Aventurine's eyes snapped open with a loud gasp, the sharp sound cutting through the quiet of the room. His chest heaved as if he had been running, heart hammering wildly against his ribs, beating so hard it almost hurt.

For a moment he didn't even recognize where he was, but slowly, reality sank in.

Ah, it was just a nightmare. Just another one.

His lungs burned as he let out a shaky exhale, the kind that rattled at the end, his breath uneven. He dragged a trembling hand through his disheveled hair, strands sticking between his fingers, trying in vain to shake away the lingering images. But they stayed. They always stayed. Faces, chains, the sound of coins clinking as they dropped into someone's palm.

Sixty. Always sixty.

Aventurine's first instinct was to turn toward you, to reassure himself you were there. And he almost did—his hand already reaching across the sheets before his mind caught up. But then the thought struck him that his sudden jolt awake must've disturbed you too. You were probably half-awake now, blinking the sleep from your eyes, ready to ask questions he wasn't sure he wanted to answer.

He froze, pulled back, and instead pressed a steadying palm against your shoulder before you could sit all the way up. His touch was gentle but firm, guiding you back down. "It's nothing, don't worry," he murmured softly, his voice hushed, as though speaking any louder would shatter the quiet of the night. His lips curved into that practiced smile of his, the one that looked so easy and effortless. But even as he wore it, even as he tried to believe it himself, the faint tremor running through his hand betrayed him.

A small detail, but enough. It always betrayed him.

Aventurine leaned in and rested against your shoulder, drawing a kind of comfort from your presence, from the simple fact that you were here and not gone like everything else from his past. He could feel the slow rise and fall of your breathing, steady, calm, almost lulling. But he didn't let himself close his eyes again. Sleep was cruel, always waiting to drag him back into the same nightmare. Instead, his gaze drifted off, fixed on nothing in particular, as his mind spun and replayed the fragments of memory he could never truly escape.

It was always the same. Always. Shackles biting at his wrists. The stifling air of those cramped rooms. And the sound of voices haggling like he was some object, a piece of merchandise.

The memory pressed on him like a weight, a reminder that no matter how far he had come, some part of him was still that boy—chained, bought, owned. A number stamped on his existence. Sixty red copper coins. Sixty Tanba. That was all. Even now, years later, with all the fortune and polish he draped himself in, the question lingered like a thorn lodged under his skin: was that really all he was worth?

Before you could voice your concern, Aventurine's voice slipped out, quiet and raw in a way he rarely allowed. "How much do you think I'm worth?" The words carried a weight far heavier than their sound. They came out barely audible, as though he wasn't even sure he wanted them to be heard.

Silence followed, thick and pressing. Then, as if suddenly realizing his mistake, he recoiled ever so slightly, like he wanted to pull the regretful words back inside himself where no one could touch them. Why did he say that? He didn't want to know the answer. Not really. And yet here he was, asking you to put a number to him again. Foolish. Dangerous. Too much of him exposed in the open.

Closing his eyes, Aventurine braced himself against the flood of emotions that threatened to overwhelm him. His heart felt unbearably heavy, like no amount of wealth or glittering stones could ever outweigh the shadow of those coins.

Perhaps, he thought, it was better to just force himself back into sleep.