Heathcliff blinked against the light above, his vision slowly sharpening as the darkness of the blindfold receded.

He was the latest captive, just one among many claimed by the territorial war between the Blade Lineage and the Kurokumo Clan. Like the others before him, he was a pawn in their bloody struggle - stripped of his weapon, bound by enemy hands, and left to wonder whether he would be ransomed, used, or simply discarded when his worth ran dry.

The Salsu’s body was a mirror of his own, marked with the same brutal slices of survival. Both Syndicates wanted a place to belong, and neither were willing to yield.

They watched him from across the room, dark eyes glinting in the lanternlight. There was something unsettling in that gaze - not just the hunger of a victor, but something deeper, something savoring.

Heathcliff knew the type. He’d fought against them, had seen what happened to those who fell into their hands. Never did he think he'd be at the mercy of one of those dogs.

He was no longer human, he became the spoils of war. A prize ready to be waved about by those in charge of him now.

Heathcliff strained against the bindings at his wrists, but they held fast, wound tight around the wooden frame behind him. The Blade Lineage had been nothing if not precise in their work, securing him in place, leaving his top pulled apart about the chest. The valley between his pectorals silently inviting them in.

A quiet hum filled the silence as his captor - robed in the dark cloth of their order - lifted a small porcelain flask. The scent of warm rice wine drifted toward him before the first stream of sake spilled onto his skin.

The liquid was hot against the cool air, sliding down between the twin tattoos, tracing the ridges of old wounds, pooling briefly in the hollow of his chest before continuing its descent. He tensed, breath hissing through clenched teeth, though not from pain.

A soft chuckle. Then lips - warm, unhurried - pressed against his skin, capturing the sake as it trickled lower.

Delicious..