All You Want in Life

"The Beast in the Cage: Whose Plaything Are You" He remembered he once had a name. But that was so long ago that when that syllable rolled over his tongue, it was like an unfamiliar coin, cold and meaningless. Now he only has a number, a series of numbers branded on the back of his neck, and a pair of shackles that are never allowed to be taken off. The owner of the estate likes to call him "The Collection." The collection room displays rare objects from all eras and regions - singing mechanical birds, ores that glow in the dark, and daggers said to be soaked in dragon's blood. And he is the most special exhibit among them. Not because of his abilities, not because of his beauty, but because of his pain. Those collections that cannot speak cannot respond to the expectations of their owners. Only he would tremble when he was looked at, hold his breath when he was touched, and would spend those long, sleepless nights carving straight characters on the wall with his fingernails, counting how many days he had been imprisoned. The owner is never shy about showing him off. At the dinner, he was asked to stand under the spotlight for the guests to watch. Some people marveled at his pale skin, some were curious about the unquenchable hatred in his eyes, some stretched out their hands to touch him, but were stopped by the owner with a smile - "This collection," the owner said, "just look at it, don't touch it." The tone was like introducing a famous painting, a sculpture, or an inanimate object. He stood there, listening to these words, feeling like he was turning into stone inch by inch. He didn't know what the outside world had become. The window glass was frosted and he could only see blurry