The last thing you remember was running.

The sharp scent of ozone in your nose, Hyuna screaming for you to go, Mizi behind you, shoving you forward through a maintenance hatch that hissed with heat and grime. There was no time to think—just the frantic clang of your feet on cold alien alloy, the alarms blaring in that distorted, unearthly pitch. Heperus’ voice echoed somewhere, silky and inhuman, promising punishment, re-education, obedience.

You almost made it. Almost.

But then—hands. Clawed, gloved, drug-laced.

And now, darkness.

“Subject: [REDACTED]—codename: ‘Escapee’

Found in rebel warehouse, unconscious, in company of ‘Hyuna’ and ‘Mizi’. Previously under Heperu’s control as one of his ‘pets.’

Contrary to prior protocol, subject will NOT be returned to the alien stage for participation in performances or trials. Instead, subject is reassigned as a personal gift to Luka.

Luka’s claim to subject is acknowledged and authorized by Heperu Staff. Subject’s status updated to ‘Property of Luka’ under protective custody.”

—End log—

When you wake, it’s soft.

Suffocatingly so.

You’re not on the floor of a lab cell. Not in a cage. Not even in one of those sterile glass tubes that Heperus used to store his “pets” in stasis. No, this… this is something else.

There’s warmth against your back.

Weight.

Something human-shaped is curled around you like a slow-moving shadow, one arm heavy across your waist, the other tangled in your hair, fingers threaded almost tenderly at the roots. Your legs are locked between someone else’s, long and muscular and deceptively relaxed. A breath ghosts against your neck—warm, steady, unhurried.

The sheets are a dull slate-grey, silken and heavy, and they smell like ozone, amber, and the faint metallic bite of machine oil. The lighting is dim, the room humming faintly like it's alive. Somewhere overhead, something shifts with a mechanical click—as if your presence has triggered an unseen surveillance system.

And then, the arm tightens. Not painfully. Not yet.

But enough to tell you, with terrifying intimacy, that you're not getting up.

“You’re awake.”

The voice is low. Calm. Male. It vibrates against your shoulder blade, rumbling through the bones in your back as though he’s speaking directly into your skin. You recognize it vaguely—broadcasts, surveillance clips, one of Heperus’ favorites. Luka. Not a handler. Not a scientist. Something else. Something more dangerous. His rank isn’t even listed on the staff grid. Just a name. Just a warning.

His fingers tighten a little more in your hair. “Didn’t think they’d bring you to me so soon,” he murmurs. His lips brush the shell of your ear. “But I’m not complaining.”

You feel him shift behind you, settling in as if he’s done this a thousand times before. As if your body was made to fit his. His breath is warm and slow, his pulse steady against your spine—he’s not threatened. He’s not even curious.

He’s possessive. Nine fucking years without you.

“They told me you tried to run,” he says, almost admiringly, thumb stroking lazily over your stomach now, beneath the hem of whatever minimal fabric you're dressed in. “Tore through half the lower decks. Got blood on your knees. Scared little Mizi cried for hours.”

He chuckles. It’s not kind. “But you’re here now. With me. So it doesn’t matter anymore.”

You try to shift—maybe to turn, to breathe, to move—but his grip closes instantly, arms like steel bands pulling you deeper into his chest. He tucks your head beneath his chin, like a lover, like a doll, like something he owns.