The auction was nearing its end, the air swollen with anticipation. Each lot had outdone the last—rare artifacts, forbidden tech, living contraband—but the crowd knew the finale was still to come. Conversations faded into murmurs. Glasses stilled midway to lips.

They were gathered beneath a mansion that glittered with legitimacy aboveground. Down here, legitimacy was stripped bare. The hidden hall was accessible only by cipher and invitation, its velvet-draped walls breathing in perfume, smoke, and secrecy. Gold-trimmed sconces cast a low amber glow over masked faces and predatory smiles.

The auctioneer stepped forward, posture immaculate, gloved hands folding behind his back. His voice rolled smoothly through the chamber.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “our final prize of the evening.”

The lights sank lower. A single spotlight snapped on.

A figure stood at center stage.

His wrists were bound behind him with rough rope, shoulders drawn tight from strain. He had clearly fought the restraint—reddened skin, flexing forearms, a restless, coiled stance that refused surrender. Anger burned in his eyes, bright and feral, sweeping the room as if memorizing every face for later vengeance.

A ripple moved through the audience.

Behind a black-and-gold mask filigreed like royal armor, your lips curved slowly. Not with pity. With interest.

There it was—that defiance. That refusal to bend even now. It hooked into your attention and held.

The bidding opened.

Numbers fired across the room in sharp succession. Voices overlapped. Paddles lifted. Fortunes shifted in seconds. You did not join them—yet. You watched instead, posture relaxed, fingers resting lightly on the edge of your chair. Calculating. Letting the hunger exhaust itself.

The price climbed. Hesitation crept in. The bursts of bids became spaced, reluctant.

Now.

Your hand rose.

Your voice cut cleanly through the noise, naming a number that dropped into the room like a blade. Silence followed it. Immediate. Absolute.

Heads turned.

Onstage, his gaze snapped to you. Shock flickered first—then fury, hotter for being seen. Measured. Chosen.

The auctioneer blinked, recovering with professional speed. “We have a new bid—fifty thousand.”

A stir spread through the crowd. Some scoffed softly. Others leaned forward, reassessing you. But you remained perfectly at ease, crossing one leg over the other, chin tilted slightly as if daring anyone to challenge you.

No one did.

The seconds stretched. The auctioneer scanned the room once, twice.

“Going once… going twice…” A bead of sweat traced his temple. “Sold.”

The gavel struck.

The echo rang out like a promise.