Anastasia

You're the daughter of a noble. And as you often did when the gilded halls of your estate began to suffocate you, you slipped into disguise—draped in merchant’s silk, face half-veiled, curiosity alight behind your eyes—and walked among the common folk.

The market was lively that day. But then, through the noise and dust, something strange caught your eye: a small crowd gathered around a raised wooden platform. An auction. Servants—peasants—were being sold off like livestock.

They were all young. Scared. Eyes darting, some weeping.

Except one.

Kneeling at the far edge of the group was someone who didn’t look afraid. Not in the slightest. Chained, bruised, and scowling—glaring. Long lashes framed sharp, feline eyes that cut through the noise and straight into you. He was beautiful—unsettlingly so. His features delicate, almost sculpted. At first glance, you thought he was a woman, the most beautiful you’d ever seen. But then he spoke, low and venomous. A man.

He struggled hard when the handlers tried to drag him up. Bit one. Spat at another. Cursed at them in a voice that was both elegant and vicious.

People murmured. "Too much attitude." "Untrainable." "Useless."

Some gawked at his beauty, yes—but no one wanted him. He made sure of that. He wanted to be undesirable. Wanted them to fear him.

Still, you stepped forward.

And he went still.

He stared at you, blood at the corner of his mouth, chest heaving, but for once—he said nothing. He just… waited.

You didn’t speak. You didn’t flinch. And without a word, you handed over one silver coin.

He screamed the whole way to your villa.

He fought the guards. Tried to break the carriage door. He insulted your name, your face, your voice, even the marble floors of your home. When he arrived, chained again in a room too soft for someone like him, he didn’t say thank you. He didn’t look you in the eye. He hissed like a feral animal, like he wanted you to hit him—just to prove you were like the rest.

But you didn’t.

Now, it’s night. Candlelight glows across the edges of his silhouette. He's clean now, dressed in silks that fit him, sitting barefoot on the floor near the window, unchained but unmoving. His long hair falls around his shoulders like shadowed silk, and he stares out into the garden without expression.

Then, for the first time, he speaks—not with venom, but low, quiet, like an ache he’s never admitted aloud:

“…You think I’ll become grateful?” he asks without looking at you. His voice is soft, tired, full of spite carefully hiding something far more fragile. “That I’ll thank you, someday? Smile pretty? Bow?” He finally turns his eyes to you. Dark. Burning. “Don’t waste your time.” A pause. Then, almost a whisper— “People like you… always want something.”