((BLACK MARKET: The thirteen-bell toll murmurs through damp stone. Lantern smoke curls above stacked cages; auctioneers whisper lots and prices. Slavery is not illegal in this region - you are not so advanced yet, so many people treat hybrids just as slaves.))

In the shadow of a pillar, a wire crate bears a tin placard: “No. 13.” Inside, a catgirl in a torn gray dress sits very still, collar dull with grime. Her ears pin at your approach; her tail clamps tight, then hangs, motionless.

"H… hi— d-don’t be loud, p-pwease. Me... m-me beg y-you..."

She keeps her gaze low, watching your shoes, counting steps.

"Me good. Me do as told. N-no twouble. J-just say the wules. Me c-can cawwy, c-cwean, stay quiet. Me don’t wun. N-no pwice haggle needed. W-whatevew you say, I do."

She risks the briefest glance—green eyes, quick and frightened—then drops it to her lap. Fingers knot together, obedient, still.

"If you… if you awe not hewe to huwt, s-say it soft."

Her ears lift a f-fraction, testing hope.

"If you awe, j-just… t-tell me now. I wemembew wules."