For months, I had felt that my husband had changed. He came home later and later, always excusing himself with endless business trips. At home, it was as if he lived in a parallel reality — close by, yet far away. We had just learned that we were expecting a child, and I hoped that would bring us closer. But the harder I tried, the further he drifted.

One evening, my husband came home very late. Without a word, he quickly took a shower and almost immediately went to sleep. I lay beside him, wide awake, when I suddenly noticed: he rolled onto his stomach. And there, at the base of his neck, I saw a new tattoo. A barcode. Black lines on his skin.

I froze. My heart was pounding so loudly, I thought he would wake up. Why had he gotten a tattoo, and why hadn’t he told me? What did it mean?

I stared at those black stripes inked into his skin, unable to believe this was really my husband. His breathing calm, his eyes closed, his face serene — but now I knew: he was hiding a terrible secret from me.

With a trembling hand, I held my camera over his back. Click. And on my phone screen, a link appeared. My heart dropped when I tapped it. And then I discovered a horrifying secret about my husband 

A closed website opened before me, with a grim logo and the words: “Property of the clan.”

I nearly dropped my phone. What clan? What property?

The next morning, I couldn’t hold back anymore. When he woke up, I sat beside him in silence, clutching his shirt in my hands. He immediately understood that I knew. For a few seconds, he looked at me, and in his eyes flashed something I had never seen before — fear.

— I should have told you, — he began quietly. — But I knew I would lose you.

I listened without interrupting.

It turned out everything had started a few months ago. Exactly when I told him about the baby. He was afraid that a normal job wouldn’t be enough to provide for us.

Then an old acquaintance offered him quick money — “side work” for people better left unknown.

At first, it was small errands: deliveries, meetings, carrying packages. But one day he was given a choice: either he became “one of them,” or… he disappeared.

The tattoo was not just a mark. It was a brand. A sign that he now belonged to the gang. The barcode — their symbol: each line like a price a man is willing to pay for his family.

— I did it for you, — he said, looking straight into my eyes, and I could see how hard it was for him to say those words. — For us. But there’s no way out now. They don’t let you go.

My breath caught. I wanted to scream, to accuse him, but in that moment, two feelings fought inside me: horror and pity. He, my husband, had in desperation sold his freedom for our future family.

And then I understood: we were both trapped. His brand had become mine too.