"Sold to who?"
"Doesn't matter." Scarred Eyebrow pulled something from his inner jacket pocket. Not a gun. A tablet. He turned it to show me a digital document, legal language I couldn't read fast enough, but I caught the important parts. Debt transfer. Asset acquisition. Binding agreement.
"You can't just—"
"Your father signed." Empty Eyes's voice was flat. Matter of fact. "Read the contract. Collateral clause. In the eventof his death, debt transfers to immediate family. That's you, sweetheart."
The floor tilted. My father had put me up as collateral. Had signed paperwork that made me responsible for $2.3 million I'd never borrowed, never spent, never agreed to.
"I'm not going anywhere with you." I stood, testing my knee. It held. Barely. "Whatever you think I owe, we can negotiate—"
"Negotiation's over." Scarred Eyebrow pocketed the tablet. "Contract's been sold to The Settling. You're Lot 37 in tomorrow night's auction. Debt bondage. Someone buys you, someone owns the debt and your service until it's paid off."
The words hit like physical blows. Auction. Debt bondage. Service.
I ran.
Stupid. My knee was bad, they were professionals, the hallway had one exit and it was past them. But my body made the choice before my brain caught up, that same dancer's instinct that had kept me alive through injury and loss and six months of grinding survival.
I grabbed my bag—the Polaroid inside, the photos—and bolted for the door.
Made it past Scarred Eyebrow. He wasn't expecting it, thought I'd keep negotiating, keep being reasonable. Made it into the hallway. Made it four units before my knee buckled and Empty Eyes caught my arm.
He spun me around and I saw the syringe.
I fought. Bit his hand hard enough to draw blood, kicked backward, connected with his shin. He swore. Scarred Eyebrow grabbed my other arm and my bag fell, photos scattering across the concrete.
"Hold her still," Empty Eyes growled.
I thrashed. My knee screamed. I didn't care. The syringe came closer and I tried to twist away but Scarred Eyebrow was toostrong, too practiced, and Empty Eyes caught my face with his free hand, fingers digging into my jaw.
"This can be easy or hard," he said. "Your choice."
I spit at him.
"Hard, then."
The needle went into my neck. I felt the burn, the cold spread, my body going heavy. My legs stopped working. Scarred Eyebrow lowered me to the concrete, not gently but not rough either. Professional courtesy.
Empty Eyes was picking up my photos. The scattered Polaroids. My father's glasses, his books, the samovar. Evidence of everything I was losing.
"Get the camera too," Scarred Eyebrow said.
No. Not the camera. Not the last thing from before.
I tried to speak. My mouth wouldn't work. Tried to reach for it. My arms were lead.
Empty Eyes picked up the Polaroid, tucked it under his arm with the photos.
The hallway lights blurred. My vision tunneled.
The last thing I saw before everything went dark was my father's wire-rimmed glasses materializing in a Polaroid on the concrete beside my face. His ghost made solid. Watching me disappear.
Iwoketothesmellof industrial cleaner and someone practicing numbers through a wall. "Lot 32, opening at fifty thousand . . . Lot 33, opening at seventy-five . . ."
My head felt stuffed with cotton. My mouth tasted like metal and old pennies. When I tried to sit up, the room tilted sideways and I had to close my eyes, press my palms against concrete, wait for gravity to remember how it worked.
Narrow cot. Thin mattress. Scratchy wool blanket. Cinderblock walls painted institutional beige, the kind of color that meant "don't get comfortable." Single overhead light, fluorescent, buzzing like something dying slowly. Metal door with no handle on the inside.
