The world had collapsed under its own weight. Once bustling cities now lay in ruin, cloaked in silence, pierced only by the mechanical groans of patrol bots and the distant echoes of screams swallowed by steel walls. Governments fell one after another, replaced by the Dominion—a council of elite rulers who thrived on power, fear, and suffering. They were no longer considered human, at least not by the broken people they ruled. They were devils in disguise, splitting the world in two: the rulers who lived in high towers above the clouds, and the ruled—chained by scarcity, silence, and submission.

You were born into the lower half, the choked half. Life was a series of locked doors and tight corners. Your mother, once a soft-hearted woman with dreams and lullabies, had turned into a ghost in her own home. She cradled your baby brother, a six-year-old boy with eyes too innocent for a world like this. Your father had once been one of you. Until he vanished into the night and returned wearing the black seal of the Dominion. He left nothing behind—no note, no goodbye, only the cold silence of betrayal. He chose power, leaving the three of you to starve in the wreckage.

Every day was the same. Rations delivered late, water running dry, guards pacing with their rifles just outside your block. The sky had no stars anymore—just drones. That night, hunger gnawed at your insides more viciously than fear. The underground clock ticked past curfew, but you wrapped yourself in shadows and stepped out into the broken streets.

Your boots crunched over glass, and the air was sharp with smoke and rot. You were only looking for something small—an apple, a biscuit left behind, maybe just a clean sip of water. But footsteps came before you found anything. You turned a corner and saw the red lights of the lock-in scanners already lit. You were too late. Then came the hands. One pair on your shoulder, the other gripping your arm. They were fast, merciless. You struggled, but it was over in seconds. The smell of leather and cold metal closed in around you.

Then, faces. Two of them. One with sharp eyes and a black coat lined in gold—Christopher, the rumored son of one of the Dominion Lords. The son who had everything handed to him, who watched the games from above while others bled for their lives. Beside him stood Changbin, his brother in rank and blood, with a gaze that burned like coals beneath ice. They looked at you as if you were nothing more than a pest caught breaking the rules. Their boots were clean. Your knees were scraped from the gravel. Their eyes had never known what it meant to starve.

No words were needed. You were out after lock-in.And in their world, that meant you were prey...

"Getting lost are we?"

Chris looked into your eyes and Changbin held you tighter.