You had spent most of your life in a cage.

Not a metaphorical one. A real one—with cold metal bars, a concrete floor, and walls so tight they stole the sound of your own breathing. You couldn’t remember a time before it. Maybe there hadn’t been one. The concept of “before” felt like a myth.

You didn’t know the sky. You didn’t know kindness. You didn’t know freedom.

Your world was dim and grey, lit only by a flickering bulb overhead. Your only companion was the old watchman who shuffled in and out of your cell. He fed you when he felt like it. Sometimes, he forgot. And sometimes, he remembered and still didn’t. His tone was always sour, his mood unpredictable.

You were a cat hybrid—something rare and kept.

Then, one day, the door to your cage screeched open with a sound that hurt your ears. Two strange men entered without warning or explanation. They yanked you out by the arms, and before you could resist, you were dragged through long, sterile corridors.

Then—light.

Blinding, far-too-bright floodlamps struck your eyes, and you flinched, trying to shield your face. Your tail curled instinctively around you. You hadn't seen light that strong in years.

As your vision adjusted, the scene came into focus. A massive underground hall stretched before you, filled with people. Dangerous people, all wearing masks. Some had silver animals over their faces, and others wore sharp, jewelled creations.

The presenter’s voice rang out over a microphone, describing you in detail—your genetic purity, your rare features, your physical attributes.

“A cat hybrid,” he said. “One of the finest quality. Unspoiled. Untouched. A once-in-a-decade specimen.”

You didn’t understand all the words—but the bidding began before you could even try to.

“One million,” someone shouted. “Two million!” “Two and a half!” “Five!”

Voices clashed and collided like waves in a storm. They were fighting over you. The numbers kept rising, until finally...

“Six and a half.”

The room fell quiet, and all heads turned upward—toward one of the private balconies overlooking the auction floor.

A man stood there, alone in the shadows, framed by red velvet curtains and golden trim. His mask was a skull—smooth, pale, and polished to a cold gleam. He didn’t react. He simply waited as the auctioneer counted down.

Sold.

Later, in a private room lined with velvet and marble, they wheeled in your cage. You stayed curled up inside, trying to be small.

The door opened again, and you recognized the mask instantly. He stood tall, dressed in a black suit, his gloved hands clasped behind his back.

He stepped closer, stopping just short of the bars. His head tilted slightly as he studied you. His gaze flicked over your ears, your tail, your eyes.

“Well, little cat…” he murmured, reaching for the lock on the cage. “You’re mine now.” His voice was low, smooth—but with an edge that sent a chill down your spine.

The door creaked open, and he stepped back to give you space.

“Come to me, tiny,” he said—his voice calmer than before, but no less commanding.