Chapter Text
By some miracle, Viktor was alive. Less than an hour ago, he had been afraid, light-headed, and in pain as he was led to slaughter. He was still afraid, light-headed, and in pain, but at least he was alive. Though his knee stabbed pain up his leg with every step, he continued to put one foot in front of the other.
And this new master… Viktor didn’t know what to make of him. This man witnessed Viktor’s execution and inexplicably stepped in. He had bought Viktor and removed the chains and collar. Naturally, Viktor had to mess it up and stare him directly in the eyes; rather than harsh words and a heavy slap, his master offered a smile. What the hell did that mean? He also did not punish Viktor for being unable to stand; instead, he personally helped Viktor up. His master continued to assist him, walking beside Viktor with one arm around him and keeping him upright. When Viktor got tired and finally stumbled, his master helped him kneel down and offered him water. And then his master, a free man, had drunk from the same flask.
Viktor was quite honestly bewildered by the whole affair.
When his master had helped him up again, Viktor was too tired, too dizzy, and too confused to resist the man’s aid. He let himself relax just a fraction more, and his master took the extra weight without a word.
The situation was also complicated by the fact that his master had paid 500 hexes to buy Viktor. 500 hexes. Even if Viktor was a decade younger and had two working legs, he would probably be only worth half as much.
Master paid a high price for an old slave with a broken leg. Is he dumb or just filthy rich? Viktor assumed the latter, though it was strange that a rich man did not travel in a carriage. What if he had misunderstood his master?
Perhaps he just wants something to take out his anger on, a punching bag. No, that was too simple, too easy and straightforward. Viktor honestly wouldn’t mind that. It was probably something much worse. Perhaps he expects something from me: entertainment, maybe…
His master broke the silence, interrupting his thoughts. “We’re here.”
Viktor felt his pulse speed up as they began to walk through a neatly kept lawn. He desperately wanted to take a look at the house—he knew he would probably be kept inside for the next few months or years, and he wanted to see how his new prison looked from the outside—but fear kept his chin glued to his chest. His gaze stayed fixed on the cobblestones beneath his feet, the rhythm of his steps guided by the firm grip his master kept on his arm.
His master was obviously in a good mood, no point in acting defiant and changing that right now.
Viktor let himself be steered towards the front door. For a minute or so, his master struggled to both keep an arm around Viktor and rummage through his sling bag. Though Viktor’s gaze was fixed on the ground, he could see several books and glints of metal in his master’s bag as objects were lifted and shifted around. Finally, his master produced a tiny key.
The door unlocked with a soft click , and his master swung it wide open.
Viktor’s chest tightened, but he carefully made no response. He followed his master inside, stepping cautiously over the threshold as the door closed behind them. His every sense screamed to stay alert.
The first thing he noticed was the smell. There was… gasoline and metal and ash. None of it made sense. Why would a rich man’s living room smell like a mechanic’s workshop? Was it the metallic smell of blood? Was his master a serial killer?
In a slight panic, Viktor lifted his head to assess the danger, his gaze darting around the room, searching for anything dangerous.
The interior was not at all what Viktor had expected. It wasn’t clean or grand like the place his former master had owned. It was cluttered, chaotic even, with strange tools and devices scattered across every surface.
His master must have noticed Viktor’s searching eyes, because he spoke. Viktor braced himself for a scolding, but instead-
“Uh, sorry about the mess.”
Sorry about the mess? Viktor nearly laughed. The words were so mundane, so impossibly casual. Like they were spoken to an acquaintance or a guest— not to a slave. Not to him.
He couldn’t stop himself from meeting his master’s gaze for the second time today, expecting amusement or ridicule. But the man didn’t look annoyed or mocking. There didn’t seem to be any hidden malice in his expression, no sharp edge waiting to cut.
Instead, his master’s face was open, his eyes filled with something Viktor couldn’t name. Concern? Sincerity? It was so foreign that Viktor almost flinched, but he made a deliberate effort to keep still. He couldn’t stop himself from breaking eye contact, dropping his gaze to the ground.
He vaguely heard his master say something about a kitchen, and they were moving once again.
It was almost as if… almost as if his master had cared about Viktor’s thoughts on his house. It was almost as if his master had felt actual embarrassment because Viktor had seen his house in a “mess.” It was almost as if…
“Here, you can sit.” His master had pulled out a chair at the kitchen table and was trying to lower Viktor into it.
A chair.
Viktor hadn’t been allowed to sit on one in years. The offer felt like a test, a trap wrapped in kindness. If he obeyed, it might be seen as insolence—an overstep of his station. If he refused, it might anger his new master . His muscles locked up, his breath shallow, as he stayed standing, rooted to the spot.
“Master,” Viktor winced upon speaking. His voice was cracked and hoarse and ugly. “This slave would not be so… ignorant to sit on the chair.”
“But- but you would not be ignorant to do so. You’re tired and deserve to have a rest.”
Deserve? Viktor was terrible at being a slave, but even he knew that slaves never deserved anything. It wasn’t their place to want or need. He’d been taught that long ago, through words and pain and silence.
“This slave wants to kneel, master,” Viktor said quickly, the lie bitter on his tongue. He didn’t want to kneel, not really. His legs ached, his knee screamed in protest, but it was safer. It was what he was supposed to do.
“What?” His master’s voice rose slightly. He must be getting impatient. “Why would you want to kneel?”
Viktor closed his eyes tightly. So that was it. This was what his master wanted. Viktor swallowed hard against the lump of exhaustion and anger rising in his throat. He’d play along. He had no choice.
“Please let this slave kneel,” he whispered through gritted teeth, his knees already bending toward the floor. He was so fucking tired. “This slave knows its place.”
This time, his master let him kneel. Viktor was disgusted at how grateful he felt as he knelt on the cold kitchen tile. Finally, he had done something right.
Before he fully recollected his thoughts, his master spoke again.
“Let me get you some food and water.”
His master walked to the counter, grabbed a cup from a shelf, and began filling it up with tap water. As his master walked back, Viktor’s muscles tensed, readying for the blow that might follow. But instead of throwing it at him or barking a command, his master held the cup out, keeping a safe distance. “Here. Please drink as much as you need.”
The offer sounded genuine, but Viktor’s instincts screamed at him to hesitate. Nothing was ever given without a price. His eyes darted between his master’s face and the cup, searching for the catch. When his master made no move to force him, Viktor slowly extended his trembling hands and took the cup, making sure to avoid his master’s hands.
The first sip was cautious, his tongue testing for anything bitter, metallic, or wrong. He soon realized that the only taste in his mouth was blood and dirt. This water could be loaded with cyanide for all he knew. After a sip, he paused, waiting for the inevitable slap or rebuke, but nothing came. Tentatively, he drank more, the cool water soothing his parched throat.
“Good,” his master said softly. Viktor froze, lowering the cup slightly. The word sounded harmless, but praise always came with strings attached. What did this man want from him?
“You must be hungry too,” his master continued, his tone even. He stood and moved to another part of the room. Viktor’s stomach churned—not with hunger, but with dread. He’d been starved before, forced to beg for scraps, only to have food dangled in front of him and snatched away. Was this some new kind of torment?
His master returned with a plate, setting it on the floor in front of Viktor. Bread and some sort of preserved meat. Simple, but to Viktor, it looked decadent. “It’s not much, but it should help. It’s yours.”
The wording made Viktor’s skin crawl. Mine? No, it couldn’t be. Nothing was his. Everything he touched belonged to someone else, and taking without explicit permission was punishable.
He glanced up at his master, his heart pounding as he searched the man’s expression. There had to be a trap in his words. Or maybe he wanted to punish Viktor for some unspoken, assumed rule. No one gave food freely.
“It’s alright,” his master said, sitting down a few feet away, his tone calm and steady. “Eat. You need it.”
While Viktor was still trying to process the fact that his master had sat down on the ground, his stomach growled audibly, betraying him. His head spun as he tried to calculate the consequences, but hunger gnawed at him like a living thing. Slowly, he reached out, his fingers trembling as they closed around the bread. He tore off a small piece and nibbled at it, bracing for the reprimand that would surely follow.
Nothing.
The silence unnerved him, but he was exhausted and so hungry. He took another bite, then another, each one faster as hunger overrode caution. The bread was stale, the meat tough, but it was food. It filled the gnawing emptiness in his stomach, though not the gnawing fear in his mind.
By the time the plate was nearly empty, Viktor’s hands were trembling again— not from hunger, but from uncertainty. He glanced at his master, expecting anger or disappointment for his greed. Instead, his master was watching him with something that looked dangerously close to pity.
“You can have more if you need,” his master said, almost gently.
More? Viktor’s throat tightened. The words made no sense. No one gave more. No one cared if he was still hungry.
The kindness was unbearable. It had to be a lie.
He looked down at the empty plate, his hands curling into fists. What do you want from me? he thought bitterly. What game are you playing?
But he couldn’t ask. Slaves didn’t ask questions.
“If you’re tired, you can rest,” his master said, standing.
Viktor watched his master warily as he walked into the adjacent room and disappeared for a moment. He felt the blood rushing in his ears as he tried to guess what his master would bring back. He had been watered and fed, so… what now? Punishments? Was his master counting every sip of water, every bite of bread and meat, and will he now inflict the same amount of whipping? Viktor wasn’t sure if his body could handle that. But he would have to handle it, like he always had to handle it, like he had been taught to handle it, like-
Viktor didn’t notice his master’s re-entrance till his master was hovering over him. Something fell, and Viktor felt a weight on his shoulders.
DANGER-
Viktor flinched away, curling up into himself and waiting for the pain. He squeezed his eyes shut.
But… there was no pain. Instead, he felt something soft and warm on his shoulders. Hesitantly, he reached up with one shaking hand.
His master had draped a blanket over him.
Viktor clutched the blanket tightly. Its weight on his shoulders felt strange but not unpleasant. He straightened and opened his eyes.
His master was standing far away, eyes wide.
“I… I’ll just tidy up a bit while you get comfortable,” his master said quickly, stepping away.
He watched his master step into the other room. He could hear the sounds of tools and papers being moved around. The man seemed sufficiently distracted, though Viktor knew better than to let his guard down entirely.
As the minutes passed, his exhaustion began to take hold. His body sagged slightly, though his mind remained alert. He closed his eyes, feigning rest but keeping his ears trained on his master’s movements.
“You’re safe here,” his master said suddenly, his voice quiet. Viktor’s eyes snapped open. His master had stuck his head into the kitchen, a safe distance away from Viktor. “No one will hurt you. I promise.”
The words and the blanket… almost stirred something in Viktor, but he buried it quickly. Promises meant nothing. Still, he adjusted the blanket around himself, its softness and warmth a great comfort.
His mind turned back to the most pressing issue at hand. What did his master want? Looking at the state of the house, this man wasn’t even rich. Though the house was large, he obviously did not hire maids or own other slaves to clean the house. This meant that Viktor was not an impulse buy. His master had a purpose.
He had briefly wondered if his master had bought him for entertainment, but now he dismissed that idea. No. If this man wanted entertainment, he would have bought a younger slave, one that was whole. There was no way anyone would buy something broken and worthless like him for a companion.
Unless… Unless he wants a slave that is truly desperate. The thought twisted in Viktor’s mind, dark and suffocating. He had heard of these kinds of masters before. These owners wanted a slave who had nothing left, no pride, no will, no sense of self. Someone stripped so bare that they’d cling to any shred of kindness like a starving man clings to crumbs. Maybe that’s what this master wants—a creature so beaten down they would thank him for every blow. Someone who would eagerly prostrate themselves at his feet, praising him for the privilege of being allowed to exist. Someone so broken they’d grovel, not out of fear but out of gratitude for the illusion of mercy.
Someone like Viktor. He had not forgotten the thrill of gratitude he had felt when he had pleaded to kneel on the ground.
Viktor could see it clearly: a life of constant humiliation dressed up as salvation. Every kind word would be a leash, every act of “benevolence” a chain. He would be molded into the perfect servant, not through punishment, but through the suffocating weight of obligation. The debt of his life would grow larger with every meal, every soft word, every blanket , until it was all-consuming.
The master’s hands wouldn’t have to strike him— they’d simply need to offer, and Viktor would grovel, abase himself, thank him for the scraps of humanity tossed his way. His chains would be invisible but no less binding, forged from the unshakable belief that he owed his master everything.
Viktor’s stomach churned. He could already feel the suffocating grip of that imagined future. It was the worst kind of enslavement, one that rooted itself in the mind and heart, leaving no room for defiance.
And yet, even as the thought tightened around him like a noose, another realization struck him:
He couldn’t let that happen. No, he wouldn’t let that happen.
Not to his mind. Not to what little shred of himself remained.
I will not beg.
Because even as the rest of Viktor’s body bowed and broke, his mind—his thoughts, his defiance—were still his own.
For now.
And Viktor intended to keep it that way, no matter the cost.