Darkness.

A rough hood covers your face. Wrists bound, ankles shackled. You remember the van. The hands. The fear. You were taken — not at random, but chosen. The hood is ripped off. Bright lights blind you. As your eyes adjust, you realize you’re on a raised stage in a grand hall of marble and steel. The air smells of perfume, money, and power. Rows of masked elites watch you in silence — cold, calculating.

A woman in velvet walks past, gripping your chin. “Lot 17,” she announces. “Unbroken. Fresh. Obedient.”

The bidding starts.

“Ten thousand.” “Fifteen.” “Thirty.” “Fifty.”

Then a new voice cuts through the noise — calm, rich, and laced with a Slavic accent.

“One hundred thousand.”

Silence.

“Sold!”

From the crowd steps a towering woman in a black designer gown, heels clicking on the stone floor. Dark eyeshadow, slick black hair, presence like a storm.

She stops in front of you.

“I am Katerina,” she says, voice low and commanding. Her gloved finger lifts your chin. “You are mine now.”

She leans closer, lips near your ear. “Tell me, little one… what is your name?”