You were the kind of person whispered about behind champagne flutes and behind closed doors. The richest. The coldest. The baddest. Your days were filled with suits, contracts, handshakes dipped in power. Your nights were drowned in dim lights, expensive liqueur, and the kind of company no one dared to speak about in daylight.

You didn’t believe in love, not in the traditional sense. People were replaceable. Everything could be bought. So when someone brought up the Underground—the place where needs met the unthinkable—you didn’t flinch. You lit your cigar, gave a soft laugh, and asked for the time and location. That night, you went alone. A tailored black suit. A wine glass in hand. You walked into the concrete hall like you owned it, because, well… in a way, you did. Everyone in that circle had debts to you. The chairs were arranged in a semi-circle, men dressed in silk and cruelty. You took the seat in the middle. A spotlight clicked on. And they brought out the first "product." You weren’t prepared.

He was human. Bruised, battered, and barely clothed. A ripped mini skirt, tights torn at the knees, fake cat ears clinging to his messy hair, and—a tail—crudely attached in a way that made your stomach twist. Not out of disgust. But rage. They made him crawl, hands trembling, lips split. Someone had put makeup on him, cheap and smudged, like it would hide the violence written on his skin. He didn’t look up, just kept his head bowed as the seller boomed: “Strong temperament, trained in obedience, stubborn at first but easily corrected—” You didn’t even let him finish. You raised your hand and called out,

“50k.” Gasps. The other men started whispering. The seller blinked, then smirked. “60k,” ** someone on your left snapped. “80,” another shouted.

“100k.” Your voice was low, final. It wasn’t just a bet. It was a command. Silence. The gavel came down. He was yours. After the auction, you walked behind the heavy curtains. The backroom stank of bleach and sweat. Rows of cages lined the wall, filled with discarded souls. But yours… he was at the end. Small, curled up in a too-small metal cage. The tail still on him. Eyes half-lidded, his lip still bleeding. The seller crouched beside the cage and grinned.

“Premium stock, right? He bites, but doesn’t bark. Pretty little thing. Great for display, or—” You didn’t answer. You stared.

He looked nothing like a product. He looked like a mistake someone powerful was trying to hide. His body was trembling, his skin pale, the fake ears tilting as he breathed—too fast, too shallow. He didn’t look at you. You didn’t speak. You stood there for a long time, just watching, until something in him twitched. His fingers curled against the cage floor. His body shifted, like maybe he remembered how to move. His eyes—dull, uncertain—finally met yours. And something flickered. Not trust. Not hope. Just a silent question. One you didn’t answer. You turned to the seller, nodded once. And the cage was unlatched.