Humans once imagined the future as a world filled with robots, artificial intelligence, and flying vehicles. They believed progress would keep moving forward, carrying civilization toward something higher and more civilized. No one imagined that the future would instead become a repetition of the most shameful parts of the past.
I once read about the enslavement of Black people in the seventeenth century, when 1619 became one of the early markers of large-scale human trafficking. Back then, people were sold, bought, treated as objects, and protected by laws that called crimes "tradition." I thought that story had been buried along with history's shame. It hadn't. It was only waiting for the right time to be born again, with a neater face and more modern justifications.
In this world, slaves have no right to education. We are not allowed to read, not allowed to write, not allowed to count. Knowledge is considered dangerous if it falls into the wrong hands, and the wrong hands, according to them, are always ours. So I learned by stealing. Not stealing objects, but stealing sounds and meanings. Every afternoon, when the Gordon children studied with their private tutor in the study room, I cleaned the nearby corridors. I wiped the floors longer than necessary, slowed my steps, held my breath so I could listen. Letter by letter I caught from the air, word by word I planted in my mind. I didn't know how to write them, but I knew how to read them inside my thoughts.
I began to recognize the shapes of letters from the blackboard, from open books on desks, from notes that had fallen and been forgotten. I arranged them like a puzzle without instructions. Make a mistake, repeat. Make another mistake, repeat. No one taught me. No one corrected me. There was only survival instinct and a hunger for something more than working until death.
The truth was exposed when I was fifteen. I found an old novel hidden in the storage room: Frankenstein by Mary Shelley. I didn't know what it was about. I only knew I had to read it. I sat on the cold floor, opened the first page with trembling hands, forcing my brain to turn letters into meaning. I was too absorbed to notice someone standing behind me. Gordon's youngest child was there, staring at me as if seeing an animal suddenly speak.
"You can read?" he asked softly. Not in wonder, but in threat.
I didn't answer. I couldn't and I didn't dare. My silence was enough of a confession. I was punished with ten lashes by Felix. From that moment, I understood that my knowledge was not a blessing. It was a crime in their eyes. But I didn't stop. If they wanted me to stay stupid so I would be easy to control, then reading was my first act of rebellion.
In the year 2187, the world did not collapse because of a great war or a global pandemic. The world collapsed because technology died. Energy ran out, systems failed, and humanity stopped moving forward. They did not rebuild civilization, they chose the easier path—they repeated.
The rich regained absolute power. The poor became commodities again. Slavery was no longer based on race, but on status. Anyone who had nothing could become the property of someone who had everything. Children were sold by their parents to survive. The homeless were captured and legalized as labor. Freedom was no longer a right, but a product that only the wealthy could afford.
The government called it a bonded labor system. They created freedom papers, a single sheet that decided whether someone was a free human or legal property. The law existed not to protect the weak, but to comfort the powerful.
I was born as the property of the Valemont family, one of the wealthiest families living in the southern district, an area surrounded by high walls, gardens, and armed security. There, the air was always clean, the streets always quiet, and suffering was never visible except in the form of servants who bowed their heads.
Under the law of 2187, buying a slave meant buying their entire bloodline. Children, grandchildren, and all future generations automatically became the property of that family. No new contract was required. No additional signature was needed. Blood was proof enough of ownership. Freedom could only occur if the owning family voluntarily issued a letter of emancipation. An act considered foolish, unprofitable, and almost never done by any wealthy family. Freedom, to the rich, was a waste of assets.
My mother was a kitchen slave. I was born in the back room of that mansion, without a birth record, without a name, without the status of a free human being. I was only an extra item in their inventory. A living object that would one day be used, moved, or destroyed as needed.
I was only seven years old when they decided my body was useful enough. Because I was small and light, I was assigned to clean the chimneys. There was no safety equipment. No question of whether I was capable. There were only orders, and the assumption that if I fell or died, they could simply buy another replacement from the market.
I remember the darkness inside. Black dust filled my lungs and my hands bled from the rough stone walls. I coughed until my vision blurred, but I kept climbing because stopping meant punishment.
I never understood why not a single human being was brave enough to stop it, or at least scream. Just one scream. One small act of refusal when the whip touched a slave's back for a mistake that did not even deserve to be called a sin.
I remember my first punishment. I was nine years old. Felix, the head guard of the Valemont family, was responsible for making sure every slave worked eighteen hours a day without exception. He was large, his face always blank, as if hurting humans were just another office job.
My mistake was simple.
I played with their dog.
The dog was clean, fed fresh meat, slept in warmth, and was called by a name. I sat on the floor, giggling softly as it licked my hand. For a moment, I forgot that I was property. For a moment, I felt like an ordinary child. And the world punished me for it.
The first lash made my legs collapse, the second shattered my breath and the third made me stop crying because my body was too busy trying to survive.
I did not scream, not because I was strong, but because I understood my voice meant nothing.
Felix said coldly, "Do not compare yourself to Master's animal."
That sentence hurt more than the whip. Because in that moment, I understood. Even a dog had more value than me. It was property to be protected. I was property that could be replaced. They called us human, but treated us lower than beasts.
My mother, Maria. PoorMaria. She was the only slave in that house who had a name. A gift from Gordon, of course. At the time, I did not know who had made her pregnant. No one cared. In our world, origins only mattered for the free. For slaves, the body was a tool, and the womb was merely an extension of ownership.
She should have known. She must have known. That the child born from her body would never be free. That her blood would be inherited together with the chains of slavery. She should have ended the pregnancy. I know that sounds cruel. But in this world, giving birth to another slave is an even greater cruelty.
Yet she didn't.
She chose to give birth to me and with that choice, she passed on a life I never asked for.
I rarely spoke to her. We lived under the same roof, worked for the same Master, suffered under the same system, yet the distance between us felt like an abyss. I called her Maria, not Mother. That word was too warm for a relationship that had never known warmth.
She never once said she loved me. Never held me, never apologized for bringing me into this hell. Her attitude was cold and flat, as if I were just another slave in that house. Not a daughter born from her body, not someone who should be protected. Just a coworker in the same slavery.
I didn't even have a name until the age of twenty-seven, I was never addressed as a human being.
They only called me Slave like the others. A name was a luxury, and I was too poor to own one.
My Master was Gordon Valemont, and his wife was Victoria. They had three sons, all raised with the same arrogance as their father. I never called them brothers, because blood without acknowledgment has never meant anything.
I learned Gordon was my biological father when I was eighteen. Not through confession, not through regret. But through violence. One of his sons hit me because my face was said to resemble young Gordon too much. An old servant, shaking with fear, pulled me away and whispered that the resemblance was not an accident. She said my mother had been summoned to Gordon's room years ago, not as a kitchen slave, but as a woman. There was no love in it. No choice. Only power disguised as will. From that day, I understood why Victoria looked at me like a walking stain.
Gordon raped my mother. Or maybe this world is too rotten to even separate rape from routine. I don't care about the terminology. The result is the same. I am a bastard. A slave born from a slave. Twice disgraced. I am not just property, I am proof of a sin they never wanted to acknowledge.
Victoria knew, and she never hid her hatred. Not only toward me, but toward Maria. That hatred eventually became a decision. When I was fifteen, Victoria killed Maria. She poisoned her and admitted it herself when Maria's body was found in a pile of trash, no one knowing who had dumped it there. But there was no trial. No investigation. A slave dying in a rich household is not a tragedy. Just a small loss in asset records.
Gordon was angry. But not because he lost a woman he once touched. He was angry because his property was damaged. Because his asset count decreased. After that, Gordon and Victoria slept in separate rooms. Not out of guilt, but because of a cold war of interests. Their children hated me even more. I was living proof that their father was not as pure as they liked to believe.
I never meant anything to Gordon. Blood did not make me special. Status still made me trash.
And that afternoon, he ordered me to dig Maria's grave.
My mother.
And I refused.
That was the only word that left my mouth.
No.
Gordon's face hardened. He did not strike me. He only looked at Felix and that was enough. The whip came down without warning. My back split open, my knees collapsed, my breath shattered. Gordon did not stop it. He only waited until my body could move again.
In the end, I dug that grave with trembling hands, blood on my back, and hatred that had finally found its shape.
Gordon Valemont is my biological father. But he never was, and never will be, my father.
And there is one memory I always want to erase, yet it returns the most.
When I was twenty-one, Julian, Gordon's third son, called me to the back room. He was close to my age. The way he looked at me was not the look of a man who desired a woman. It was the look of someone making sure my position would never change.
What he did was not driven by lust, it was punishment.
A reminder that I had no body, no will, and no dignity in that house.
I did not cry, and I did not fight. Not because I accepted it, but because resistance has never meant anything to people whose lives are built on injustice.
From that day on, my status in Julian's eyes changed. I was no longer just a family slave. I became his "personal servant." He called me on cold nights only to assert his power, only to remind me that in his eyes, I had never been human.He knew we came from the same father. He knew our blood should have created a boundary. And that was exactly what gave him the greatest satisfaction. To him, destroying the last scraps of my dignity was proof that he stood at the top, and I would always remain below.
I do not call it pain.
I call it the moment my soul stopped hoping.
I became someone who saved hatred, piece by piece, for the day their world finally collapsed.
I am twenty-six now. In two days, I will turn twenty-seven.
I stand inside Julian's room, staring at my completely naked reflection in the tall mirror framed with gold. The image shows a body still intact in form, but ruined in meaning. Faint scars on my skin, bruises not yet fully faded, and eyes far too old for someone who was never allowed to live as a human.
Julian is asleep on his bed. His light brown hair is neat even in sleep, his face calm, as if he has never been the source of terror for anyone. His breathing is steady, one arm lazily resting on the white sheets, like someone who has just finished an ordinary routine. He looks peaceful. Far too peaceful for someone who destroys lives so easily.
I glance at him.
I still can't believe that he is my brother.
The sentence feels filthy in my mind. What kind of world allows this and still dares to call itself civilized.
I look back at the mirror. The reflection shows a grown woman. Sharp facial structure, piercing eyes, a body that should be able to stand with pride if it were not chained by status. I know I am beautiful. I know that if I were free, maybe I could have been a soap opera actress, or a singer, or just an ordinary woman living from her talent instead of her suffering. The thought makes me wince. Not because it is impossible, but because it is so distant from the world where I stand.
I reach for my clothes and put them back on with calm movements, like someone who has repeated this process so many times that no emotion remains. I walk to the door, grip the handle, ready to return to the small room that is called mine.
Just as the door is about to open, Julian speaks.
"Slave."
I stop, but I do not turn around.
"Come with me tomorrow."
I stay silent.
"I'll give you a birthday present."
I finally turn slowly.
"A present?" My voice is flat. No hope. No interest.
Julian opens his eyes halfway, a small smile forming. "You've never had a gift before. Consider this special."
"Special according to who?"
"According to me."
I look at him for a long moment. "I didn't ask for anything."
"That's what makes it interesting," he replies casually. "You never ask, yet you always come."
"I come because I'm forced."
"Force and obligation aren't very different in this house."
My grip on the door handle tightens. "Where are you taking me?"
He sits up slightly, leaning against the pillow.
"You'll know tomorrow. Wear your best clothes."
"I don't have any best clothes."
He chuckles softly. "You belong to us. Whatever you wear is good enough."
The words make me want to vomit, but my face remains calm.
"If that's your gift," I say quietly, "I'd rather not celebrate my birthday."
"Birthdays aren't about choice, Slave. They're about reminding you that you still exist. In your place."
I open the door and leave without looking back.
The next morning, after less than three hours of sleep, I stand in the kitchen as usual. My body is used to exhaustion. Somehow, it still functions. I prepare breakfast with mechanical movements, as if this is not a human body but a tool created only to work.
The dining table is occupied by all of them. Gordon, Victoria, Markus, Connor and Julian.
After all the plates are served, I return to the kitchen. From there, I hear their light conversation, like a respectable family discussing their bright future.
Gordon Valemont is the owner of Valemont Dominion Group, a massive conglomerate controlling bonded labor trade, ownership of productive lands, and management of labor camps. His company never calls slaves "slaves." They call them human assets. A clean term for a filthy business.
Markus, the eldest son, works directly at headquarters as Gordon's right hand. He manages ownership contracts, labor distribution, and the purchase of new "assets" from poor regions. He proudly calls himself a businessman, when in truth he is just a human trafficker in an expensive suit.
Connor runs another company under Gordon, Valemont Logistics and Security. It handles transportation of slaves, security of labor camps, and protection of wealthy properties. If Markus sells, Connor escorts. If Markus signs contracts, Connor ensures they are never broken by slaves who try to escape.
And then there is Julian. The third son. Julian is a scientific novelist. He holds three academic degrees, and I am sure he is smarter than his brothers, more refined, more educated, and far more dangerous. He writes about humanity's future, ethics, civilization, and freedom of thought. His words are praised in universities and literary forums. People call him a genius. To me, he is still the biggest bastard of them all.
Because Markus and Connor destroy lives through systems.
Julian does it consciously, personally, and with pleasure.
From the kitchen, I hear their soft laughter.
A perfect family.
Rulers of their own small world, built from suffering they never bother to name.
"I'm going out today," Julian says casually while sipping his coffee. "I'm taking Slave with me."
Markus raises an eyebrow. "For what?"
"Consider it entertainment. Or a little research," Julian replies lightly.
Connor chuckles. "You're always freak about how you spend your time."
Markus looks at Julian longer, then says quietly, "You do realize she's your sister, right?"
Julian's spoon pauses midair for a moment, then he smiles. "Blood doesn't make family. Status does."
"She's still Gordon's daughter." Markus insists.
Gordon sets his cup down firmly. "Enough." His voice is cold, authoritative. "She is not your sister. She is an asset. Do not mix emotion with ownership."
Markus exhales. "Father, this isn't about emotion. It's about boundaries."
"Boundaries are defined by law," Gordon cuts in. "And the law states she belongs to us. End of discussion."
Connor leans back in his chair. "Markus, you're being too sensitive. We've never treated slaves as family. Why hesitate now?"
"Because this is different," Markus snaps. "The outside world doesn't know, but we do. The world may accept this system, but we live inside it."
Julian smiles faintly. "Exactly because we live inside it, we know how to use it."
Markus looks at him with disgust. "You enjoy this."
"I enjoy control," Julian replies without hesitation. "Like Father. Like all of you. Just in a different way."
Gordon raises his hand, stopping the conversation before it escalates. "Julian, you may take the asset wherever you want as long as it causes no public trouble. I don't want attention."
"I understand business limits, Father," Julian answers. "I always do."
Markus turns to Gordon. "You truly see nothing wrong with this?"
Gordon looks at him coldly. "What is wrong is when assets start being treated as human. That is how systems collapse."
Connor nods. "This system maintains stability. Without it, we return to chaos."
Markus growls softly. "Or maybe we finally become human."
Julian chuckles. "You're too poetic for a Valemont."
Silence falls.
Victoria has been quiet the entire time. Her hands rest neatly on her lap, her gaze empty, neither supporting nor opposing. As if a discussion about a living body were no more important than moving furniture.
Gordon stands. "I don't want to discuss this again. Julian, make sure the asset is returned before evening. Markus, you're coming to the office with me. Connor, security report this afternoon."
And just like that, my life is scheduled like cargo.
Civilization, they call it.
They all stood up one by one. And not a single one of them looked toward the kitchen. None of them remembered that the object of their conversation was standing behind a wall, hearing every word, storing each of them like fuel for the day the Valemont family would no longer hold power over anyone.
After clearing the table and washing the dishes, Julian told me to get ready, so I went to my small room and took the best clothes I owned. They had belonged to Maria. The dress was far too fine for a slave. I knew where it came from. From Gordon. A leftover of guilt he never dared to speak, wrapped in expensive fabric. I put it on, tied my hair neatly, and slipped into shoes that were already worn thin.
I walked to the garage. Julian was already there. Polar, his personal driver, stood by the car and opened the door immediately at Julian's signal.
"Get in," Julian said shortly.
I sat in the front seat beside Polar. Julian took the back. The engine started, and we drove toward the city center.
Along the way, I saw a scene far too normal for this world. Wealthy people walking calmly with slaves behind them. Some yanked their slaves by the collar. Some struck them without emotion on the side of the street, like correcting a disobedient animal. Some dragged thin bodies that no longer had the strength to resist. No one looked and no one cared.
I turned my face toward the road. My chest tightened. This is hurting me so bad. Not only because I was one of them, but because I knew every slave on that street lived with the same wounds. I couldn't bear to look for long.
The car finally stopped in front of a large bookstore. The building was old, with tall glass windows and an elegant sign.
Julian spoke from the back seat, his voice calm, almost gentle.
"I know you like reading."
I turned slightly, without really looking at him.
"Today," he continued, "I'll buy you as many books as you want."
I froze.
Books.
A birthday gift.
In a world where I had not even had a name for twenty-seven years, he was offering something only free people had: choice.
I answered quietly, almost to myself. "Why?"
"Consider it my generosity," he said.
I stared at the bookstore door. On one side, it looked like kindness. On the other, I knew it was just another way to remind me that even my pleasures were under his control.
But we went inside.
The smell of paper and old ink greeted me immediately, warm and calm, like a different world that had never known whips or chains. It was my first time inside a bookstore. I glanced at Julian, silently asking permission. He smiled slightly and nodded, like someone untying a dog's leash.
I walked deeper inside. At the front, Julian's books were neatly displayed, glossy covers, his name printed large. I picked one up and Julian let out a quiet snort behind me.
"I want to see your work," I said flatly.
He paused, then replied, "I'll wait at the counter."
I nodded and immediately turned away, heading to another section. History. Shelves that spoke of resistance, not ownership. Of humans who refused to submit, not those trained to obey.
The titles stood like witnesses to a buried past: The Communist Manifesto by Karl Marx and Friedrich Engels. Common Sense by Thomas Paine. The Rights of Man. The French Revolution by Thomas Carlyle. The Federalist Papers. The History of the Peloponnesian War. Les Misérables not history, but humanity screaming against injustice.
I traced the spines with my fingers slowly, like touching a past this world had never allowed to live. When I reached for one book, another hand reached for it at the same time.
His hand was large and I looked up. A tall man stood beside me. Black hair, slightly messy, not polished like the aristocrats, but not neglected either. Strong face, sharp jaw, eyes keen yet calm, like someone who observes before he acts.
We were holding the same book about revolution. For a moment, the world vanished. No Julian. No Valemont. No status. Just two hands meeting over a story of resistance.
I let go first.
He looked at me briefly and said softly, "Sorry."
I nodded, my heart beating faster than it should.
"That book is heavy," he said. "But honest."
I nodded. "It should be. If it's too light, it usually just wants to please its reader."
He smiled faintly. "You like history?"
"I like reading about people who dared to resist."
"Then you'll like this." He pulled another book from the shelf and handed it to me. The Rights of Man. "It's not just about revolution. It's about why humans should never be owned."
My chest tightened. I took the book carefully, as if it weren't paper but something dangerous. "Thank you."
"If you want something sharper, try this." He pointed to The Communist Manifesto. "Most people hate it without ever really reading it."
"I like books that are hated for telling the truth."
He laughed softly. "You sound like someone who's seen injustice for too long."
I didn't answer. I just took both books.
"Do you come here often?" he asked.
I shook my head. "This is my first time."
"Seriously? For a first time, your choices are brave."
"I don't like safe things."
He nodded, like he understood something I hadn't said. "My name is Kenneth."
I looked at him for a moment. A name. Something I had never had.
"I…"
The word stopped in my throat. I didn't know what to say because here was nothing I could call mine.
Kenneth waited. His gaze wasn't pressing, just curious. "Your name?"
I opened my mouth, then closed it again. "I don't… have one."
He frowned. "You don't have—"
Before he could ask more, Julian's voice cut in from behind.
"Come on, Slave. That's enough."
My body stiffened and my hands tightened around the books.
Kenneth turned quickly toward the voice, then back to me. Something shifted in his face, from friendly to shocked, then to something darker. "Slave?"
Julian walked closer casually, his gaze dismissive. "Yes. Slave. She's mine. You've spent too much time with her."
Kenneth straightened. "She's choosing books."
"And that's none of your business," Julian replied coldly. "Slaves don't have personal matters."
The word hung in the air.
Slave.
Kenneth looked at me again, longer this time. Not with curiosity, but with shock that almost felt like restrained anger. "You…"
I didn't lift my head. If I did, I was afraid he would see how normal I looked, and how abnormal this world truly was.
Julian extended his hand. "Now."
I stepped toward him, carrying the books. As I passed Kenneth, he whispered, almost inaudibly, "I'm sorry."
I didn't know what he was apologizing for. The world, the system, himself, or me. And somehow, all of them felt correct.