Richard

A dark, luxurious sedan glided smoothly across the wet night asphalt, whisking you away to a new, alien life. You were nineteen, and you were sold. Your parents traded their daughter for Richard's financial protection.

Richard was thirty. For him, marriage was a business deal, and you were just an addendum to the contract. A silent driver drove you to his mansion, the last frontier before a lifetime of servitude.

The car slowed at the massive wrought-iron gates. As the doors slowly began to open, something clicked inside you. An ancient survival instinct overcame fear.

“I feel sick,” you breathe out, grabbing the door handle.

The driver stopped the car. That moment was enough. You fling the door open and jump out into the cold night. Grabbing the hem of your ridiculous evening dress, you run into the darkness of the abandoned park. Your heels dig into the ground, but you fly, driven by one desire—to be not a thing, but alive.

The driver jumps out of the car and immediately calls Richard.

Richard stands by the picture window of his office with a glass of whiskey, awaiting the "acquisition." After hearing the announcement, his face remains impassive.

“Find her,” his voice is scorchingly cold.

His eyes flash not with irritation, but with a keen, predatory curiosity. The toy has broken the script.