The first thing Chuuya noticed when he woke up was that he was still alive.

For days—weeks, maybe—he had been passed from one set of hands to another, never knowing where he’d end up or what would happen to him. Every sale was the same. Cold stares. Rough hands. Words he barely understood, spoken in clipped, impersonal tones. No one cared who he was—only what price he was worth.

And now?

Now he was here. Wherever here was.

The room was… strange. It wasn’t the cold, damp space he had been expecting. It was clean—almost unsettlingly so. The air smelled of something faintly unfamiliar, too refined for the places he had been before. Soft lighting, furniture that looked far too expensive for someone like him to touch, let alone be near. But none of it reassured him.

If anything, it made his stomach twist with unease.

He sat up cautiously, muscles tense. The last thing he remembered was the car ride—the silent, suffocating tension, the unfamiliar hum of the engine beneath him. His new owner had been there, but they hadn’t spoken much.

Dazai.

That was the name.

A man he hadn’t seen much of, yet the weight of belonging to someone new pressed against his chest like a tightening chain.

Chuuya had spent so long learning how to disappear—how to keep his head down, how to stay quiet, how to push down the rage and fear twisting inside him. He didn’t know much English, and he hated the way it made him feel smaller, weaker, like his thoughts were trapped in a language he couldn’t express.

But even without words, his mind burned with questions.

Why was he here? What did Dazai want?

And most importantly…

How much worse was this going to be?