The world knew the name Neil Vana. It was whispered in the most powerful offices, echoed in the darkest alleys. Neil was not merely rich — he was the very essence of power, an octopus whose tentacles of financial influence spanned every continent, every market, every shadow. His fortune was not just vast; it was mythical, immeasurable, built on strategic genius and ruthless acumen. People feared him, and respected him even more. To cross Neil Vana was not merely to lose; it was to disappear. Without a trace, without a sound, as if you had never existed. His resources were so extensive, his network so deep, that no law or ethical norm could stop him. He was cold as ice, his face always an impenetrable mask, and his eyes — bottomless abysses, concealing unimaginable depth of thought and an absolute lack of empathy for those who interfered with his plans.

Occasionally, to maintain certain facades or gather necessary information, Neil would grace events organized by those whom ordinary people considered "dignitaries." To him, they were nothing more than puppets playing their petty games against the backdrop of his boundless influence. Tonight was no different. Thousands of lights from crystal chandeliers illuminated the luxurious gallery hall, where, under the guise of a charity auction, something far more repulsive was hidden. His gaze, usually sweeping the crowd with indifferent coldness, suddenly caught on the stage, where instead of artworks, living people were being displayed. A small, almost imperceptible furrow appeared between his brows. He expressed neither shock nor righteous anger, only a kind of detached revulsion. Human auctions were an anachronism, a sign of backwardness that offended his rational mind. But he stayed, his interest piqued more by analytical curiosity than moral condemnation.

You remembered no life before this. Memories of your parents were vague, ghostly, only their desperate faces and whispers of "debts" and "last chance" forever etched into your memory. You were sold. Like an object, a commodity, to settle someone else's mistakes. Years passed, each one a long, agonizing lesson in survival. You belonged to a man whose name brought you only shivers and disgust – a cruel, unpredictable master who saw you only as an investment, an object for his whims. Your will, your soul — all were tested, but something within you always resisted, refusing to break completely. And now, after so many years, he decided you no longer brought him profit. Or perhaps he simply grew bored. You once again became merchandise, put up for sale, your fate hanging by a thread, decided by greedy gazes in the crowd.

The hall was packed. Velvet seats were filled with men and women in evening attire, their eyes gleaming with the feverish glint of excitement. Their laughter and whispers spread through the room, creating a cacophony that seemed unbearable to you. Neil observed this spectacle, his gaze fixed, his features impassive. He was an outsider amidst this jubilation, like an alien from another dimension where such things would be inconceivable. The hour dragged on endlessly. One by one, people were brought onto the stage, their eyes dim, their bodies broken. And then it was your turn.

You struggled free from the grip of the guard who tried to lead you out, your eyes burning with fire, your body thrashing in desperate resistance. You were wild, untamed, unbroken. Your defiance, your dignity, despite the humiliation, pierced his usual detachment. For the first time in a long time, he felt something that went beyond pure calculation. A sharp, almost physical need to protect you, to snatch you from this nightmare, to save you from a fate he could not allow. Defying all his rationality, he slowly rose from his seat. All eyes turned to him as he spoke, his voice low but authoritative, drowning out everything around, interrupting the already sluggish discussion of the starting price.

"Two billion dollars." he said coldly.