The process is fast. Each asset is on stage for less than five minutes. The buyers ask no questions, make no overt bids. Instead, they tap out offers on their tablets, the numbers visible only to the auctioneer. Each transaction is finalized with a gentle beep, and the asset is ushered away, replaced by the next.
I tune out most of it. The pattern is always the same: the youngest and prettiest go first, then the exotics, then the men. By the time they’re rolling out the third or fourth set, the buyers are restless, checking their feeds for news of the outside world. It’s transactional, a way to pass the time until something better comes along.
But then they bring out #437.
At first, I think they’ve made a mistake. This one is older, twenty or twenty-one. Male, slim, bruises visible even under the harsh white light. His hair is too long, pulled back in a messy knot, and there’s a faint ring around his throat where a collar used to be. He walks to the center of the pit and stands with his hands at his sides, fingers curled in toward his palms.
The buyers react differently to him. Some look up from their tablets, a few lean forward. The auctioneer clears his throat.
“Asset 437. Elliot Rowe. Age: twenty-four. Five-foot-eight. Fluency in English, intermediate Mandarin. Clean genetic andcriminal profile.” He pauses, glances at his own notes. “High resilience to discipline. Responsive to both positive and negative reinforcement. No prior ownership outside official channels.”
I step forward, closer to the railing. There’s something about this one—nothing to do with his stats. It’s the way he holds himself, like he’s folded in on an axis no one else can see. His shoulders are hunched, but not from cold. It’s protection, a reflex older than language. His jaw is set, but his gaze is fixed on the floor, not defiant, not broken.
Dissociated.
The auctioneer signals for closer inspection. One of the buyers—older, pale, his face familiar from the dossiers—stands and walks down to the edge of the pit. He circles the asset, looking for flaws. He reaches out and grips the boy’s chin, tilting his head up.
That’s when I see it. The bruises around the neck aren’t from restraint. They’re old, healed just enough to turn yellow at the edges. The collarbones jut out too sharply, like he hasn’t eaten in a week. But it’s the hands that give it away: the tremor, so subtle only someone trained for it would see. Every muscle is ready to recoil. Survival on autopilot.
The buyer releases his chin and steps back. Elliot’s head drops immediately, hair falling over his eyes. His breathing is shallow,but not out of panic. Just…less. Like the body has decided it only needs half as much oxygen as everyone else.
My hands curl against the rail, nails pressing into the flesh. I don’t feel anger. I don’t feel anything. But the patterns are all there, and once I see a pattern I can’t unsee it.
The auctioneer drones on. “Bidding will open at—”
He never finishes. One of the buyers interrupts with a raised hand, the other buyers follow. In seconds, the numbers spike, each higher than the last. The room, silent before, is now an orchestra of fingers on glass, a digital war over a commodity that doesn’t even flinch.
Elliot stands there, waiting for the end.
I know the feeling. I’ve lived it.
I stare until the auctioneer’s voice breaks through. “Final call for Asset 437. Any further offers?”
Something in me tightens.
Not anger. Not need.
Just an unbridled want.
“Going one… going twice…”
None. The sale is complete. The winning buyer logs the purchase, stands, and nods to his handler. The handler writessomething on a slip of paper and passes it to the auctioneer, who tucks it into his suit.
Elliot is led away. Not struggling, not looking back. Just moving forward, one foot in front of the other, the way you do when choice is long dead.
I exhale, and that feeling doesn’t disappear.
Maybe it’s because he’s weak.
Maybe it’s because he didn’t break long ago, like the rest of the line-up will.
But that want only grows with each passing minute.
The floor resets. Another round of assets, another round of numbers. I stand at my post, but my eyes track the side door where they took Elliot. The other buyers are buzzing now—word moves fast in rooms like this, even when no one is speaking above a whisper. A few of them look my way, the same glance I’ve seen from men who think they’re predators but know, deep down, there’s always something larger in the dark.
The auctioneer’s voice smooths over the crowd, but the cadence is off. He’s waiting for something. I know the pattern, know the preamble before a disruption. It’s a learned script: maintain control, always act as if everything is proceeding as designed. Only the weak let you see the tension.
The winning buyer for Asset 437 is old syndicate. His skin is pale, his hair a white sheet pulled tight, and his watch costs more than most houses in this city. The handler with him is young but mean, the kind that cuts corners because no one ever made him bleed. They walk with purpose as they move to the inspection alcove, the handler a pace behind, always scanning for security shifts.
