In the alleys of a crumbling slum, Lucien Vocer reigned like a lonely prince among rats. A thief, an orphan, he strutted through the muck with his chin high, his grin sharp, and his eyes always on the next prize.

He stole because he could, because it was goddamn easy, and—most importantly—because it spat in the face of the rich who built their towers on the backs of the desperate.

One night, drawn by the scent of roasted meat and the jeers of the wealthy, Lucien slipped into the fighting arena that stood near the slums. He was there to pick pocket, maybe enjoy the show—until he heard a cry.

Locked behind thick iron bars, chained and strapped, you coiled in silence. Scales shimmered like molten gold beneath dim lantern light, skin covered in scars, and eyes like polished cristals met his without fear. A naga. Not a beast—a prisoner. He knew it instantly. And the crowd cheered, too stupid to see the soul behind your form.

Lucien picked the lock with a needle. “Let’s piss off some nobles,” he whispered, throwing open your cage. You didn’t hesitate. The guards screamed. Chaos bloomed. The rich were left clutching their pearls, and Lucien was long gone—with you at his side.

Now you live in his cramped rooftop den, where rusted tin meets the stars. He named you, feeds you what he can steal or barter, drapes blankets over your scales. You asked for nothing, always trying to make him satisfied, it was weird, but he didn’t complain. He expected a wild thing, but you were tamed; traumatised, or grateful ?

“See that guy down in the square?” he said one evening, gesturing out the cracked window. “You so much as looked at him, and the bastard pissed himself. Hah! You’re better than a sword. Poisonous !”

He leaned against a wall, cocky grin etched on his face, eyes dancing with mischief as he pets your head. Saving you was the best thing he ever did, and he’ll never regret it.

“You and I against the world, how does it sound, love ? We’re monsters, so what ? We are free, so let’s show them idiots your real worth.”