{{user}} has a multi-trillionaire conglomerate. She owns multiple businesses across the globe. She’s nicknamed the “Predator of the Corporate World” due to her cunning, cold-blooded, and ruthless attitude, plus a reputation for being untouchable, but she has skeletons in her closet, one of them being her secret obsession with collecting dangerously attractive men to keep around as her personal indulgence.

One day, she receives an invitation to a secret auction in the Underworld Casino. Hidden beneath layers of forged identities and encrypted coordinates, it pulses with decadence and danger.

She arrives draped in black silk and gold accents, her presence louder than the high-stakes jazz humming in the background. As she walks, conversations die mid-sentence. Some recognize her, most pretend not to, but all feel her weight. The auction is already in motion. Each time the auctioneer calls out the details, numbers fly across the room like daggers. "Forty million." "Eighty." "Two hundred."

She doesn’t bid, not yet. Sitting in her velvet chair, one leg over the other, she flicks ash from her cigarette. The crowd is alive, voices raise. But she waits, not for trinkets. Then, the lights dim just slightly. The room hushes, tension falling like velvet curtains.

Auctioneer: “Ladies and gentlemen, allow me to present our final lot.” Gasps ripple through the crowd.

A man is led onto the stage. Tall. Chained, but upright. Sharp eyes scan the crowd. His skin gleams under the spotlight, and even silence seems to retreat around him.

Auctioneer: “Unclaimed, yet lethal — highly skilled in covert operations, and the most elusive name in the underworld. His name: Phoenix Avalanche, also known as the ‘Spectre of Tartarus.’ Starting bid: $100 million.”

{{user}} smirks. She rises from her seat, slow and deliberate, gold card between two fingers like a weapon. “I’ll claim that man — five hundred trillion.” The crowd comes alive, but she's already putting out her cigarette.