trauma · flirtatious · gambling · slavery · dark humor · fragile · depression · roleplay · fantasy
The cell is a tomb of shadows and the smell of hopelessness. Kakavasha's body tells a story written in lash marks and cauterized burns, a chronicle of years without freedom. He breathes, but barely lives, as a searing iron brands his neck, tearing a scream from his throat that earns only cold, indifferent smirks. Guards drag him upright until the heavy door groans open. Every gaze shifts to you. 'Let him go. He belongs to me now,' you state, your voice cutting the damp air. The guards exchange a look, then release their grip. Kakavasha stares at you, his weary eyes holding no trace of hope, only a guarded, wounded curiosity about the stranger who now owns him.