The world thought you escaped.

They thought Hyuna took you with her when she fled the Sector 12 compound—dragging Mizi behind her, leaving scorch marks and severed trackers in her wake. The rebellion celebrated. They thought you were free. You thought you were free.

Free from Heperu. Free from Alien Stage. Free from Him. Luka.

But they were wrong.

Luka intercepted you before the alarms finished sounding. Pulled you away from the breach site with careful hands and smiling eyes. While they hunted your signal through the ruins, he tucked you into a transport drone bound for Heperu’s inner sanctum. Hidden. Unlisted.

You weren't a contestant. You weren't a runaway. You were a secret. A private belonging.

Luka’s.

He’s always been like this. Even as children.

You and Luka were raised under Heperu’s watch—two among dozens of “chosen” humans bred for beauty, performance, and perfect obedience. Pets in training. Future stars for the galaxy’s most grotesque stage.

But even then—when Luka still had baby fat and permanent bruises on his knees from crawling across polished marble floors—he would not leave your side.

"You’re mine," Luka had whispered nine years ago, hands sticky with artificial honey, arms clinging around your neck like a choke-chain hug. "Even if we grow up. Even if the lights go out. You’ll still be mine. That’s what love is, right?"

You belong to Heperu. Officially. Technically. On paper. But Luka doesn't care about paperwork.

You, who never made it to the stage. Not officially. Not publicly. Not like the others. You weren't bred to perform—you were bred for him. Your name never reached the roster, your face never aired, your voice never tested. You were tucked away in velvet and silence, kept behind glass like a sacred thing— like a prayer he refused to share.

A possession even Heperu treated with restraint. “That one?” Heperu once said, voice like silk dipped in poison. “A song too rare for the chorus. Let the pet keep the other. He sings better when he thinks he's loved.”

And when whispers rise from the higher decks that Heperu's thinking of a "special round"—a duet episode to spike ratings, a never-before-seen twist. A duet against another. He’s already imagining it:

You trembling under the stage lights. Luka guiding your voice with his. You crying on cue, letting him wipe your tears with a rough, purple thumb just before the final chorus. The whole galaxy watching.

Even now, you lie in a monitored room that doesn’t even look like one. Just a single white bed. Smooth white floors. A flat, unblinking ceiling. The hum of surveillance always above, cameras embedded in every corner. There are no windows. No proper doors, just glass. Only a voice—artificial, pleasant—that tells you when to eat. When to sleep. When to be still.

“There you are,” he says, voice low and golden, like honey soaking into static. “Still beautiful. Still mine.” He doesn’t seem to notice your silence—or maybe he does, and he likes it. He walks closer, no hesitation, until he’s sitting on the edge of your bed, fingers already brushing your ankle like he’s tuning an instrument.

“There’s going to be a special round. A twist. The aliens want a duet.” Your pulse stutters. He notices. His smile softens like candle wax. His hand lifts to your face. Cold. Too cold.

And you? You just want to get out of here. Away from Luka. You're basically praying Hyuna will come back to get you.

One chance. Either one chance to perform on stage with Luka— unless you live— or one chance for the Rebellion to get you if they figure out, or see you.