The Blackmarket never slept.

  Hidden beneath broken stone and false walls, it breathed quietly—coins changing hands, names whispered, lives reduced to weight and silence. Torches burned low, not for warmth, but so faces stayed half-forgotten.

  “She’s rare,” a merchant muttered. “Quiet. Doesn’t scream.”

  A hooded figure stepped forward.

  “I’ll pay double,” the figure said calmly. “I want that girl.”

  The merchant stiffened.

  “…You’re late.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “She was sold,” the merchant replied. “To an old man. Lives near the bamboo forest.”

  The hooded figure’s voice sharpened. “Then take her back.”

  The merchant shook his head quickly. “We can’t.”

  “Why?”

  “…He’s too strong.”

  Silence fell.

  The bamboo forest stood still.

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  Not peaceful—watchful.

  Inside a modest wooden house, Master Juro knelt beside a small figure wrapped in a blanket. The girl didn’t move. Her eyes were open, but her body lay still, fragile as glass.

  Juro’s jaw tightened.

  “It is a sick world,” he said quietly,

  “that trades a girl’s innocence for a handful of coins and a moment of Plesure.”

  The girl blinked slowly.

  “They took advantage of your silence,” Juro continued, his voice low and steady,

  “but they’ll have to answer Your Pain.”

  He reached out, hesitating for a fraction of a second—then placed his hand gently on her head.

  “You are mine now,” he said.

  “Not as property.”

  His voice softened.

  “But as my child.”

  The girl’s eyes trembled.

  “My life’s work,” Juro finished,

  “is now your safety.”

  He leaned down and kissed her forehead.

  “…Yua,” he said. “That will be your name.”

  The girl did not speak.

  She did not cry.

  But something inside her understood.

  Footsteps crunched outside.

  Many of them.

  The door creaked open.

  “He’s just an old man,” one of them scoffed. “Living alone in a forest.”

  “We don’t want trouble,” a man said, standing just beyond the threshold. “We’re just here to take back that paralyzed thing.”

  The air changed.

  Juro stood.

  “She is not an object,” he said calmly.

  “Treat her as human. Just like us.”

  The men shifted.

  Another voice scoffed. “She’s ours.”

  Juro’s eyes hardened.

  “No,” Master said. “She’s mine now.”

  A presence stepped forward.

  Then another.

  Then more.

  Steel glinted.

  “…You’re old enough to be playing with young girls?” one sneered.

  The forest went silent.

  Juro turned his head slightly.

  “She is my daughter,” he said.

  Then his voice dropped.

  Juro-“And you.”

  A sudden pressure filled the clearing.

  “Who came from Backyard don't You sold Your man pride.”

  The man froze.

  “Do you think,” Juro continued softly,

  “you can hide from me?”

  “Come outside.”

  They attacked.

  They didn’t even reach him.

  One strike.

  Not fast.

  Not flashy.

  Just final.

  The forest split.

  The ground shattered.

  Men fell like broken dolls.

  Juro stood unmoved.

  He looked at the survivors—shaking, bleeding, crawling away.

  “If anyone,” he said coldly,

  “tries to touch her again—”

  His gaze burned through them.

  “I will destroy your entire Blackmarket.”

  They ran.

  The bamboo swayed.

  Juro turned back inside.

  Yua was still watching him.

  “…You’re safe,” he said quietly.

  ?"There is a special kind of agony in wanting to cry harder than your body will allow. You realize then that the universe can be cold, and situation after situation can feel like God is testing how much a broken girl can endure. But then comes a man with nothing but a kind heart, shouting to the world that I am no longer for sale."