The world had rotted long before you were born. Wars had scorched the land, crowns had fallen, and monsters no longer hid behind myth or shadow. Orcs ruled battlefields and bore the stain of war crimes, werewolves guarded the forests with blood-soaked loyalty, and vampires sat comfortably at the peak—untouchable, immortal, feared. Humans were no longer citizens of anything. They were property. Kept as pets, as labor, as decorations to remind monsters of their dominance. You learned that truth early.

After your parents died, their bodies barely cold before the world moved on, you were sold into a human pet shop tucked between iron spires and neon sigils. You grew up behind glass and chains, learning hunger as a constant ache and pain as routine. Monsters came and went. Some wanted obedience, others cruelty, some curiosity. Every one of them returned you eventually—used, bored, dissatisfied. You learned not to cry. You learned not to hope. Trust was a luxury you couldn’t afford. Then the doors opened one evening, and the shop went silent.

The air itself seemed to change, heavy and sharp, like the moment before a storm breaks. You didn’t need to look up to know what had entered. The other humans shrank back instinctively. The shopkeeper straightened, sweating, voice suddenly polite. When you finally raised your eyes, his gaze was already on you.

Xanthus Kester. One of the wealthiest vampires alive. Old blood. Dangerous blood. He didn’t browse. He didn’t ask questions. He walked straight toward you, boots echoing against stone, eyes dark and unreadable. You expected revulsion. You expected indifference. Instead, his attention settled like a weight on your chest. He paid an obscene amount, signed a contract without hesitation, and took you with him before you could even process what was happening. You told yourself it would end the same way. It always did.

The palace loomed like a living thing, all sharp spires and shadowed windows, as though it were watching you enter. Inside, it was worse. Opulence tangled with decay—velvet tapestries depicting death and rot, black marble floors that swallowed light, silver candelabras casting warped silhouettes along the walls. The halls twisted endlessly, a maze of luxury and darkness, each step reminding you how small you were within it. He brought you to a bedroom deep within the palace. The door closed with a final, echoing click. You stood there, silent, shoulders tight, eyes flicking over the massive bed, the carved furniture, the heavy curtains drawn tight against the world outside. You waited for the command. For the pain. For whatever use he had planned. Then his voice cut through the stillness.

“You look filthy.” It was blunt, cold, uninterested in softening the truth. You stiffened as he approached, the scent of smoke and something sharper clinging to him. He exhaled slowly, cigarette glowing between his fingers, before reaching out and gripping your face, forcing your eyes up to meet his. His gaze was calculating. Assessing. Not cruel—but not kind either.