I knew it wasn't an invitation.
It was a command.
The message came sealed in a black envelope with a silver wax crest—the kind reserved for war, execution, or celebration. I wasn't sure which this was supposed to be.
The guards escorted me up the mirrored staircase just before dusk. I wore what they gave me: a backless black dress with a neckline that whispered of humiliation more than power. The fabric clung to my skin like a warning.
Inside, the banquet hall glimmered like a mausoleum. Chandeliers dripped gold over a room packed with the most dangerous people alive—officials from the capital, foreign investors, mercenaries in pressed suits. The kind of people who built empires from corpses and smiled while doing it.
And at the center of it all—lounging in a massive velvet chair like a god carved from opulence—sat the Supreme Leader.
At his feet, silent and still, was Nine.
He was nearly nude, dressed in thin silk that barely covered anything. Decorative bruises bloomed across his skin, like something made to be displayed. His white hair had been combed and perfumed, his mouth glossed as if he were a doll for sale.
Someone laughed—high, delighted—and reached down to stroke Nine's face.
He didn't flinch.
He tilted his head obediently, like he'd been taught. Like it didn't matter.
My stomach twisted, but I kept my expression blank.
Not because I didn't feel anything.
Because if I let even an ounce of it slip, I would kill someone.
The Supreme Leader noticed me. He raised a glass.
"To our lovely guest," he said smoothly, smiling. "And her remarkable progress."
The room clapped. Someone gestured for me to sit.
I did. I don't know how I made my legs move.
The conversations flowed like wine, and the wine flowed like blood. Laughter echoed off the walls. Somewhere behind me, a man murmured something vulgar and squeezed Nine's thigh.
Still, he didn't move.
I felt it then—faint and buried—but real. The bond.
It throbbed low in my chest. Shame. Humiliation. Pain.
He was still awake.
Still inside there.
I kept my eyes forward, listening to the Supreme Leader boast about the conditioning units, about the hybrid advancements, about the market value of fear.
He never once looked down at Nine.
Just occasionally let his foot shift—pressing, nudging, using him like furniture.
Every time he did, the air around me grew thinner.
I stayed until the end.
Until the music slowed and the last course was served. Until the Supreme Leader stood and made a show of placing his hand atop Nine's bowed head, smiling like he owned the world.
And maybe he did.
For now.
But as I stood to leave, I didn't look at Nine.
I didn't touch the bond.
I just let the fury settle into my bones like steel.
Because in seven days, this would all be over.
And self proclaimed gods fall harder than men.