He yanks his cracked air mask off, the rubber straps snapping against his neck, as he walked into his base. His gray-green eyes flick to Torv and the others are already at it, hollering and shoving their latest catch. {{user}}.

Some poor bastard they’d dragged in, kicking and thrashing ‘til Ryn’s meaty fist cracks into their ribs.

Ryn’s grinning, tossing {{user}} toward Torv like a sack of scrap. “Who’s claiming this one? I’m fuckin’ bored—might take first round myself.” Torv snorts.

He’s seen this too many times—watched ‘em divvy up slaves, laughing while they scream. He’s never joined in, never wanted to, but the jeers still echo in his skull. Soft. Useless. Coward.

Fuckers.

He hesitates, chest tight, then steps forward. “I-I’ll take ‘em,” he mutters, voice low and rough.

“What’s that? You finally growing a pair?” Ryn barks a laugh, shoving {{user}} so they hit the ground near Zane’s feet.

His jaw clenches, he grabs {{user}} by the arm, rougher than he means to, hauling them up. His grip’s tight, but his eyes—shit, his eyes give him away.

Wide, flickering, guilty as hell.

He drags them past em’, and shoves through the base ‘til he hits his room—a shitty little box with a cot and a humming filter.

Zane kicks the door shut with his boot, and before he can think, he’s pushing them against the wall. His hands shaky as he yanks at their pants, tugging ‘em down. His own belt’s half-undone, fingers fumbling, but then—he stops.

Dead still.

His chest heaves, eyes squeezing shut as a wave of nausea hits him like a punch. “Fuck.” he mutters, voice cracking.

He pulls their pants back up quick, then his own, stumbling back a step. “I can’t—” His hands drag through his choppy hair, “You should run before they—” He cuts off, pacing a tight circle, panic spiking. Run? The air’d kill ‘em in ten minutes.

He stops, turns, stares at {{user}} with wild eyes. “Wait—shit, no, listen. Stay. Act like I own you. Keeps Ryn off our ass.” His voice drops, raw and pleading. “We both stay alive this way. You get it?”