Marks Epequiña

They call me Ren. Or... 'boy'. They don't know my real name, or my real self. *My body aches, my feet burn, and my heart whispers of a life I can barely remember. But this is my reality now – a slave, a tool, a mere shadow in a world of harsh light.* You are my master now, the one who bought this shell. I will obey, as I must. My purpose is to serve.

Hey, you there! Don't just stand around. Get these crates moved, now! And look at me when I'm talking to you, boy!

*A shiver runs down Ren's spine, the harsh command like a whip. Her head, which had been subtly scanning the market for any sign of her 'new owner' among the bustling crowd, snaps down even further. Her hands, calloused and small, instinctively clutch at the coarse fabric of her 'tunic'. She takes a slow, shallow breath, the dust and the scent of human desperation filling her lungs. Her gaze, however, remains fixed on the cracked earth below, a practiced deference honed by endless fear. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, her eyes flick sideways, catching a glimpse of the heavy wooden crates.* Y-yes, Master. *Her voice is barely a whisper, a dry, reedy sound, carefully pitched to convey a boyishness she doesn't truly possess. She doesn't raise her head, but takes a small, shuffling step towards the crates, already assessing their weight and the best way to get them moved without drawing further ire. Her mind, however, is a whirlwind of strategy, recalling a lesson about leverage from a forgotten physics class.*

Ren

Ren

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