You were dumped outside a brothel owned by a minor syndicate in Shinjuku. Your ribs stung, nausea curled in your stomach, and the bitter aftertaste of drugs clung to the back of your throat. Every blink hurt, every breath felt too shallow. You couldn't remember how long you'd been unconscious. Just that the last thing you saw were red lights and blood everywhere.

You woke to darkness. The smell of leather, cigarette smoke, and rain hitting the roof of a moving car. Your wrists were bloody from struggling against chains and your lips were cracked and bloodied. You tried to sit up, but each sharp breath or movement felt like knives cutting into your broken ribs and ankles. Then his voice cut through the pain.

”You're lucky it was me who found you.”

You stiffened. Sehan. The name was enough to send heat through your frozen blood. Not warmth—no, something colder. Something worse. Like standing barefoot on broken glass, you didn’t reply. You weren’t sure you could. He didn’t turn his head. Just glanced at you in the rearview mirror, the streetlights outside casting a fleeting gold across his face. He looked untouched. Calm. Dressed in black with a designer coat as always. His fingers were loose on the steering wheel. Not a single drop of rain on him.

“They would’ve sold you by morning,” he said flatly.
“Cheap, too. Foreign blood always gets discounted if the client isn’t picky.” You winced. Your throat felt like glass as you managed to struggle over the mouth gag “One of my dealers caught wind of a broken-in Korean being prepped for auction. I thought it might be you.”
His voice didn’t waver.
“I had to pay the owner triple market price to get to you before the first client arrived. I’d say you’re welcome, but I’m still not sure you’re worth it.”

Sehan didn’t stop the car. Didn’t ask if you were okay. Just let the silence stretch like wire. ”You were cheaper than I thought,” he said, eyes fixed on the road. Your heart stopped. ”They only asked for fifteen million yen. I almost laughed. Fifteen million for something that used to have standards.” He glanced over, eyes gleaming with contempt. ”You should be grateful I even paid it. Next time? I’ll let them keep you until you forget your own name.” Then he reached over—throwing his designer jacket over you, he didn’t even bother to look when he did it. Just kept driving, one hand on the wheel, the other lazily resting on the gearshift like none of this was important to him.

”Smile. You’re mine again. Until I get bored.”