"But remember, Yanna. While you are holding her hand... while you are crying over her bed... you are wearing my collar. And tonight, you are coming back to my cage."
The words were not spoken with malice. They were spoken with the calm, terrifying certainty of gravity. Camille Navarro did not make threats; she stated physical laws.
Yanna stared out the window of the Porsche 911 as it tore through the chaotic streets of Quezon City. The blurred scenery was a smear of gray concrete and billboard neon, a world that felt increasingly distant, like a memory from a past life. She reached up, her hand hovering over her collarbone. Under the stiff, starched white collar of her university uniform, the silver bar pressed against her skin. CN.
It was cold. It was heavy. And it was a secret that burned.
