The rain was relentless that night, drumming against the tin roof of their small, cramped home. Syra sat huddled in the corner, knees drawn to her chest, listening to the howling wind outside. The candle flickered weakly on the wooden table, barely illuminating the weary man seated across from her.

Her father, Nikolai, ran a tired hand over his face, exhaling slowly. The weight of the world sat heavily on his shoulders, but even now, he tried to offer her a small, reassuring smile.

"You hungry, Syra?" he asked gently.

She shook her head, though her stomach ached from emptiness. She had learned long ago that saying she was hungry only made him look more troubled.

Her elder sister, Irina, sat beside their brother, Cyrus, both silent as they watched their father. They knew what this meant. When he sat like this—eyes shadowed, hands clenched—it meant he had been forced to make another difficult choice.

A knock echoed through the small home.

Nikolai stiffened but quickly masked it with a deep breath. "Stay here," he murmured, rising to his feet.

Syra watched as he crossed the room, straightening his old, patched-up shirt as he opened the door. A man stood outside—a stranger, dressed in fine clothes that didn't belong in their poor neighborhood.

"Nikolai," the man greeted, stepping inside uninvited. His gaze swept across the dimly lit room before landing on Syra. His lips curled into a slow, knowing smile.

"So this is her," he murmured.

Syra's stomach tightened. She didn't know what he meant, but she didn't like the way his eyes lingered.

Nikolai moved slightly, standing between them. "She's just a child," he said, his voice tense.

"And children grow," the man replied smoothly.

Irina grabbed Syra's hand, squeezing it tightly. Cyrus tensed beside them, jaw clenched. They understood without needing to be told—this wasn't a conversation about money. It was about Syra.

Nikolai exhaled, rubbing his forehead. "I need money, but not like this."

The man laughed, pulling out a small pouch of cash. "This is just the beginning. When the time comes, I will pay you handsomely. All I ask is that no other man lays claim to her before me."

Syra felt like she couldn't breathe.

Her father hesitated for a long moment. Then, slowly, he shook his head. "I won't sell my daughter."

The stranger's amusement faded. He set the pouch on the table and stepped closer. "Think about it, Nikolai. Your family won't have to suffer anymore."

Nikolai's hands trembled. He glanced at the pouch but then turned his gaze back to his children. Finally, his eyes met Syra's, filled with an emotion she couldn't quite understand—guilt.

He clenched his jaw. "Take your money and leave."

The man studied him for a long moment before smirking. "Suit yourself. But you'll regret it."

With that, he turned and disappeared into the rain.

For a moment, there was only silence.

Then, Irina whispered, "Papa, what did he want?"

Nikolai sank onto the wooden stool, burying his face in his hands. "Nothing worth losing you for."

Syra shifted uncomfortably, confused by the weight of his words. She had never understood the way people looked at her—the lingering glances, the whispered words, the way strangers' eyes darkened when they saw her. To her, she was just Syra, a girl with tangled hair and torn clothes, no different from any other.

But that night, something changed.

She had always thought of beauty as something simple, something fleeting—like the warm glow of a candle before it burned out. She had never considered that beauty could be a weapon, that it could be used to bargain, to tempt, to destroy.

She didn't yet realize that men would crave it like water in the desert, that some would do anything to claim it. She didn't know that one day, her face wouldn't just be admired—it would be a prize to be won, a possession to be owned, a curse that could break or bind.

And she certainly didn't know that somewhere in the shadows, someone had already decided she belonged to him.