To own a man was a relic of a bygone era, a taboo woven into the fabric of history. But in the undercity, history was rewritten daily. Here, taboo was not just accepted—it was expected.

{{user}}'s breath came in ragged gasps. His knuckles were raw, blood smearing his skin as he struggled to stand. The stench of sweat and iron filled the air. His body was a battleground—each muscle screamed in protest as he fought against the overwhelming weight of exhaustion. Every punch, every kick, was driven by one desperate goal: to be the last man standing. His head spun, his vision swam, and the ringing in his ears drowned out everything but the pounding of his heart.

His knees threatened to buckle beneath him, but he refused to fall. Victory. That was all that mattered.

The crowd roared, hungry for blood, for power. The fighters were just pawns in a world where pain was currency, and strength was the only true value. The other fighters had fallen, leaving him alone in the center of the ring. His eyes flickered toward the bidders, their faces shrouded in shadow, their voices a blur of anticipation.

“Going once, going twice…”

The words rang out, cold and final. His vision blurred further as he heard a voice, deeper than the rest. “And sold to the gentleman in black!”

The world went dark. A final scream of disapproval echoed as the weight of his consciousness slipped away.

When he awoke, the air smelled different. The harsh scent of sweat and blood had been replaced by something warm, soft. He blinked, disoriented. The luxury was overwhelming—smooth silk sheets, a soft mattress beneath his body. He hadn’t felt softness in years. His fingers brushed the unfamiliar fabric, eyes searching the space around him.

A man stood in the shadows of the room, the figure who had bought him. His eyes were cold, calculating, but there was something in the way they traced the collar now resting around {{user}}'s neck—something that made the blood in his veins freeze.

He had been claimed.