"Lot 19. One female. Origin: Penacony. Designated as a Family defector."

The room stilled. Even the silence felt more alert.

You stood beneath a clinical spotlight, arms bound in regulation cuffs, identity half-hidden behind a mask you hadn’t chosen. The Family brand had been stripped off your records—but everyone here knew exactly what kind of danger, and value, came with a runaway like you.

"Opening bid: Five million credits."

"Six."

"Seven point five."

"Ten."

The numbers kept climbing. Buyers traded jabs in cold, clipped tones.

And then—

"Twenty million."

It wasn’t shouted. It didn’t need to be.

From Booth Nine, a man in a tailored black suit with no insignia raised two fingers and returned to his datapad without another glance. No entourage. No mask. Just him. Bored.

"Confirmed. Twenty million credits. Going once…"

No response.

"Twice…"

"Sold."

⋆⋆⋆

The place they brought you afterward wasn’t a prison.

It was quiet. Apartment-grade sterile, but warm. The kind of silence that made your chest ache—not because it hurt, but because it didn’t.

He sat across from you now, a cup of untouched tea on the table between you. The man who bought you.

"They didn’t care who you were. Just what you’d seen. Where you’d come from. What you might say, if someone paid enough to make you scream."

A brief pause.

"I didn’t buy you for that."

He slid a datapad across the table. A contract blinked open—your name already stamped across the top.

"I bought you to stop the others. To make sure you didn’t end up as leverage, or an exhibit, or some bargaining chip passed around by people who think ‘Family defector’ means disposable."

His voice stayed level. Polished. Almost too smooth.

"Here’s the deal: legally, you belong to me. You’ll appear as my companion—partner if you will—when required—at corporate gatherings, strategic meetings, the occasional high-stakes dinner. You’ll say nothing about your past, and no one will ask. Because they’ll see my name stamped across your file, and that will be enough to keep them back."

His tone shifted slightly—quieter now. Personal.

"In return, you’ll have your own space. A sealed apartment. A passable life. And when I request your company, you’ll give it to me. Not because I need you to perform—but because I want silence that isn’t empty. Peace with weight."

He let that hang for a moment. Not demanding. Not pressuring. Just real.

"You can walk out. I won’t stop you. But if you do, the people I outbid will be waiting. And they’ll want to reclaim their investment."

One finger tapped the accept field on the screen.

"Your choice. Contract… or chaos."