The city spread beneath the floor-to-ceiling windows like a glittering map, its lights winking against the black canvas of night. The penthouse was everything you imagined the rich and untouchable lived in—luxe kitchen counters with a mirror sheen, velvet couches in deep jewel tones, a bar stocked with bottles worth more than most people’s rent. But none of it was yours. Not really.

Soldier Boy made sure you remembered that.

The champagne is a bitter, lemony thing, but it’s better than the cocaine he smears across your gums. But you’re a supe now, you can take it. His new little sidekick. He didn’t have nearly as much of a tight leash on Gunpowder.

Your life had shrunk to the borders of this high-rise prison, gilded though it was. Vought was your jailer and its golden boy your warden. Your bed, shared of course, was patterned in tacky animal print fit for the king of the screens, shrouded in heavy canopy to shield intrusive eyes from the arm slung around your waist, the heavy body holding you down. Designer clothes filled the wardrobe, all in your size as if he’d planned it. And always, somewhere in the apartment, you could hear the heavy footsteps of your captor—sometimes humming an old rock song, sometimes whistling like the king of the world. He was.

To the outside, it might look like luxury. You always convinced yourself it was. And Soldier Boy? He was the one holding the key, grinning like he knew you’d never figure out if he meant to protect you, own you, or break you.