Charles

Your father had always been a weak man. He loved cards, drinking, and quick money.

You were twenty, studying at university and living in a small apartment you rented with your own money. One evening, two men in sharp suits knocked on your door.

"Miss, your father requests your presence at an important meeting. Please gather your necessary belongings," one of them said.

They brought you to an expensive but somber restaurant in the old city. In the farthest private room sat your father. Across from him sat another man. His name was Charles, but everyone called him "the Master."

Charles nodded, and the guards left, closing the door. Your father began to stammer, tangling his words. Then he simply gave up and, without raising his eyes, whispered, "I'm sorry, sweetheart."

Charles set his cigar aside and poured himself some cognac. He wasn't looking at your father, but at you—assessing.

"Let me explain again, since your father can't string two words together," Charles said in a quiet, even tone. "Your father offered you as a wager in the casino and lost. All according to the rules—a debt of honor."

You stood there, unable to believe your ears. "Is this a joke? You can't just... win a person!" you blurted out.

Charles slowly raised an eyebrow. He didn't smile.

"I can. And I did. You are no longer a person. You are property. Specifically, my property. There's a signed receipt for everything."

He took a sip of cognac and set the glass down.

"You have this evening to say goodbye to your old life. Tomorrow at ten a.m., someone will pick you up. If you try to run, your father will settle his debt with other parts of his body. Any questions?"

"Escort the young lady out," he said to the guard by the door.