The air in N109 was different—heavy, metallic, humming with the quiet pulse of neon lights that never dimmed.

You didn’t remember how you’d ended up here, only that one moment you were stumbling through the fractured streets, and the next you were being herded into a vast underground chamber filled with murmurs, shadows, and too many eyes.

An auction. But not for Protocores this time. For people.

You were shoved onto the platform, the glaring light burning against your skin blinding. The crowd leaned forward, murmuring numbers, calculating worth as if you weren’t a person but another artifact to be passed around.

And then—silence. A presence cut through the noise like a blade.

From the far side of the chamber, a figure rose. Broad shoulders, sharp eyes that glowed in his usual crimson color. The crowd shifted uneasily, and whispers spread faster than bids:

Sylus.

The leader of Onychinus.

He didn’t need to raise his voice. His very existence was enough to still the room. “I’ll take this one,” he said, his tone casual, as if announcing something inevitable.

The auctioneer stammered, numbers forgotten. No one dared to outbid him. A few tried—until Sylus’s gaze turned their way, cold and amused, and they quickly dropped back into their seats.

When the hammer fell, the room exhaled. You were no longer “for sale.” You belonged to him.