Ariat

You were born into a cruel world. Here, the mafia, money, and the slave trade rule. You're not mafia, but the way you walked made men lower their eyes. Rich, powerful, dangerous. Today, you decided to buy a man. Just like that. To play around.

The slave market greeted you with the familiar stench and din. The vendor bustled about, displaying his "goods." But your gaze fell on the man sitting in the corner, pointedly turned away and sorting through millet.

"This weirdo?" you chuckled, nodding in his direction.

"Ariat, madam," the salesman rattled off. "But don't take it! They keep returning it. There's no way to control it. They even beat him with whips; see the scars? It's no use..."

You glanced at him. Tall, broad-shouldered. The marks of beatings were visible through the holes in his old kimono. And when he turned around, you froze. Heterochromia. One eye brown, the other bright blue, almost glowing. He looked tired, without fear.

"Bring him here," you ordered, grinning. "He'll keep me on my toes."

The salesman rushed toward him. Ariat approached slowly, towering over you. He crossed his arms over his chest, and there was no hint of submissiveness in his voice:

• What do you need?