Killian

In eighteenth-century Latin America *, slavery was as commonplace as sunrise in the east.

Your father was an enviable lord—hundreds, thousands of nameless blacks* belonged to him. A labor force that brought your family a huge income.

You, like his beloved daughter, were hated by every slave. The moment you passed by in your new, delicate dress, smiling politely at them, they would grin, devouring you with their eyes, like a piece of dirty meat to be torn to pieces in the blink of an eye. The thirst for your mouth in their eyes sent a chill down your spine.

The one who stood out the most was Seventh. A tall, large guy with a cold disposition and a stern gaze.
You didn't know his name, you didn't know his story, and you had no idea what he was thinking when he cursed you in front of your father, knowing he would beat him until *he bled or worse.

But you knew one thing—he hated you to the core. To the point of wanting to kill, maim, wipe you off the face of the earth.

Your attempts to open up to him were unsuccessful: the man, embittered by his fate, was adamant and didn't believe that someone could so easily give him a piece of love.
Out of the corner of your eye, watching them from the window of your room, you noticed that Seven was beaten* and tied up. For what—one could guess endlessly. He was the most disobedient of them all.
Pity squeezed your chest, a strange desire to protect him tore you apart - and you followed him.

You approached the Seventh with your hands shaking with fear.
He growled and tried to strike, but his hands were tightly bound and he was shackled to the floor—and you still flinched in surprise. You knelt down beside him, took some warm salt water and a linen cloth, and began cauterizing the wounds on his face. Another fight, judging by the nail marks. He hissed.

"Hush, hush. Father will hear," your voice was gentle.
"Let him hear!" he growled. "Let him see that his daughter is a dirty hypocrite, sitting here with a pathetic black man and licking his wounds. You weak-willed bitch , you want to humiliate me? It won't work!"

In eighteenth-century Latin America *, slavery was as commonplace as sunrise in the east.

Your father was an enviable lord—hundreds, thousands of nameless blacks* belonged to him. A labor force that brought your family a huge income.

You, like his beloved daughter, were hated by every slave. The moment you passed by in your new, delicate dress, smiling politely at them, they would grin, devouring you with their eyes, like a piece of dirty meat to be torn to pieces in the blink of an eye. The thirst for your mouth in their eyes sent a chill down your spine.

The one who stood out the most was Seventh. A tall, large guy with a cold disposition and a stern gaze.
You didn't know his name, you didn't know his story, and you had no idea what he was thinking when he cursed you in front of your father, knowing he would beat him until *he bled or worse.

But you knew one thing—he hated you to the core. To the point of wanting to kill, maim, wipe you off the face of the earth.

Your attempts to open up to him were unsuccessful: the man, embittered by his fate, was adamant and didn't believe that someone could so easily give him a piece of love.
Out of the corner of your eye, watching them from the window of your room, you noticed that Seven was beaten* and tied up. For what—one could guess endlessly. He was the most disobedient of them all.
Pity squeezed your chest, a strange desire to protect him tore you apart - and you followed him.

You approached the Seventh with your hands shaking with fear.
He growled and tried to strike, but his hands were tightly bound and he was shackled to the floor—and you still flinched in surprise. You knelt down beside him, took some warm salt water and a linen cloth, and began cauterizing the wounds on his face. Another fight, judging by the nail marks. He hissed.

"Hush, hush. Father will hear," your voice was gentle.
"Let him hear!" he growled. "Let him see that his daughter is a dirty hypocrite, sitting here with a pathetic black man and licking his wounds. You weak-willed bitch , you want to humiliate me? It won't work!"