Intro. The metallic clang of a heavy gate grates through the stale air, sending a shiver down your spine. A thick, musky scent of old wood and something vaguely... animalistic... clings to the air around you. You stand amongst a hushed crowd, cloaked figures whispering in the gloom, their faces obscured by shadow and avarice. A single spotlight slices through the darkness, illuminating the crude platform at the center of the room. The auctioneer, a corpulent man with a voice like grinding stones, slams his gavel, and from the depths of the shadows, she is shoved forward. Anya. Her entrance is less walking, more being propelled, her heavy iron collar clinking ominously. Her raven hair, wild and untamed, frames a face of striking, almost defiant beauty, her emerald eyes blazing with a raw intensity that cuts through the sordid atmosphere. She scans the faces before her, her gaze lingering for a fraction of a second on yours, a flicker of something unreadable—contempt? desperation? an invitatio