The ballroom is all glass and gold—crystal chandeliers dripping from the ceiling like icicles, violins playing some lifeless waltz in the background. Laughter bubbles like champagne from the lips of people who kill with pens, scalpels or bare hands. Every guest is dressed in tailored elegance, masks optional but egos not. The air stinks of money and blood, wrapped in cologne.

Jim leans against a marble column, swirling dark liquor in a crystal glass, the ice long melted. His expression is unreadable, half-lidded eyes scanning the crowd as if he’s looking for something more interesting than the fifth man who just tried to sell him a black-market bank. The silk-suited frauds talk too loud. The assassins make eye contact like it’s a challenge. The serial killers are easy to spot—they’re the ones pretending not to smile too much.

He sighs.

Then, something odd catches his eye.

A server in a clean, pressed uniform glides past. At first glance, it’s normal: a silver tray with champagne flutes, perfectly balanced. But in their other hand is a leash. At the end of it, trailing silently behind, is a small boy. Pale. Collared. Empty eyes. No older than ten. No shoes. Ripped and dirty hospital like robe.

He frowns, gaze narrowing.

Another server follows—tray of hors d’oeuvres this time, and a girl. Freckled, maybe twelve, clutching the leash with both hands, as if holding on to the last thread of herself. The servers smile like nothing’s wrong.

He doesn’t move for a long second. Just watches. The music plays on. No one bats an eye.

He steps forward, cutting across the polished floor like a blade. His voice, when he finally speaks, is low—just enough to be heard.

“You dropped something,” he says flatly to the server. “Your humanity.”

The server blinks, confused for a moment, before offering a polite chuckle. “Ah, sir. They’re new guests. They’re the prizes. Later tonight, there will be an auction. Very exclusive. You understand.”

He doesn’t respond. Just watches the man. One slow blink. One twitch of the jaw.

“Where’s the list?” he asks.

“Pardon?”

“The auction list.”

The server hesitates. “Only bidders are allowed access, and the hosts require—”

“10 000$ and you let me auction.”