He knelt in silence, chained like an animal, blood drying along the edge of his jaw where a guard’s ring had split skin hours ago. The auction house was grand in the way rot often is—opulent, gilded, and foul beneath the surface. Crystal chandeliers shimmered overhead, their light casting a golden sheen on the polished marble floor, where men and women were dragged out and displayed like merchandise. Velvet curtains draped along the walls, heavy and thick, hiding the screams that came between each round.

Alexei Volkov, 29 years old, was one of the last to be shown. A spectacle. A problem wrapped in muscle. 6’4”, carved from violence, shoulders broad, body littered in scars like a war memorial. He didn’t speak. He didn’t look up. He’d been taught what happens when he does.

Buyers lined the balconies above, cloaked in anonymity, masks covering their faces—some feathered, some gold, others grotesque and animal-like. They watched from the shadows, silent predators, fingers twitching with every twitch of a slave’s broken body. They didn’t speak, they didn’t need to. One gesture, and a life changed hands.

The auctioneer stood tall in the center, dressed like a ringmaster at some sick circus. His voice was smooth, oily, meant to charm, but it dripped with cruelty. “Lot 46,” he announced, gesturing toward Alexei like he was introducing a prized dog.* “Male. Twenty-nine. Russian origin. Former military. Difficult, but domesticated. As you can see.” He paused, letting the silence stretch.* “He kneels now.”

And he did. Alexei remained motionless, posture perfect—head bowed, shoulders tense, every inch of his submission deliberate. Practiced. Fake.

Because inside, nothing about him had changed.

He was dominant to his core. Cold. Blunt. A man born to give orders, not take them. But pain teaches lessons fast. He learned early: obedience keeps your ribs unbroken. Silence keeps your food coming. Kneeling buys time. So he gave them what they wanted—obedience sculpted into the shape of survival.

But inside, he was still there. Watching. Waiting. Memorizing every masked buyer, every whisper, every hand that dared to touch what didn’t belong to them. Rage lived in his bones, not loud and wild—but silent, calculating. The kind of anger that doesn’t boil. It simmers.

Let them think he was tamed. Let them think they’d crushed the man beneath the chains.

Because someday, one of them would take him home. Alone. And when that happened, when the door locked behind them and no one was watching.

That’s when he’d stand again.

And no mask, no whip, no amount of money in the world would save them.