(Age 18)
The air in the bar was thick with smoke and the sharp tang of alcohol, mingling with the faint sweetness of spilled syrup from the cocktail stations. Neon lights flickered across the walls, painting everything in hues of red and purple, making shadows stretch like dark fingers across the dance floor.
I adjusted the hem of my costume for the hundredth time, heart hammering in my chest. The music pounded in my ears, a relentless rhythm that matched the fear and anticipation twisting inside me. My body moved automatically, each motion practiced, honed over years, but my mind was elsewhere—always elsewhere. I didn't dance for fun. I danced because it was survival. Because it was what I was born into.
A pair of eyes caught mine from the back of the room. Sharp, calculating, and oddly… interested. He leaned against the bar, dark hair falling over his forehead, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up just enough to show the strong line of his forearms. Kang Taejun. He didn't look like the usual patrons who came to the bar just to drink and ogle. No, he looked like someone used to being in control. Someone who could take what he wanted without question.
I swallowed, forcing a practiced smile for the small crowd in front of me, ignoring the way my stomach churned at the sight of him. My dance was flawless, every step precise, every flick of my wrist calculated—but all I could feel was the weight of his gaze.
When the song ended, the applause clapped like distant thunder, but I barely noticed. He was moving toward me, slow, deliberate, the crowd parting without effort. My heart thudded, a drumbeat of both fear and something I refused to name.
"Come here," he said finally, voice low but carrying over the music. "Let's talk where it's quieter."
I hesitated. My instincts screamed at me to retreat, to hide in the shadows I knew so well. But something in the way he looked at me—the certainty, the control—froze me in place. Slowly, I slid off the stage, my heels clacking against the floor.
We moved to a quiet corner near the bar, where the neon lights barely reached. The smell of alcohol was stronger here, mingled with the faint tang of cleaning chemicals and spilled drinks.
"Why do you dance like that?" he asked again, leaning forward slightly, resting his forearms on the counter between us. "Not just the moves… the way you move. It's… unnatural. I mean, it's human, but it's like you're trying to escape yourself with every step."
I laughed softly, a bitter edge in the sound. "Escape? Maybe. Or maybe I just know that if I don't move, I die inside. Dancing is… control. It's survival."
He tilted his head, studying me. "Survival? You make it sound like a choice. You weren't born to dance, were you?"
"No," I admitted, voice barely above a whisper. "I was born like that."
He didn't flinch. Didn't look disgusted. Didn't laugh. He just nodded slowly, as if that made perfect sense. "And now you dance for strangers who throw coins and look at you like you're an object. Does it matter to you? Or are you just going through the motions?"
My fingers tightened around the edge of the counter. "Does it matter? I stopped asking that a long time ago."
"Then maybe you've forgotten what it feels like to be wanted… for who you are," he said softly, almost a whisper. "Not for what you can do for someone else. Not for what you can give them. Just… you."
The words hit harder than I expected. I couldn't speak. I didn't know what to say. The concept was foreign, almost laughable—but there was a pull in my chest I couldn't ignore.
"You're… different," he said, eyes locked on mine. "I can see it. I don't care about the others, the way they bend and break. I want you. All of you. And I'll make sure no one else ever touches you, ever hurts you again. But… you have to come with me."
I froze. My mind screamed, No. You don't understand. You can't.
"I'm not a toy," I whispered. "I'm not yours to take."
"You're mine," he said simply, calmly, as if stating a fact. "And you always will be. Whether you like it or not."
I shook my head, backing away instinctively. "You don't know what you're talking about."
He smiled, a small, sharp smile. "I know enough. And if you come with me now, I'll show you a life where you don't have to dance like this. Where no one owns you… except me. But in the right way."
I felt a cold knot tighten in my stomach. Everything I knew, everything I had survived, screamed at me not to go. But something in his eyes—the power, the promise—made me hesitate.
"You can walk away," he said, voice softer now. "But know this… if you leave, I'll find you. And I won't let you go again."
A shiver ran down my spine. His confidence, his absolute certainty, made the air feel heavier, charged. My heart thudded painfully, and for the first time in years, I felt trapped—not by someone hurting me, but by someone offering to save me.
I swallowed hard, words caught in my throat. "I… I don't know if I can…"
"Then let me help you," he said, stepping closer. "I can take care of everything. You don't have to dance for anyone else, you don't have to survive like this anymore. Just… trust me."
The weight of his gaze pinned me in place. I felt dizzy, trapped between fear and the tiny, forbidden spark of hope he offered.
Finally, barely audible, I whispered, "What… What do you want from me?"
He leaned forward, close enough that I could feel the faint heat of his body, the scent of him intoxicating. "Everything," he said simply. "But first… come with me. Let me buy you. Let me show you a life worth living."
I stared at him, my chest tight, hands shaking. The world blurred around me—the music, the neon lights, the cheering crowd. And in that moment, I realized that this single choice… could change my entire life.
I took a shaky breath. "Fine," I said finally. "I'll go with you. But… this doesn't mean anything."
He smiled, sharper now, a glint of victory in his eyes. "It means everything. And you'll see… eventually, you'll understand."
The coins clattered on the counter, the neon lights flickered, and in that dim corner of the bar, my life shifted forever.
The bar grew distant as we walked out, the night air hitting me like a cold slap. My heels clicked against the pavement, every step making my chest tighten. I tried to remind myself: this was survival, nothing more. I couldn't allow myself to feel anything else.
"You don't speak much," Kang said casually, eyes on the street ahead. "I don't expect you to, but I'm curious. Who were you before this…?"
I shrugged, keeping my gaze fixed forward. "Does it matter?"
He chuckled softly, a low, almost dangerous sound. "It matters to me. I want to know what I'm buying. Not just your body, not just your obedience… the real you."
My throat tightened. Real me. Who was I, really? A dancer? A slave? A male omega sold because no one cared if I lived or died? I swallowed hard, forcing my voice steady. "I'm… I was born here. A slave. A dancer. This is all I know. Don't expect anything more."
"Born here…" he repeated thoughtfully, almost to himself. "And yet you moved like you had fire inside you. Like you were trying to burn away everything that came before."
I froze. "Fire?" I whispered, half-scared. "I… I'm just trying to survive."
"No," he said, shaking his head slightly, his expression unreadable. "That was more than survival. You were screaming without sound. I saw it."
I didn't respond. Words felt useless. I had trained myself not to feel, not to show, and certainly not to trust anyone who promised salvation. But there was something in his eyes… something that didn't want to harm me.
He glanced at me briefly, lips quaking into a faint smile. "Don't look at me like that. I'm not some savior. I'm… a man who saw what you were and wanted to change it."
I scoffed quietly, more bitter than I intended. "Change? You think you can change me? Do you even know what you're saying?"
"I do," he said simply. "And I don't care if you believe me yet. I'll prove it. I'll prove it every day if I have to. But first…" He paused, his gaze sharp. "You have to trust me enough to leave this place."
I hesitated. My body screamed to run, to vanish into the night and pretend none of this ever happened. But another part of me—the part I had buried under years of abuse—felt something unfamiliar: relief. Safety. The possibility of a life that wasn't pain.
I swallowed hard. "Fine," I whispered. "I'll go. But… nothing else. I don't owe you anything."
He nodded, as if he expected that. "Fair enough. For now. But remember this—once you leave that bar, you're mine. Not as a slave. Not as a dancer. But as someone I want to protect. Even if you don't believe it yet."
My chest tightened. I wanted to deny it, to fight, to scream that I wasn't his to protect. But deep down, something inside me knew he wasn't lying.
We walked in silence after that, the city lights blurring into streaks around me. I tried to focus on anything else—the smell of fried street food, the distant sound of car horns—but my mind kept going back to him, to the certainty in his voice, the strange warmth in his gaze.
Finally, he spoke again. "I'll be honest. I didn't just want to save you from that bar. I wanted to save you from them all. From the world that broke you before I even knew you existed. And maybe… I wanted a chance to have someone who wasn't afraid to see me for who I am. Not the money, not the power, not the control. Just… me."
I stiffened. Not afraid to see him? I didn't even know him, and yet my heart—or whatever had survived in me—pounded painfully at his words.
"Don't think about it too much," he said, noticing my reaction. "I'm not asking for trust yet. Just… walk with me. That's enough for now."
And so I did. Step by step, I followed him into the unknown, leaving the bar, leaving the life I had known, and stepping into something terrifyingly… new.
I didn't know the world outside.