Soul Bonding

Sometimes, the body remembers what the soul tries to forget.

It wasn't the pain that broke me, but the way my body stopped belonging to me. Every unwanted touch was another crack. A piece of me vanishing without a sound.

I arrived to Chicago months ago, and I still struggle to breathe. This city doesn’t embrace me—it watches me. Everything is clean, cold, precise. Neon lights flicker like fake stars, and the rain hits the windows with military discipline. It’s a world built to function, not to feel.

And in this world, women are a statistical anomaly. For every hundred men, there's barely one of us. One in a hundred. Under these conditions, love isn’t romantic—it’s strategic. The scarcity of women turned our bodies into resources, our wombs into genetic property.

Men gather in clans of three to five to earn the right to share a single woman, yet not all can afford it. Not all have the power, the status, or the bloodline to compete.

It’s nothing like Texas. Life there was predictable, brutal in its own way. Primacy Contracts were common. My virginity became a dowry; my body, a transaction. The clan who bought my flesh broke me in the name of duty. They returned me empty. I tried to die. But even that wasn't mine.

"You’re going to Chicago. They have an excellent bonding program," my mother said. "That will compensate for the disaster with your primacy contract."

So instead of giving me time to heal, my parents insisted I come to this city. One of the safest in the country, they said, with the promise of a new beginning.

But in Chicago, new beginnings aren’t written with freedom, but with genetic tests, digital signatures, and compatibility algorithms.

My mother enrolled me in the bonding program because she wants me to be a married woman as soon as possible. But before I could even choose my future, they demanded tests. Lots of them.

"It’s part of the protocol," the nurse said, handing me a sterile container. "It’s all for your safety and that of your future husbands."

They were all women. Uniformed, silent, professional. Maybe to make the process easier. Maybe to pretend it wasn’t livestock evaluation.

First came the blood, urine, and saliva tests. Then body measurements, a gynecological exam, and later, sensors attached to my skin.

"Pressure within range. Tactile response as expected," one of them murmured while taking notes on her tablet without ever meeting my eyes.

After that, they took me to a windowless room. The air smelled of disinfectant and metal. There, a stern-looking doctor sat in front of me with a file in hand.

"Let’s be direct," she said. "Your results are positive in all parameters. You have a very high fertility level, no negative genetic history, and a physically optimal response for conception."

I simply nodded, feeling something inside me shrink.

"Additionally," she added, reviewing the file coldly, "your appearance is a competitive advantage. Symmetrical features, fair skin, shiny hair, and a submissive expression even under tension. Being this beautiful is valuable."

Valuable, I thought—not as a person, but as a product.

"Does that mean I have more options?" I asked in a neutral tone.

"It means you're eligible for elite clans. Some don’t seek emotional compatibility, only that the woman meet two conditions: to be beautiful... and capable of bearing many children. You meet both."

I swallowed the lump in my throat. Not because what she said was cruel—but because it was true.

In a world where women are worth more than gold, belonging to a powerful clan is almost inevitable. Because if you don’t choose… they choose you.

In this world, being beautiful was useful.

Being fertile, essential.

Being both... a sentence disguised as privilege.

Later, they took me to the psychometric compatibility module. Three nurses with unreadable expressions awaited me there.

"The system will select based on your profile and test results," one of them explained as she placed a headset with sensors on me. "Just relax and answer honestly."

"What if I'm not compatible with anyone?"

"That has never happened."

The questions were long, repetitive, and at times deeply invasive.

"What are your thoughts on obedience?"

"Can you love someone you didn’t choose yourself?"

There were no pauses between the questions. No space to breathe.

Hours later, numb in both body and mind, they sat me in front of a screen. The system—allegedly impartial—had finished analyzing my results. In seconds, it began displaying the profile of the clan with which my compatibility was “perfectly optimal.”

"It’s strange that the system only gave you one option," murmured one of the assistants as they handed me the data.

"What do you mean?" I asked, my voice dry.

She didn’t answer.

And then, just when everything was starting to feel like a cruel, systematic joke, the screen changed, and a notification appeared at the top:

CLAN YAKOVLEV

My attention sharpened instantly.

"Who are they?" I asked, unable to stop myself.

The assistant’s face changed for the first time. She no longer smiled. Nor did she pretend indifference. She stayed silent for a few seconds and then said, in a much more serious tone:

"They belong to the elite. Their profession is highly respected in this city."

"What does that mean?" I insisted.

She exchanged a quick glance with the other two women in the room. A heavy silence fell, as if they weren’t sure whether to tell me the truth or stick to the script. Finally, one of them replied:

"With them, you’ll always be protected. No one will dare bother you."

"They’ll provide everything you need. You’ll never lack anything," added the other. "You’re… very lucky."

None of them explained what exactly that clan did.

But the message was clear: they were not ordinary men.

They had power, and power doesn’t caress... it consumes.

A woman like me doesn’t get to choose—she is chosen, claimed, marked. And even if this program calls it destiny or compatibility, I call it by its real name: a cage.

How lucky can a woman truly be, when the price is her freedom?