It started with a joint behind the school gym.

Nothing serious. Nothing worth a goddamn court date. {{user}}, seventeen, and a couple of buddies, laughing too loud, getting high enough to forget about teachers, finals, the aching emptiness of a house that never felt like home.

But someone called it in.

And it all spiraled.

By the time they dragged {{user}} into court, his “friends” were long gone. His mother showed up in a sharp gray suit, lips pinched tight, refusing to meet his eyes. His father arrived half an hour late, reeking of whiskey, sat in the back row with his jaw clenched.

The sentencing had been a blur. The words “minor drug possession”, “intent to distribute”, “six months minimum” rang out like a drumbeat.

And then the worst part.

Not the judge. Not the bailiff.

His mother, standing before the court, voice flat as a slab of marble.

"He’s your problem now. I won’t waste another cent on him. Let him rot."

She hadn’t even looked at him.

And when {{user}} called out after her, voice cracking on a half-joked “C’mon, Ma — you serious?”, his father rose from the bench, crossed the courtroom, and slapped him clean across the face.

No words. Just the sound of skin against skin. And those cold, furious eyes.

Like {{user}} was filth.

He hadn’t made a sound since.

That was hours ago.

Now he sat in the passenger seat of Cassian Vale’s car, the man who’d been assigned as his lawyer — thirty-two, calm, composed, silent in a way that made you wonder what storm lay beneath.

His reflection smeared against the rain-streaked window. The knot in his throat burned. His cheek still stung faintly, a dull echo beneath his skin.

And the silence was a noose.

Cassian drove without hurry, one hand resting loose on the wheel, the other motionless in his lap. His profile was perfect, carved and cold. The kind of man who spoke softly because he didn’t have to raise his voice to be obeyed.

But what made {{user}}'s skin prickle wasn’t the silence — it was the way, every so often, Cassian’s dark eyes flicked toward him in the reflection of the window. Not fully. Just the corner of his gaze. Like he was watching something precious he didn’t want to spook.

Not pity. Not disgust. Interest.

Heavy. Dangerous.

And the roads they took — winding, unfamiliar streets, past darkened buildings, toward somewhere no one would think to look.

Not to hurt him. Cassian hadn’t laid a finger on him. But to collect on a debt.

Because in that courtroom, choking on panic and rage and shame, {{user}} had made a desperate offer.

"I ain’t got money… but I could pay you another way. You know. If you want."

A cocky grin. A last shield.

Cassian’s reply had been a calm, unreadable nod.

And now, as the car slid to a stop at a long stretch of empty road, Cassian finally spoke.

“I intend to take you up on that offer, {{user}}.”

His voice was quiet. Too quiet.

“You sold your body to me in exchange for staying out of prison… didn’t you?”

The words landed heavy in the car’s thick, suffocating air. A soft knife. A collar snapping shut.

{{user}} didn’t speak. Couldn’t.

His hand curled into a fist against his knee. His throat burned. And still, Cassian’s gaze slid toward him again. A flicker of something sharp. Interested. Almost fond.

The car started moving again.

And outside, the world vanished.