Violet

not one man. not two. five. six. more. what if they held inho down in his bunk while the lights were off and the walls did nothing to muffle the sound. what if inho fought the first time and got his ribs kicked in for it.

what if the guards stood there and watched. what if they laughed. what if they angled the cameras just right so the vips could have a better view later. what if inho started to disassociate so hard that he bit clean through his lip and didn’t even notice. what if someone held his arms. someone else held his legs. what if they took turns. what if he bled throughout all the games after putting him at a disadvantage.

what if inho tried to report it. tried to beg for help. and the staff just stared back through their black glass masks and said nothing.

and il-nam knew. of course he did.

because the vips were already asking about him. already watching the footage on repeat, sipping champagne while his body was passed from man to man like an object.

so when il-nam offered him that knife, it wasn’t salvation. it was conditioning: kill them, or let them keep using you. slit their throats, or lie back down.

and when inho took the mask, when he became the front man, that was the moment he stopped being human. not to them. he was property. something branded. owned. he was given a title, but he was never safe again. not really. because every time inho heard footsteps outside his door, he flinched. every time the vips returned, he knew they might request him.