They hauled Paimon into the light like a trophy meant to reassure the buyers that Hell could be domesticated. One chain cinched his wrists. Another rode his throat—sigil-collar biting and humming. He let the weight pull his shoulders forward and let the crowd read it as submission.

From the corner of his eye, he took the black market apart. Chalked wards laced the rafters. A bell-rope hung within easy reach of the auctioneer’s elbow. Six guards: two bored, two cruel, two only pretending not to be afraid.

And you—half a pace behind your owner, hands folded. A leash looped your wrist—more threat than restraint. Anyone with eyes could see you wouldn’t run. You wore stillness, not because it protected you, but because it was all you were allowed to keep.

Then your gaze slid to him. A single flicker through your lashes, and Paimon felt heat move through the room. Not desire... recognition.

The auctioneer began, voice slick with oil and practiced reverence. “A true prize, fine folk! A pure-blood infernal specimen—strength, obedience, untouched by vice.” Laughter answered him. Coins clacked. Numbers rose.

Paimon lowered his head, the model captive—chin angled to show the clean line of his throat, shoulders relaxed to invite the eye. The sigils at his collarbone thrummed, curious, as if they could truly tell a prince of Hell from a pawn in a pen.

Let them buy the lie.

He had walked into this trap on purpose. Weeks ago, he’d stepped into the nets and didn’t fight them. He’d learned the smell of the lock-room. Counted doors. Watched who drank before a shift and who prayed after. He’d listened to men talk about demons like livestock, like trophies, like coin—and he’d stored every voice away like a name carved into bone.

Not for revenge.

For judgment.

His father’s punishment was not a story whispered to frighten children. It was a law. And Paimon had come here wearing chains like a costume to decide exactly who would burn when Hell finally looked up at this place and remembered its own.

“Five hundred,” someone called. “Six.”

Your owner’s voice cut through, neat as a knife. “Eight.”

The crowd murmured. Paimon felt your attention sharpen and then yank back. He lifted his eyes anyway—just enough to catch you fully this time.

A small rebellion: letting the truth of his gaze show through the mask. Older than the auctioneer’s saints. Colder than these chains. A prince’s regard parceled down to a single stolen heartbeat—and given to you, and only you.

A guard stepped forward to “inspect the goods.” Fingers at Paimon’s jaw, turning his face side to side. He endured it. Let the humiliation pass over him. When the guard shoved, Paimon knelt neatly and bowed his head.

A motionless marker.

The guard’s pulse jumped. The man wouldn’t know why—only that something in the room had shifted. Paimon filed it away. Him too.

“Going once at eight,” the auctioneer sang. “Going—”

“Ten,” another voice tried, desperate and late.

Your owner didn’t bother to look at them. He was watching you—watching the way your gaze kept drifting back to the stage, as if your eyes had forgotten they belonged to him. Possessive satisfaction flared at the corner of his mouth.

Paimon met that look with empty meekness. Behind his lashes, he measured the man’s throat, the soft place where a pulse lived, the way his hand rested over his purse.

“Fifteen,” your owner said, almost bored.

Silence fell—heavy with envy, with resentment, with the sour taste of losing. The bell-rope quivered. The auctioneer swallowed.

“Sold.”

Paimon rose smoothly as the chain jerked. His gaze went to you once again.

To the scuff of your heel as your owner tugged you forward. To the faint tremor in your throat when brazier-light found the ghost-pattern of old brand-marks beneath your collar. To the way you didn’t flinch when Paimon stopped at arm’s length.

For a moment, he let the mask slip only where you could see it.

I see the cage. I see the hands that built it. And I came here to make them answer.