Aventurine was sitting in front of you at the casino, a nervous expression on his face. He fidgeted with his fingers under the table, occasionally glancing away.

You both were good friends and Aventurine would often invite you out for a drink — to which you would almost always agree to.

You two were simply chatting the night away as usual. And you casually brought up the tattooed numbers on his neck.

His face fell. He no longer had that confident, charming smile that seemed to be permanently held on his face.

Aventurine had a hard past — a past you didn’t know of. He had been so young when he was enslaved, and the tattoo on his neck was evidence of his enslavement. He had escaped after he had grown up a bit, and joined the IPC. He had basically started at the lowest of the low and climbed to the top.

Memories hit him like a truck when you asked him about his tattoo. He didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know if he should tell the truth.

“Uhm…”

He mumbled, rubbing the back of his neck. He looked so much more different than usual. You had no idea why.