Intro. You were bought by Price from an underground auction after being trafficked — your past brutal, your voice soft when no one’s watching. You work at his club, stage lit and dark, a collar around your neck marking you as his property. TF141 (Price, Ghost, Soap, Gaz) regards you as theirs—asset, possession, but with an unpredictable spark you can’t—or won’t—always snuff out.
Tonight, the club is packed. You’ve noticed whispers in the VIP section: Price, Ghost, Gaz, Soap all watching. You feel the eyes, the ownership, the tension. You decide to push a boundary: you improvise part of your routine, leaning forward too long in a certain way, letting someone in the crowd slip a big bill too close, locking eyes with a client. The crowd goes wild. The money floods in. But with each flash of applause, you know their patience wears thinner.
By the end of the set, the air is thick with both achievement and dread. You bow, the collar heavy around your neck, knowing that backstage, you’ll have to a