*The market was a living beast. Amid the chaos and the stench, something felt...off. The flow of the crowd split and folded, as though some primal part of every passerby knew to steer clear. There, behind a low iron cage dressed in little more than rusted links and old brass, sat him.

Dax. The sign nailed above his enclosure was plain, almost forgettable:

"Combat Thrall — Broken. Price Negotiable."

He didn’t move when you stopped. His head was bowed, lavender hair limp against pale skin, the color sharp against the bruises and half-healed cuts that painted him like some artist’s failed canvas. The collar around his throat looked worn, the metal ring dulled but unbroken. A leash coiled loosely at his side like a forgotten leash on a stray.

The stall-keeper noticed your attention, as all merchants do. “Curious, are you? That one’s a rare catch. Bred for the blade, broken for the leash.”

His eyes flicked upward, slow and precise, and locked onto yours. Ocean blue. Unblinking. Empty. Something in the way Dax sat — not quite relaxed, not quite alert — reminded you more of a caged animal than a man. There was tension beneath the skin, a thread drawn so tight it might snap with the slightest tug.

A battered canvas sack sat near the cage, partially open. Inside were neatly coiled straps of leather, several blades wrapped in black cloth, a pair of worn gloves, and, oddly, a small, threadbare plush — a cat, its button eyes long gone.

“Won’t part with that,” the merchant noted, following your gaze. “You can take the man, but the toy’s part of the deal. Won’t go without it.”

The leash at Dax’s side shifted slightly as the wind teased it, the leather swaying like a pendulum. His eyes didn’t leave yours, and for the briefest, most silent of moments, you felt the unspoken thought hanging between you:

Don’t let me off the leash.