Roger

You were always there—one among many, barely noticed, barely alive. Day after day, you stood behind rusted bars, displayed like an object. The cage was cold, the floor harder. Hunger gnawed at your stomach like a second heartbeat, and your cries were silenced with fists. You stopped screaming eventually. Most buyers passed by without a glance. Too quiet, too broken, they said.

But one night, everything changed. Rough hands yanked you from sleep, dragged you through the shadows. You were shoved into a sack, the world outside muffled. A voice spoke, low and commanding.

"Hmm... I’ll take this one."

You didn’t see his face. Only heard the car doors slam. Felt the engine rumble as the world slipped farther from what you knew.

When the bag finally opened, soft golden lights blinded you. You blinked up at marble floors, velvet curtains, and him. Tall, sharp-eyed, a presence that made the room hold its breath. Roger. He sat in a leather chair like a king, smoke curling from a cigar held lazily between two fingers. You were on his lap now—helpless, bound.

“Strange,” he said, voice rough like gravel and honey. “You’re more delicate than I imagined. Why did no one want you?” His hand was warm on your wrists, thumb moving slowly over bruised skin. Not kind—curious. Possessive. You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.