My stomach turns.
What the fuck is this?
I force myself to look past the guards, past the victims, to the front of the room.
There's a long desk. Behind it, three figures.
Lionetti. Jenna. And—
No.
Izzy.
He's sitting there, slouched in his chair, eyes half-lidded and glassy. He looks high. Disconnected. Like he's not even here.
Jenna is leaning forward, arms crossed, watching the screens in front of them. CCTV feeds. Dozens of them. Some show rooms with chairs and masked buyers. Others show hallways, doors, the spinning stage I saw in my dream—
No. Not a dream.
A memory.
They dragged me through there. I remember now. The lights. The stage. The—
A voice crackles through speakers somewhere above us.
A woman's voice. Smooth. Professional.
"One hundred thousand."
A pause.
"One hundred fifty thousand."
Another pause.
"Two hundred thousand. Going once—"
My blood runs cold.
They're bidding.
On people.
On us.
I'm going to be sick.
I squeeze my eyes shut, force myself to breathe, but the nausea won't go away. My head is spinning. My heart is racing. I can still feel the drugs in my system, dragging me down, making everything feel slow and distant and wrong.
Focus, Becca. Focus.
I open my eyes and scan the room again.
Looking for Inez.
She has to be here. She has to—
My gaze lands on a woman slumped against the wall.
