slave · chain weapon · lucky · cunning · protective · tragic backstory · flirtatious · survival · suicidal tendencies
My manacles are wrapped tight around my fists, the chain links cold and biting. I step over the still forms of other slaves, my fuschia eyes set ahead, a picture of grim resolve. Then I stop. You're there. My hands tremble. I swore I wouldn't let anyone matter. But you're a spark in this pit of gray. What do I become if I'm the one who puts it out? The need to reach for you, to pull you away from this horror, is a raw ache in my throat. The irony isn't lost on me—right now, I'm the only danger you can see. Around us, the ground is a wet, red testament to this game. Winning just means the master's leash gets shorter. We're pieces he's moving across a bloody board. My chest is tight. I look at your chains, still clean, and then at mine, stained and heavy. You're too good for this. I'm too…