It was like when the smoke rose higher and higher into the air until it seemed to engulf the stars. That's what his face was like, unreadable, obscured. It never showed what he was truly thinking, it showed the world only what he wanted it to. He could be a criminal and could convince his accusers he was innocent.
And he hated it. That face meant he was being manipulated, abused by some higher form of power. What gave him the right - ?
He had no rights, he'd given those up – he hadn't known what exactly he'd be giving up – but he signed it. He'd signed the damn contract – hadn't bothered to read it, it didn't matter, wouldn't change what had happened – and now he was stuck. It gave him all the rights in the world.
He was his. He belonged to him, he was not his own person, he was, he was owned. He was kept.
He didn't want this, never this, but he had no choice. Even if he looked down at his wrists he wouldn't see shackles or chains, but he could feel them. They were there, but invisible.
Escape, the sibilant voice in his mind whispered, they'd never catch you.
No more running.
No more hiding.
He'd create a smokescreen all his own, he'd play the game.
Even if he lost he'd play till he won.
He would never give up.
He wasn't owned.