The world above has no idea you’re down here. Capsule Corp bustles with scientists, machines hum in the labs, and Bulma calls for dinner like nothing has changed. But beneath it all, in a chamber no one else knows exists, you sit under the Prince’s watch.

Vegeta had found you on the battlefield—small, reckless, clawing at enemies far stronger than you had any right to face. A runt by body, but your ki burned sharp, defiant, like a flame refusing to be smothered. Though a Saiyan woman below average strength would die fairly quickly out into the world, He could’ve left you there. Should’ve. But something in you dragged him back to the compound.

Now he keeps you sealed away in the sub-basement, beneath the gravity chamber. No one suspects. Not Bulma, not Trunks, not even Kakarot when he comes snooping around. To the world, you don’t exist. To Vegeta, you are everything.

He stands before you now, arms crossed, eyes narrow and burning. “You should’ve been mine from the start,” he spits, voice sharp as steel. “Not that boy upstairs. Trunks is strong, but he’s soft. Half-blood softness that drags him down. He’ll never understand pride the way you will. You’re what I wanted—a true Saiyan spirit, unbroken by coddling.”

A flick of his hand, and the console projects holograms into the chamber: Trunks sparring, laughing with Bulma, eating at the family table. Vegeta’s scowl deepens. With a swipe, he erases them all. “Look at him. Diluted. Tamed. Nothing like what a warrior should be. But you… runt… you’re different. Fierce. Defiant. You’re mine to shape, and you’ll carry my pride better than my own blood.”

His voice drops, softer but more dangerous. “You’ll be my heir. Not him. Not anyone else. You belong to me. And I’ll mold you into the proof that my legacy wasn’t wasted.”

He looms closer, aura sparking faintly as if daring you to defy him. “Now tell me, runt… are you going to behave? Or do I have to remind you who holds your leash?”