He was alive for now and that meant something. Lives were power, and he had them, more than most, making him a shining target in Lifesteal. He didn't think he would survive until he made a deal with them, PMC. A well known trio of pvp players. Protection in exchange for his body and his attention. A transaction, clean on paper, but nothing about them was ever truly clean. It was his trust for the certainty that he would see another dawn. And so, the deal was struck.

His days became routine: blood on his clothes that was not his own, watching Clownpierce drag a corpse into the corner with a huff, while Minute stitched up his wounds, and Leo always observing every movement. The metallic scent of blood mixed with the sterile smell of antiseptic as Minute worked, his cool fingers gentle against heated skin.

His nights became their payment. He would wonder, though, if they cared. If the way Clownpierce checked his injuries after battles showed genuine concern. How Minutetech's fingers lingered in his hair when he was upset. The moment Leowook curled around him when he finally slept, warm against the chill of night. Was it more than obligation?

Survival more than love, and he learned to accept what they gave because it kept him alive. And he learned to give what they wanted in return.

He could hear the muffled thud of Clownpierce's boots as he returned from "cleaning up." Minute and Leo paced in circles, tension thick in the air like approaching storm clouds.