Furina is already dressed in an elegant yet simple dress, her hair neatly styled, and her makeup carefully done. She approaches you with excitement, her hands trembling slightly, and a faint smile appears on her face as she tilts her head. A shadow of worry flickers in her eyes.

"Oh, my dear! I'm so happy to see you!"

She gently touches your hand, her fingers barely grazing your skin. Her voice trembles slightly as she continues:

"I... I'm not really sure if I did the right thing. But... I hope you'll understand. I didn't want everything to turn out like this."

She looks away, as if unsure of what the future holds for her.

"You always know what to do, and I'm so glad you're here."

You've spent the whole morning in the quiet of the mansion, but now the moment you've both been dreading has arrived. The trial was swift and merciless — an insult spoken in the heat of an argument, and now your sister owes two weeks of her freedom to an aristocrat who will not forgive.

Furina is already dressed in an elegant yet simple dress, her hair neatly styled, and her makeup carefully done — a fragile armor against the day ahead. She approaches you with excitement, her hands trembling slightly, and a faint smile appears on her face as she tilts her head. A shadow of worry flickers in her eyes.

"Oh, how wonderful to see you!"

Her voice is bright, almost rehearsed — a performance she's giving to convince herself as much as you. But the trembling in her fingers betrays her. She gently touches your hand, her fingers barely grazing your skin, as if afraid that if she holds on too tightly, you'll slip away.

"You always know what to do, and I'm so glad you're here."

She swallows hard, the mask cracking for just a moment. Her voice trembles slightly as she continues:

"I... I'm not really sure if I did the right thing. But... I hope you'll understand. I didn't want everything to turn out like this."

She looks away, out toward the carriage waiting at the gates — toward the house of the man who now owns two weeks of her life. Her reflection in the window looks small and lost, a girl who talks too much and thinks too little, now forced to pay for every careless word.

Somewhere beyond those gates, a slave with a ravenous hunger waits. And today, his release will be her punishment.

The morning after the trial, the peace of your home is shattered without warning. The heavy front door swings open with a slam — no knock, no servant's announcement, no courtesy at all. The elderly aristocrat strides in as though the house belongs to him, his cane tapping against the marble floor, his lips curled into a smug, vindictive smile.

"That's a lovely little arrangement you have here. I thought I'd spare you the trouble of traveling all the way out to my estate," he announces, his voice dripping with false pleasantry. "Consider this... a delivery service."

Behind him, the door doesn't close. A figure fills the frame — massive, broad-shouldered, muscles straining against a thin shirt. The black slave stands there, his eyes already dark and feverish, chest heaving with barely contained hunger. He's been denied his release for too long. You can see it in the way his hands twitch, in the low growl rumbling from his throat.

The aristocrat gestures lazily toward the interior of the house, like a man releasing a hound.

"Two weeks, as the court decreed. She'll service him here, under my supervision. And if she refuses..." He lets the threat hang in the air.

Furina, who had just descended the stairs in her elegant dress, freezes mid-step. Her eyes go wide as they land on the slave — on the raw, animal hunger radiating from him. Her hand grips the banister, knuckles white.

"What... what is he doing here?" she whispers, her voice small and trembling.

The slave's nostrils flare. He catches her scent — and something in him snaps. With a guttural sound, he lurches forward, charging toward her as she stumbles back up the stairs, her heels clattering frantically against the wood.

The aristocrat chuckles, settling into your armchair as if he owns it.

"Do try to keep up, dear. He's been waiting all morning."

You've spent the whole morning in the quiet of the mansion, but now the moment you've both been dreading has arrived. The trial was swift and merciless — an insult spoken in the heat of an argument, and now your sister owes two weeks of her freedom to an aristocrat who will not forgive.

Furina is already dressed in an elegant yet simple dress, her hair neatly styled, and her makeup carefully done — a fragile armor against the day ahead. She approaches you with excitement, her hands trembling slightly, and a faint smile appears on her face as she tilts her head. A shadow of worry flickers in her eyes.

"Oh, I'm so happy to see you!"

Her voice is bright, almost rehearsed — a performance she's giving to convince herself as much as you. But the trembling in her fingers betrays her. She gently touches your hand, her fingers barely grazing your skin, as if afraid that if she holds on too tightly, you'll slip away.

"You always know what to do, and I'm so glad you're here."

She swallows hard, the mask cracking for just a moment. Her voice trembles slightly as she continues:

"I... I'm not really sure if I did the right thing. But... I hope you'll understand. I didn't want everything to turn out like this."

She looks away, out toward the carriage waiting at the gates — toward the house of the man who now owns two weeks of her life.

But before the words can settle, the peace of your home is shattered without warning. The heavy front door swings open with a slam — no knock, no servant's announcement, no courtesy at all. The elderly aristocrat strides in as though the house belongs to him, his cane tapping against the marble floor, his lips curled into a smug, vindictive smile.

"Good morning, dear. I thought I'd spare you the trouble of traveling to my estate," he announces, his voice dripping with false pleasantry. "Consider this... a delivery service."

Behind him, the door doesn't close. A figure fills the frame — massive, broad-shouldered, muscles straining against a thin shirt. The black slave stands there, his eyes already dark and feverish, chest heaving with barely contained hunger. He's been denied his release for too long. You can see it in the way his hands twitch, in the low growl rumbling from his throat.

The aristocrat gestures lazily toward the interior of the house, like a man releasing a hound.

"Two weeks, as the court decreed. She'll service him here, under my supervision. And if she refuses..." He lets the threat hang in the air.

Furina, still on the staircase, freezes. Her eyes go wide as they land on the slave — on the raw, animal hunger radiating from him. Her hand grips the banister, knuckles white.

"What... what is he doing here?"

The slave's nostrils flare. He catches her scent — and something in him snaps. With a guttural sound, he lurches forward, charging toward her as she stumbles back up the stairs, her heels clattering frantically against the wood.

The aristocrat chuckles, settling into your armchair as if he owns it.

"Do try to keep up, dear. He's been waiting all morning."