They bring Elliot out for final delivery. The protocol is that the asset stands on a glass plinth, wrists visible, shirtless, so that any last-minute flaws are documented before release. Elliot’s feet are bare, soles pink from the cleaning bath, and his knees threaten to buckle with every step. The buyer doesn’t speak. He circles once, then reaches out with slow, deliberate fingers and grips Elliot’s jaw.
The handler tells him to open his mouth. Elliot does, mechanically, like a ventriloquist’s puppet. They check his teeth, gums, tongue, then move to his arms, twisting each one to inspect the undersides. When they press on his neck, the bruises bloom under the auction lights, uglier than before. The buyer smiles.
Elliot keeps his eyes down, but I see his chest twitch. The breathing pattern is off—three short, one long, like an engine about to seize. The mask slips. His eyes flick up, just for a second, and I see the flare of panic. The room shivers with the possibility of drama.
The buyer’s hand tightens around Elliot’s chin. “Pretty thing. Shame about the age.”
The handler snickers. “There’s ways around that.”
Something cold settles in my chest. I can’t call it anger. It’s more like alignment, the sensation when all the variables finally fit and there’s only one outcome left on the board.
I step forward from the wall, footfalls soundless, and say, “Mine.”
It’s not loud, but the word lands like a bullet.
The room goes still. The auctioneer freezes, mouth open mid-pitch. The buyers stare, processing what they’ve heard. The handler’s hand drops from Elliot’s arm as if burned. Even the guards on the perimeter stand straighter, not sure if they’re about to become part of the show.
I step up to the edge, locking eyes with the buyer. He recognizes me—of course he does.The Reaper. The Board’s last resort. He’s seen what happens to men who forget their place. He tries to smile, fails, and glances at the auctioneer.
“There’s a protocol,” he says, voice dry. “Bids are final.”
I don’t blink. “Override.”
The auctioneer glances at his tablet, scanning for the code. He finds it and blanches, then looks at me as if waiting for a trick.
“You’re here for security, not procurement,” the buyer says. His confidence is coming back. “If you wanted him, you should have said so before the hammer.”
I ignore him. I turn to the auctioneer. “Release asset 437 to my custody. Effective immediately.”
Silence. In every way that counts, the room belongs to me now.
The auctioneer taps his mic off, voice dropped for discretion. “With respect, Mr. Harrison, this is highly irregular. The Silent will—”
“The Silent sent me.” Not a lie. They sent me everywhere, even if they didn’t know it. I was their scalpel, their failsafe. If I wanted this asset, there was a reason. That was the rule, unspoken but unbreakable.
The auctioneer’s hand trembles as he enters the override code. The security glass slides away from the plinth, freeing Elliot. He stands there, swaying, not yet registering what’s changed.
The buyer huffs, turns to leave, but not before giving me a look that promises trouble down the line. He’ll try something. I make a note of the handler’s face, the way his lips pull back when he’s angry, how his right hand balls into a fist. He won’t need either hand where he’s going.
The other buyers settle back into their seats, but nobody is watching the assets anymore. They’re watching me, waiting to see if I’ll do something worth remembering.
I move to the glass and look Elliot over. He won’t meet my gaze, but I don’t need him to. The tremor is still there, but less, like his body is trying to conserve energy for whatever comes next.
I offer a hand. He hesitates, then places his fingers in mine. The bones are bird-thin, skin warm but clammy. I pull him down, away from the platform, and he follows without resistance.
The auctioneer starts up the next lot, voice brittle as ice.
We walk the perimeter of the floor, past the rows of buyers. Nobody moves to stop us. At the exit, I sign the digital release and press my thumb to the scanner. The confirmation chirps, and Elliot is officially mine.
He walks beside me, eyes on the ground, breathing steadier now. I feel him watching me from the edge of his vision, trying to decide if this is an upgrade or a new flavor of hell. It doesn’t matter. His wants don’t factor into this. Not yet.
We leave the room, and the silence behind us is denser than before.
Down the hall, past the security checkpoints, to the holding lounge where handlers collect their prizes. I sit him on a paddedbench and kneel in front of him. He startles, then goes perfectly still.
“Look at me,” I say.
His eyes are liquid, brown and fractured. He does as I ask.
