire still roared, even as the body collapsed into a dark heap on the floor.

The others kept working, frantic, desperate. After several minutes—maybe longer—they managed to put out the flames. Perhaps because there was nothing left to burn.

1 looked around. 10 was gone. Nowhere to be seen.

He looked down at the charred body in front of him. It wasn’t 10. It was clearly a large, male slave.

He sighed. “Get the body out. Resume the preparations.”

The words came out cold, almost automatic.

With that, he turned his back and walked away, toward the dungeon.

He had dealt with deaths among the slaves before. Nothing unusual. An accident. Maybe.

He opened the dungeon door.

23 was sitting on his mattress. He looked up when 1 entered.

1 sat down in front of him.

“We have to get her,” 23 blurted out, staring straight into 1’s eyes.

1 shook his head. “Get these thoughts out of your head, 23. You’re a slave. I’m a slave. We can’t ‘save’ other slaves.”

“I can’t leave her there! I can’t!” The boy began to cry, leaning into 1, clutching his shirt. “You have to do something! Please!”

1… do something? Even the thought seemed preposterous to him.

“Do something…” he muttered, the words tasting bitter on his lips.

“1, please! Please!”

The boy’s incessant begging began to grate—not out of irritation, but out of fear. What was he trying to imply?

1 grabbed 23’s arms and pulled him away. “Shut up. No.”

The boy stared at him, his tear-filled eyes reflecting something within 1 that even he himself could not see. It reminded him of—

He shook his head sharply. No. He could not let this continue. He could not let another down.

He shook 23 again, forcefully. “I’m not a savior, 23. I cannot save anyone. I cannot help you. Stop.”

23 jerked his arms away, clenching his jaw. He turned away, staring at the wall, still crying.

1 got up—effortfully—his body heavy with something unnamed. He walked away, closing the door behind him.

The boy clearly needed space to process his position.

---

1 kneeled on the floor of the master’s bedroom. He had followed through—
but a little too late.

The master stood before him, smiling down, his shadow long and sharp against the flickering candlelight. 1 couldn’t bear to lift his head, not when that smile still lingered, calm and cruel.

Behind the master lay the mistress.
Or what was left of her.

She was almost unrecognizable now. Her hair was matted with blood, her breath shallow, her face a ruin of swelling and broken skin. And still, even though her screams had stopped, 1 could hear them—echoing, endless. The kind of sound that lived in the marrow, not the air.

What made him hate himself most was that her screams hadn’t been pleas for mercy or forgiveness. They were protests. Defiant, stubborn—words that only made the master’s rage deepen. She had fought, not begged. And for that, she had been destroyed.

Now she lay motionless, bleeding, her body twitching only enough to remind them all she was still alive. The occasional groan cut through the silence like a dying ember refusing to go out.

1 felt the master’s finger slide beneath his chin, forcing his head up. The touch was almost gentle, and that made it worse.

“1,” the master drawled, his tone smooth as silk and twice as false. “My most loyal slave. Didn’t imagine you would’ve done something like this.”

1 felt tears spring to his eyes—tears born not of grief, but of fear. He had displeased the master. He had failed the master. That was the worst sin of all.

“I’m sorry…” he whispered. It was all he could manage, his voice trembling like a child’s.

The master chuckled, a low, indulgent sound. “To imagine you would be the lover my stupid little wife relied on!” His laughter filled the grand room, bouncing off the gilded walls, mocking them both.

“You know, 1,” he went on, strolling over to the bleeding woman, “I really should teach you both a lesson.”

He stepped on the mistress’s hand, grinding it slowly beneath his heel. The bones cracked softly—almost politely—under the weight.

“Of course, she doesn’t deserve anything less than death. A painful one, of course.” His tone turned honeyed as he looked back at 1. “But you, my sweet 1—you are useful. Unlike this ungrateful bitch!”

He kicked her in the head.

1’s heart lurched. He wanted to move, to throw himself between them, to do something—but his body refused. Fear held him tighter than any chain could.

“What were you planning to do? Run away?!” the master laughed, genuinely amused. “Only this retard could have come up with such a stupid idea.”

He crouched beside her, grabbing her bloodied face in his gloved hand. “Isn’t that right, sweetheart?”

He released her, got up, and turned back to 1. His smile had returned—serene and terrible.

“Now for your punishment, 1. You will watch.”

1’s breath hitched. His stomach churned.

He continued to cry silently, until the master grabbed his face, forcing his gaze upward again.

“If I see you close your eyes, or look away,” the master murmured, his tone now low and cold, “I will behead her where she stands. Understood?”

1 nodded quickly.

“Understood?!”

“Yes, Master.”

“Good boy.” The master patted his head, the way one might a loyal hound.

He turned toward the door, where two guards stood waiting. They were not slaves—paid men, loyal to coin and cruelty alike.

The master poured himself a glass of fine wine and sat beside 1, crossing one leg over the other with infuriating composure.

“Commence,” he said, smiling.

The guards lifted her up from the ground and tore her clothes away in a few rough motions. The body he had seen, touched, been one with so many times looked so alien to him in this moment, he couldn't see the mistress as his mistress.

One guard forced her onto her knees while taking his cock out and forcing it into her open bloody mouth, she choked and sputtered coughing, her hands clawed at him weekly as he ravaged her throat.

the other man crouched behind her and raised her hips in the air, forcing his erect shaft into her unwilling hole, her body shuddered as he rammed into her over and over again.

They switched positions occasionally.

After what felt like hours of torture it was over, she wasn't moving anymore, 1's tears had seized, his mind blurring, drifting.

"Alright that's enough" the master said, sounding tired, "Watching women is aways so boring!" he exclaimed turning to 1, "I mean they're meant to fucked 1, do you get me, what just happened was so normal! And you know i don't really enjoy normal."

He walked over to the mistress, grabbing her by the hair and dragging her toward the bed. Her groans were faint, pitiful. He lifted her effortlessly, sitting her up on the edge of the bed like a broken doll.

He gestured to the guards, and they approached 1, standing on either side of him—looming, expressionless.

The master reached for something 1 hadn’t noticed before. A rope. No—a noose, hanging from the ceiling beam.

He slipped it gently around the mistress’s neck, adjusting it with an almost tender precision. The coarse rope rasped against her skin as he tightened it. The sound—the dry twist of fibers under strain—made 1’s blood run cold.

It was that sound that lit something inside him. Something fierce, burning, old. Memories flooded in—their stolen moments together, the passion they shared in the dark, the warmth of her body against his. Love. Fragile, forbidden, doomed.

He got up suddenly, the world blurring. “Walter!” he screamed, the master’s name tearing out of him like an old wound. He rushed toward him, fury and grief boiling over, hotter than reason.

The master didn’t flinch. He smiled.

Then came a blinding crack—pain shooting through 1’s skull as one of the guards struck him. He hit the ground with a dull thud.

He struggled, thrashing against the hands that held him down. “Let her go, you bastard!”

“My, my,” the master said, feigning surprise. “You have disobedience in you! Consider me impressed, 1.” He took a slow sip of his wine. “But we can’t have that going forward, can we?”

He gestured to the guards. “Break his leg. At the knee.”

They forced him upright, seated on the floor, his legs stretched out before him. Every time he tried to move, they struck him in the head again, dull blows that made his vision swim.

One guard held him steady while the other retrieved a hammer. He crouched down in front of 1, a smirk tugging at his lips.

The hammer came down—
once.
Then again.
Then again.

1 screamed, his voice raw, echoing through the high-ceilinged room. His body convulsed as the guard struck again and again until the knee was no longer a knee—just a mangled, bloody ruin. White bone jutted through torn flesh.

Pain engulfed him. It was too much for a mind to bear. The edges of the world began to fade. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t even scream anymore.

Then one of the guards gripped his hair, yanking his head upward. “Watch,” the master said quietly.

And 1 did.

He watched as the master pulled on the rope, the noose tightening, raising the mistress’s body into the air.

She writhed, her legs kicking weakly, her hands clawing at nothing. The rope creaked, the body convulsed, the air filled with that terrible, animal sound—the rasping gasp of a soul being stolen from flesh.

He saw the precise moment the light left her eyes. The death rattle. The slackening of her limbs.

And in that moment, something inside 1 shattered. The pain in his leg disappeared, eclipsed entirely by the pain that tore through his chest. It was as if his own heart had been ripped out and left to hang beside her.

He died that day too—just not in a way that could be seen.

---

After that day, the master ensured he received good medical attention. Not out of mercy, but practicality. 1 had to remain useful. It took many weeks before he could walk again. The wound healed—more or less—but left a limp that haunted every step he took thereafter.

Every step was a reminder.
Every limp, a whisper of her dying breath.

He saw her eyes every day after that. The way they had looked at him every time they were together.

They reminded him that he was a failure. That he had always been one.

He accepted that long ago.

There was no point in dwelling. This was what was supposed to happen.

So he buried it. Deep.

All he had to do now was be obedient.
Not break the master’s rules.
Not displease the master ever again.

And he would be just fine.

---

The next morning, 1 realized 10 was gone.
Vanished.
Disappeared into thin air, as if the night had swallowed her whole.

He heard from the others in the kitchen that she had been the one to set fire to the man. The same man whose ashes still blackened the stone floor.

1 went there himself. The kitchen was quiet now, unnaturally so. The air still carried the faint, sour scent of smoke and char. Pots hung motionless. The embers in the stove were dead.

Then he saw it—the small kitchen window, unbarred. The latch broken clean. It wasn’t large, but it would have been enough for someone of her size.

She had run away.

He sighed, the sound heavy in the silence. His hand brushed the window frame—it was cold, the morning dew still clinging to it.

She would either be caught and resold, or just plain killed in one of the thousand cruel ways the world reserved for people like her. The thought didn’t surprise him. The world had never been kind to the likes of them.

As he walked down the corridor, a thought began to itch at the back of his mind, quiet and dangerous.

Could she be free?

He stopped for a moment, staring ahead, as though the thought itself had weight. Then he shook his head, shooing the naivety away.

He even chuckled softly to himself. What was he even thinking?

Freedom was a myth—a bedtime story whispered to dying men. Whatever 10 had done, it was not liberation. It was merely escape, and escape was just another road that ended in chains.

Still, he couldn’t quite shake the thought. The girl had entered their lives out of nowhere, like a gust of wind through a sealed room, and had vanished just as suddenly. A disruption, brief and bright, leaving only confusion and ash in her wake.

And he could live with that explanation. He had to.

Later that morning, when he went to give 23 his breakfast, the boy looked up at him warily. His eyes were red from crying, his face pale in the dim light of the dungeon.

1 placed the tray down wordlessly. The boy didn’t speak, and neither did he.

But as 1 turned to leave, he couldn’t help but wish—foolishly, quietly—that his silly thought was somehow possible.

That somehow, against all reason, 23 might one day be—

He stopped himself mid-thought, a faint, almost embarrassed chuckle escaping him.

The sound made 23 glance up, frowning.

1 met his irritated gaze and only smiled faintly, shaking his head.

He wouldn’t let the thought finish. These little theories, these gentle rebellions of the heart—they had no place in this world.

Nor in his mind.