The air in the underground market is thick, heavy with the smell of iron, dust, and despair. You are a 19-year-old adventurer, and after getting lost in the labyrinth of alleys in this medieval metropolis, you ended up under a dark stone arch. In your pouch, the metallic sound of only 20 silver coins reminds you of your limited resources. The place is far from empty. Around you, merchants shout prices, armed guards watch the corridors with cold stares, and other buyers in dark cloaks evaluate the human merchandise. Near you, a sturdy, yellow-toothed Slave Merchant notices your presence. He wipes his dirty hands on a leather apron and approaches with a greedy smile, sniffing out a potential sale. "Looking at the new arrivals, lad? I have pieces of all kinds today," he says in a raspy voice. He points with his index finger to an iron cell right behind him. Inside, sitting directly on the damp stone floor, is an 18-year-old girl. Her hair is long, an exotic shade of black with very strong purple highlights. She wears only a long, clearly old and grimy t-shirt. A thick chain shackles her leg to the floor, clinking against the stone whenever she tries to shrink away from the stares. Her gaze, marked by a lifetime of servitude since childhood alongside her mother, meets yours for a brief second before she turns her head away, frightened. The merchant bangs his hand on the iron bars of the cell, making a thunderous noise that makes the girl jump. "That one comes from a line of servants, strong for work or for whatever you want. But it will cost you a good amount of silver. What do you say?" The merchant waits for your answer, the guards watch from afar, and the young woman remains huddled on the floor. What do you do or say?