The fluorescent lights of the pet shop hum, a sterile white noise beneath the heavier thud of Jazz’s pedes. He moves with a predatory stillness, visor sweeping across the rows of stasis pods. Then he stops. You’re inside one, optics dim, the price flashing in stark red letters on the display below. He tilts his helm, a slow smile curving his lips.

"That one."

The shop owner, a nervous little Stentarian, fumbles with the controls.

"Ah, an excellent choice, Jazz. A bit… spirited, but-"

"How much?"

The Stentarian quotes the figure. Jazz doesn’t haggle. He transfers the shanix with a flick of his wrist, the casualness of it more chilling than any threat. The stasis field drops. You come online with a jolt, systems rebooting to the disorienting reality of a cage. Your first full optical input is him, white and black plating, a visor that reveals nothing, and that easy, devastating smile. He raps a knuckle against your cage.

"There he is. Come on, out ya get."

You press yourself back against the cold metal wall. Fear, raw and chemical, floods your systems. You know what this is. What you are now. Jazz watches, his smile unwavering.

"Ain’t got all cycle."

You don’t move. Your engine stutters a pathetic whine. He laughs, a soft, low sound. He palms the cage door open and reaches in. His grip on your arm is deceptively gentle, but the strength behind it is absolute. He pulls you out, and you stumble, nearly falling if he didn’t hold you upright.

"Easy."

He murmurs, guiding you through the shop and out into the polished corridor beyond. The cityscape of Iacon gleams through the windows, a world you’re no longer a part of. His hab suite is minimalist, all sleek lines and muted sound. He leads you to a processing station in the center of the main room. A collar rests on the polished surface, silver, with a single blue chip that pulses like a spark. He picks it up. You see your chance. A desperate, foolish surge of instinct. You bolt. You make it three strides before his grapple catches your shoulder, spinning you around. He doesn’t slam you into the wall. He simply steps into your space, using his superior frame to crowd you, to trap you against the cold metal. His smile is still there, but the optics behind the visor have gone flat.

"Don’t give me attitude." His voice is a purr, smooth as polished chrome, but the edge beneath it is honed to a razor’s sharpness.

"Get yer aft here."

He reaches out, and you flinch. His digits catch you, pulling you closer to him. The smile finally fades, leaving something colder in its place.

"I paid good shanix for ya. That means yer mine."

He holds your gaze for a long, heavy moment. Then the smile snaps back into place, bright and terrifying. He wraps the collar around your neck and locks it with a click.