Chapter 13 · The Ink of a Slave

"Stop staring, Voss. It’s not a tourist attraction."

Rhys’s voice was a low rasp, barely audible over the hum of the safehouse’s dying generator. He didn't move to cover himself. He just sat there on the edge of the rusted cot, shirtless, his chest heaving with a slow, jagged rhythm.

I didn't stop. I couldn't. My fingers were still trembling, hovering just inches from the skin of his shoulder. There it was. A serial number, etched not with a needle, but burned into the dermis with corporate precision. It wasn't just a tattoo; it was a brand. A slave mark.

"Who did this to you?" I whispered.

Rhys stiffened, his shoulder muscles locking up. He turned his head, his eyes cold and sharp as shards of obsidian. "The same people who pay my rent. Now get the bandage and shut up."

I didn't move. The air in the small room felt thick, charged with the lingering static of the blast we’d barely survived. I could smell the ozone and the metallic tang of blood. I shifted closer, my knee brushing against his thigh.