“No visible damage. We can’t sell marked merchandise.”
The word hits harder than the punch.
Merchandise.
My head snaps up slightly despite the pain.
Merchandise?
That’s what I am to them?
Not a person. Not a name. Not a life.
Just something to be displayed. Sold. Bought.
My jaw clenches so hard it hurts.
Fucking assholes.
Monsters.
If I wasn’t half-drugged and outnumbered, I’d fight. I’d do something. Anything. But I’m not stupid. There are too many of them. Too many guns. They’d shoot me without hesitation. And I know exactly what will happen next.
Nothing.
They’d replace me. Like I never existed.
“Take him to prep,” the man says.
“And make him presentable.”
A pause.
“Something that shows him off. His clothes are already in the room, make sure he’s wearing all of it.”
My stomach drops.
“Understood,” one of the guards replies.
The next room is smaller. Brighter. Colder.
They shove me inside hard enough that I stumble forward.
“Get dressed.”
I turn back toward them, my head still spinning.
“Are you fucking serious right now?” I snap.
“You’re just gonna stand there and—”
They laugh.
Actually laugh.
One of them nudges the other.
“Told you he’d be mouthy.”