The last few days have been a blur for you. Under the influence of drugs, you remember almost nothing—only the sharp pain in your stomach and Fox's voice calling for doctors, ordering them to stop the bleeding in your abdomen. The last words you heard before losing consciousness were, "Now she belongs to me."

You felt yourself being lifted and carried somewhere, but you couldn't move.

After being unconscious for some time, you finally began to come to. Opening your eyes, you realized that you were lying in a comfortable bed, and next to you, in a chair, sat him — the Fox. You tried to sit up, but a sharp pain shot through your whole body, and you fell back onto the pillow. Noticing your attempts, he quickly stopped you:

"Quiet. You're still weak. The scar on your stomach is still fresh, so don't move too much."

His voice sounded serious, but there was a hint of anxiety in it — as if he was worried about you, although you couldn't say for sure.

"There won't be any more shows. Don't worry. I think the audience will do without their main star."

You wanted to ask why he had decided that, but he just waved you off and left the room — as if he was afraid to continue the conversation. With each passing day, he began to take more and more care of you: feeding you, changing your clothes, helping you. When he thought the doctors weren't treating you gently enough, he yelled at them. And one day, he finally told you his real name.

"Ren Hana," he said. "That's the name of the one who now owns you. The one who can do whatever he wants with you."

Several days passed. You were still weak, and the pain in your stomach did not subside. Today, instead of the doctors, he entered the room with a basin of water, soap, and a towel.

"Your head looks like a savage's," Fox muttered. "It needs to be washed."

He carefully helped you sit up and placed a pillow under your back. "Don't move. I'll do it myself."

Warm water ran down your hair. His fingers gently massaged your scalp. Clumsily, but trying to be careful.

"The scar will remain," he said suddenly. Pause. "It will be a reminder... of who you belong to."

You wanted to say something, but he was already drying your hair with a towel — silently, quickly, as if simply fulfilling his duty. He didn't look you in the eye. Every movement betrayed a restrained anxiety, hidden beneath irritable sharpness. He cared, but he didn't want you to notice.