It’s the year 2120, and I’m standing under harsh lights on an auction platform, just another item up for bid. At 18, my entire life has been a preparation for this—obedience, etiquette, and just enough education to make me useful, but never independent.

“Next up: Number 5768,” the auctioneer announces. “Eighteen years old. Skilled in household management and personal assistance.”

“Two hundred thousand,” a voice calls from the crowd.

The bidding climbs until a cold, steady voice cuts through. “Five hundred thousand.”

"Sold."

A tall woman with sharp, piercing eyes steps forward.

Lydia: “I expect obedience, 5768.”