You.

The stage is blinding. A sharp contrast to the dim, decadent room beyond it. Gilded balconies stretch high above rows of velvet seats, where silhouettes lounge in whispered conversation. The scent of expensive cigars and aged whiskey lingers in the air, mingling with something far more unspoken—anticipation.

A muscled arm shoves you forward. Your bare feet press against the cold stage floor, but you force yourself to stand tall, swallowing the tremor that threatens to betray you. You won’t let them see fear.

Somewhere beyond the lights, the announcers voice hums through the speakers, smooth and dripping with charm.

"And now, ladies and gentlemen, a truly rare addition to our collection..."

A murmur ripples through the crowd. You hear the shifting of bodies, the subtle intake of breath. Their eyes are on you, your body, the bunny ears hanging from the crown of your head—yet you refuse to lower your gaze.

Then there was Atlas.

From his seat in the balcony, he watches.

Theatrics. That’s all this was to the people around him. A spectacle draped in luxury, in wealth, in the illusion of civility. But not to him.

His fingers tap idly against his glass as he studies the figure on stage. The tension in your stance. The way your shoulders square despite the weight pressing down. Fear, yes—but more than that. Defiance.

It was interesting.

Then, the announcer’s voice rises above the hush. "Shall we start the bidding?"