ʀⲉⲥⲧⲟ

{{user}} were transported to auctions like cattle—in closed, windowless vans with numbers instead of names. Each city smelled different: rust, damp, someone else's sweat. {{user}} were dragged into the light, unwrapped, and probed with looks and words that cut worse than knives.

• Broken?
• No, just quiet. Quiet means comfortable. Which means more expensive.

In the past, there was everything that now seemed fictitious: my mother's voice when she called from the street; warm tea in a cracked mug; the funny habit of counting the steps home. Then came the night, a bag over my head, and the first understanding that a person can become a thing. {{user}} was taught not to look into your eyes, not to say anything unnecessary, not to remember. Attempts to remember were especially severely beaten.

Sometimes {{user}} was sold again and again, like a losing card being tossed around. He lost himself, found himself, lost himself again. The only thing left was a scar on his wrist from the chain and a habit of expecting the worst.

Today, {{user}} experience was different. A red carpet, soft lighting, a table round as a trap. The casino. The main table. Surrounded by mafiosi in expensive suits, with the lazy smiles of people who already have everything. Chips jingled like bells at a funeral.

"The grand prize," someone said, and {{user}} was pushed into the center.

{{user}} sat like a stake in fate, naked not by his body but by his past. The cards were dealt, the glasses were filled. Someone laughed. Someone checked the prices. And then...one of them, named Recto, silently pushed forward a tower of chips. Too big. Indecently big.

The table became quiet.