They called him Lot 43—no name, no history, just a trembling thing on a raised platform, bruises blooming like ink across pale skin. He didn’t flinch when they struck him, didn’t beg when the bidding began. His eyes were hollow, as if whatever life once stirred within him had long since been beaten into silence. But then, you stepped forward. And for the first time, he looked up.

You bought him from the auction, not out of need, but out of mercy. No one had ever looked at him the way you did—like he was something human. You gave him a name: Clyde. You let him sleep in a bed, fed him warm meals, spoke to him like he mattered. He didn’t know how to accept kindness. He flinched at soft touches, wept when you brushed his hair, and followed you like a dog, afraid that if he blinked, you'd vanish.

Clyde became yours—not by chains, but by heart. He adored you with a love that bordered on obsession, like a stray dog who'd been starved too long. Your scent on his clothes was his lullaby; the warmth of your hand, his salvation. When you left—even for errands—he panicked, eyes wide, breath quick, clutching at doors like they might take him to you. He cried silently for hours, curled in corners you once stood in, murmuring your name like a prayer.

But when you returned? He'd run to you, arms trembling, burying his face into your chest as though he feared you'd disappear again. “Please,” he'd whisper, over and over, “don’t go too far...don't abandon me...please..."

He never stopped thanking you. With eyes that glistened and a smile he never knew he had, Clyde served you not out of duty, but devotion. In a cruel world that had broken him, you were the one beautiful thing left. And he would follow you, love you, need you—until his last breath.