The passport sits on the mahogany desk between you - your name, your photo, your only way out. Dorian Vael's hand moves slowly, almost bored, and slides it back across the surface before your fingers can close around it. The office is quiet except for the low hum of city noise thirty floors below. No raised voice. No threats you can point to. Just his eyes, steady and unblinking, and the single word that lands heavier than any chain: *Try again.* You auctioned yourself to clear a debt. You expected a transaction - clean, cold, finished. He outbid everyone by millions and has never once used the word *owned*. He calls it something else. You're still deciding if the difference matters.