The boy's blood had long dried, but the ground still felt cursed.
For days, no one spoke his name.
No one dared.
The Butcher had made sure of that.
After he left us standing in the cold night, staring at the empty space where the boy had been, something inside us died.
Not just fear.
Not just hope.
Something deeper.
Something harder to name.
And the Butcher knew it.
The next morning, the overseers dragged us out earlier than usual.
Our bodies were breaking, but they did not care.
They shoved us into line, their whips curling through the air with cruel satisfaction.
The Butcher stood watching from his usual place on the porch, cigar in one hand, polished knife in the other.
He did not speak.
He did not need to.
The overseers worked harder than before.
Not out of duty, but hunger.
They could feel it, just as we could—
The last pieces of resistance cracking, splintering like brittle bones.
Dada did not speak anymore.
Bayo no longer muttered curses under his breath.
Even the strong ones, the ones who had sworn to survive no matter what, moved as if their souls had already left their bodies.
The Butcher had broken us.
And he was waiting to see just how far we would fall.
Days blurred together.
The work did not stop.
The pain did not stop.
The silence did not stop.
More of us fell beneath the weight of it.
A man named Femi—once strong, once defiant—collapsed in the fields one morning.
The overseers did not bother dragging him away, just like the rest.
They let him rot under the sun, forcing us to step over his body as we worked.
No one wept for him.
No one even flinched.
We could not afford to.
Grief had become a luxury.
Then, one evening, the Butcher did something he had never done before.
He called us together.
Not for punishment.
Not for amusement.
But to speak.
He stood before us, his coat draped over his broad frame, his knife gleaming in the fading light.
"You see now," he said, voice calm, "what comes of hope."
No one answered.
He smiled.
"Do you understand?"
Silence.
A few heads nodded, slow and hollow.
He chuckled.
Then he turned, gesturing to the porch.
A new shipment of chains lay waiting.
Polished.
Shining.
"As long as you live," he said, "you belong to me."
His voice was steady.
Final.
"You will work. You will suffer. And when you die, I will replace you."
His boots thudded against the wooden steps as he climbed onto the porch, his back to us.
"Hope is dead," he said.
And then he was gone.
But Hope Is Not So Easily Killed
That night, as we lay in the darkness, something stirred.
Not in our bodies.
Not in our voices.
But in our silence.
It was different now.
Before, silence had meant fear.
Now, it meant something else.
Something dangerous.
I felt it.
And I knew—
The Butcher had made a mistake.
He thought he had killed hope.
But all he had done was turn it into something colder.
Something sharper.
And soon—
It would cut.
The next morning, just before the sun rose, a shadow appeared at the edge of the Butcher's land.
A figure.
A woman.
She had returned.
And this time, something was different.
She walked with purpose.
Not like before.
The last time she came, she had been cautious—hopeful, even. She had spoken carefully, as if choosing the right words might save us.
But this time?
This time, she did not hesitate.
She did not lower her gaze.
She did not look away from the Butcher's house, even as the overseers stiffened at the sight of her.
Even as the Butcher himself stepped onto the porch, cigar in hand, watching her approach with quiet amusement.
She did not falter.
And we?
We watched.
From the fields, from the shadows, from behind broken doorways.
We watched because she had done what we could not.
She had left.
And she had come back.
The Butcher took his time.
He finished his cigar first, exhaling slow curls of smoke before flicking the remains onto the porch.
Then, at last, he smiled.
"I thought you'd learned your lesson," he said.
The woman stopped a few feet away from the steps.
The same steps where he had bled a boy dry.
Her hands were steady.
Her voice, steady.
"I have."
The Butcher's eyes gleamed.
"And yet, here you are."
He looked past her, as if expecting someone else to follow.
No one did.
Just her.
Just one woman standing before a monster.
"You should've stayed gone," he murmured.
He descended the steps slowly, rolling his shoulders, stretching his fingers as if considering what he might break first.
But she did not move.
She did not cower.
She did not beg.
Instead, she spoke.
"I've come to take them."
The Butcher chuckled. "Oh?"
"The slaves," she said. "All of them."
Laughter burst from his chest, deep and cruel.
The overseers laughed, too.
Even some of the weaker slaves flinched at her words, thinking she had gone mad.
She had not come here to ask.
The Butcher took a step closer.
We all saw the knife at his belt.
We all knew what he could do with it.
And yet—
She did not take a step back.
"You want my slaves?" he mused.
His tone was playful, but his fingers twitched.
She nodded once.
"I do."
The Butcher exhaled, shaking his head with mock disbelief.
"Now, I wonder," he mused. "Are you bold, or just stupid?"
He lifted a hand—
And in an instant, two overseers were at her sides, gripping her arms.
She did not resist.
The Butcher leaned in, so close his breath curled against her skin.
"There is no one to protect you here."
Still, she did not flinch.
"There is no law here but me."
Still, she did not tremble.
His fingers grazed her cheek, slow, deliberate.
"I could gut you where you stand."
Her jaw tightened.
"But you won't," she said.
A flicker of amusement crossed his face.
"And why is that?"
The woman held his gaze.
"Because you don't want to kill me," she said. "You want to break me."
For the first time, the Butcher said nothing.
His fingers twitched.
His eyes narrowed.
She had struck something.
Something dangerous.
Something she would have to be careful with.
The Butcher let out a slow breath, then—
He smiled.
A wicked, knowing smile.
Then he pulled away, stepping back.
"Let her go."
The overseers obeyed, though they looked confused.
The woman's arms were released, but she did not rub them, did not show weakness.
She merely stood there, waiting.
The Butcher studied her for a long moment.
Then—
"Come inside."
The door closed behind her with a heavy finality.
The Butcher's house was nothing like the outside.
Outside, the world was raw, brutal—sun-scorched fields, bloodstained whips, chains clinking in the wind.
Inside, it was wealth. Power. Comfort stolen from the suffering of others.
The rugs were thick underfoot, the walls lined with dark wood and paintings of foreign places. A heavy chandelier hung above, its golden glow flickering against the polished surfaces.
A place of cruelty disguised as civility.
The woman did not stare. She did not let herself be distracted.
The Butcher moved with ease through the space, tossing his coat over a chair, pouring himself a drink from a crystal decanter.
"You must be thirsty," he said, swirling the amber liquid.
She did not answer.
He smirked. "No? A shame."
The Butcher took a slow sip before setting the glass aside. Then he turned to her fully.
"You surprise me," he admitted.
The woman remained silent.
The Butcher chuckled. "Most people who cross me do not return. And yet, here you stand."
She met his gaze, unwavering. "I am not most people."
He smiled, slow and amused. "No, you are not."
He studied her, taking his time. The way a predator studies prey before the kill.
She did not move.
Did not flinch.
The Butcher leaned forward.
"Tell me, then," he said, voice softer now. "What exactly do you hope to accomplish?"
The woman's voice was steady.
"You know what I want."
The Butcher raised a brow. "Do I?"
"I want your slaves," she said. "Every last one."
The Butcher sighed, shaking his head as if disappointed.
"You keep saying that, as if repeating it will make it true." He stepped closer. "As if you truly believe I would give up my property."
She forced herself to breathe evenly. "They are not property."
He chuckled, amused by her defiance. "That is where you are wrong."
He moved past her, slow and deliberate, letting silence stretch between them before speaking again.
"You think I am cruel."
He was behind her now.
"You think I am a monster."
His breath was close.
She did not turn.
He stepped forward again, slow, circling like a wolf.
"But you do not understand," he murmured. "Cruelty is what keeps them in line. Cruelty is what keeps this world in order."
His fingers brushed her shoulder.
She forced herself to remain still.
"I could kill you," he said. "Right here. Right now."
She did not answer.
He smiled against her silence.
"But I won't."
Finally, she turned to face him. "No?"
His smirk widened. "No."
The Butcher moved back to his drink, swirling the liquid again.
"I admire you," he admitted. "Few people stand before me without fear."
His gaze darkened.
"But do not mistake my patience for kindness."
He lifted the glass, taking a slow sip.
"If you wish to leave this house alive, you will have to offer me something far more valuable than words."
She exhaled, steadying herself.
Then—
"I have money."
The Butcher smirked. "Not enough."
"Connections," she said.
He shook his head.
She clenched her fists. "Then what do you want?"
The Butcher set his glass down, stepping toward her again.
And this time, when he spoke, his voice was lower.
Darker.
"Everything has a price," he said. "The only question is—"
He lifted her chin with a single finger.
"Are you willing to pay it?"
The Butcher's finger remained under her chin, lifting her face ever so slightly.
His smile was slow, knowing.
"There it is," he murmured.
The woman kept her breathing steady, her expression unreadable.
"There what is?" she asked.
He chuckled. "That look in your eyes. The moment a person realizes they've stepped too far into the darkness."
His grip shifted—gentle, but firm.
"The moment they understand that, if they wish to keep walking, they must leave something behind."
The woman did not pull away.
She did not react as he leaned in, as his breath curled against her cheek.
"What are you willing to sacrifice?" he asked.
She knew this game.
She had seen it played before.
It was never about what he could take—it was about what she would give.
What she would surrender willingly.
Power was not just in ownership.
It was in submission.
And the Butcher enjoyed watching people submit.
She forced herself to remain calm.
"Name your price," she said.
The Butcher's smile deepened.
He moved away, pacing slowly, as if savoring the moment.
"You intrigue me," he admitted. "Most would have run by now. Or begged."
She remained silent.
The Butcher ran a hand along the polished wood of his desk, considering.
"I could ask for gold," he mused. "You have some, I'm sure."
He glanced at her. "But not enough."
She clenched her jaw.
He smirked.
"I could ask for favors," he continued. "Perhaps your voice in certain circles."
She narrowed her eyes.
"But that is not what you fear, is it?" he murmured.
He turned fully to her again.
"No."
His gaze drifted lower, lingering just enough to make his meaning clear.
"That is what you fear."
The room was quiet.
Too quiet.
Even the air felt heavy.
The woman did not move.
She had known this was coming.
She had prepared herself for it.
And yet, now that it was here, she felt something tighten in her chest.
The Butcher tilted his head.
"Tell me," he said softly. "Is your cause worth it?"
Her hands curled into fists at her sides.
The Butcher took another step closer.
"Would you give yourself to a monster—"
His fingers brushed her wrist.
"—to free those who will never know the price you paid?"
Silence.
The weight of it pressed against her.
And then—
She exhaled.
And forced herself to meet his gaze.
"No."
The Butcher raised a brow.
"No?"
Her voice did not waver.
"You want me to kneel."
She lifted her chin.
"I will not."
A flicker of something crossed his face.
Not anger.
Amusement.
And then—
Laughter.
A deep, genuine laugh that filled the room.
The Butcher shook his head, stepping back.
"You truly are something," he muttered.
He poured himself another drink, still chuckling.
Then he turned to her again.
"I will think on it," he said simply.
She frowned. "Think on what?"
"My price."
He smirked. "I am not finished playing yet."
Her stomach twisted.
She had not won.
She had only delayed the inevitable.
And the game was far from over.
The Butcher swirled the amber liquid in his glass, watching her with something between amusement and calculation.
"You fascinate me," he said finally. "It's rare to find someone with enough will to look me in the eye and say no."
The woman did not respond.
She had not won. She knew that much.
The Butcher was not a man who gave up easily. He was merely savoring the moment—dragging it out like a cat playing with a trapped mouse.
Finally, he set his drink aside and leaned forward.
"I have decided," he said.
Her breath slowed.
He watched her closely, taking pleasure in the tension.
"You want my slaves," he murmured. "I will give them to you."
The words hit like a strike to the chest.
But she did not let herself react.
Not yet.
He smiled at her restraint.
"Do not celebrate too quickly," he said. "You have not heard my price."
Her fingers curled slightly. "What do you want?"
The Butcher stepped closer.
"First," he said, "I want coin. More than you can offer alone."
She had expected that.
But then—
"Second," he continued, "I want a trade."
Her stomach tightened. "A trade?"
He smirked. "Something of equal value."
She narrowed her eyes. "And what would that be?"
The Butcher took his time before answering.
Then—
"You."
The room seemed to shrink around her.
The Butcher chuckled at the way her body stiffened.
"Not forever," he said smoothly. "I am not so greedy."
He traced a finger along the edge of his desk, watching her.
"Three months."
His eyes gleamed.
"You will belong to me for three months—mind, body, and obedience."
Silence.
Heavy. Suffocating.
The woman forced herself to breathe.
"After three months," he said, "you may take them. Every last one."
He tilted his head.
"That is my price."
The Butcher stepped back, giving her space to process his words.
He enjoyed this part.
Watching people struggle.
Watching them weigh the impossible.
She swallowed hard, but her expression did not break.
"And if I refuse?" she asked.
The Butcher shrugged.
"Then they stay," he said simply. "And they suffer."
Her nails dug into her palms.
He leaned in once more, lowering his voice.
"You can leave now, if you wish," he murmured. "Walk out that door. Let their screams haunt you for the rest of your days."
The woman's jaw tightened.
Or—
She could stay.
Give herself to him.
And in three months, walk away with their freedom.
The Butcher studied her.
Then, with a slow, knowing smile, he stepped back.
"I will give you time," he said. "Not much—but enough."
His smirk deepened.
"Make your decision wisely."
Then—
He turned, dismissing her as if she were nothing more than a passing thought.
She stood there for a moment longer, fists clenched at her sides.
Then she turned and walked out.
Not because she was running.
But because she needed air.
She needed to think
The night air was thick with the weight of her thoughts.
She stepped outside the Butcher's house, her breath slow and measured, but inside, her mind churned.
Three months.
Three months in his grasp.
Three months of surrender for a lifetime of freedom—for them.
Her stomach twisted.
She had known this would not be easy. She had prepared herself for the worst.
But this…
This was not something she had been ready to face.
She closed her eyes.
What choice did she have?
Behind her, the Butcher's house loomed like a beast watching its prey, waiting for her to break.
And beyond that…
Beyond the walls, the slaves still suffered.
Still bled.
Still prayed for salvation that had never come.
Would she abandon them?
Or would she sacrifice herself to save them?
Her hands trembled.
She had fought her entire life to never be owned.
Now, she was being asked to give herself away.
Not forever.
But long enough to change her.
To break her.
She exhaled sharply, forcing herself to think.
She could find another way.
Couldn't she?
Or was this truly the only path left?
She thought of their faces.
The bruises.
The wounds.
The hopelessness.
Three months of suffering—for her.
Or a lifetime of suffering—for them.
She made her decision.
And then—
She turned back toward the house.
The Butcher was waiting for her.
Seated at his desk, swirling his drink, a smile already forming.
"You've made your decision," he said, not a question.
She stepped forward.
"Yes."
His smirk deepened.
She hated how pleased he looked.
He stood, moving toward her.
"I will have the contract drawn up," he murmured. "Three months. You will obey, and in return, they will be freed."
He stopped just in front of her.
"Do we have a deal?"
She swallowed.
Then, with a steady voice—
"Yes."
The Butcher chuckled.
"Good girl."
She clenched her fists, forcing herself not to react.
He lifted his hand—
And held it out.
The final step.
The final seal.
She hesitated.
Then, with every ounce of strength left in her, she took his hand.
His grip was firm.
Unyielding.
Like shackles closing around her wrists.
The Butcher grinned.
"The fun begins now