That lands.
Clean. Cruel. True.
“I stay breathing,” I say.
He nods. Good enough.
The room fractures into controlled movement, but I stay where I am for one more second, eyes on the auction clock.
Thirty-four minutes.
Somewhere, Olivia is alive. Somewhere, men think a bid will decide her future. Somewhere, a system that has been moving women like numbers is about to open its door for a buyer and find us behind him.
My breathing is even. My hands are steady. No panic. No blind rage. Only focus.
Now I know how to find you, angel.
Hold on.
I’m coming.
The door opens, and the light on the other side is too bright. That’s my first thought. Not where they’re taking me. Not how many men are waiting. Not whether Cobra has found the trail yet. Just light. White. Sharp. Unforgiving.
It spills into the small room like something sterile and cruel, cutting across the concrete floor, catching on the metal collar around my throat. The spikes inside it press lightly against my skin when I swallow. Not enough to cut. Enough to remind me.
The man at the door lifts the small remote in his hand without saying a word. I see it. I understand. Move wrong. Fight wrong. Breathe too hard at the wrong time.
Die.
My fingers curl at my sides, nails digging into my palms. I want to cover myself. I want to cross my arms over my chest, turn away, disappear into anything that isn’t this. I don’t. Because they’ll see that too. Because they want that. Because everything about this is designed to make me small before anyone even touches me.
“Walk,” the man says. One word. Flat. Transactional.
I step forward. My legs don’t feel steady. They haven’t since they freed me from the bed, since blood rushed back into my limbs in painful waves, since that silent woman painted my face and made my hair fall in soft, pretty waves around shoulders that still ache from being pulled too tight. The lingerie they gave me is barely clothing. Less than I’d wear at a pool. Less than I’d wear anywhere by choice.
The fabric digs in places it shouldn’t and exposes places that make my skin feel too thin. Every step reminds me that I don’t belong to myself in this room, at least not in the way they want me to believe. But I do. Somewhere underneath the collar, the makeup, the fear, the cold burn of shame trying to crawl up my throat—
I do.
The hallway opens into a larger space. I stop for half a second. I can’t help it. Mirrors. Everywhere. Walls of them. Panels angled so there’s no direction I can look without seeing myself reflected back in pieces. My face. My legs. The collar. The harsh light on my skin. The tremble I’m trying to hide. A mirrored runway stretches ahead of me, glossy black beneath my bare feet, bright white lights lining both sides like a path toward something I don’t want to reach.
Cameras are mounted everywhere. Some fixed high in the corners. Some closer, placed at angles that feel deliberate and violating even before they move. Red lights blink on their fronts. Tiny, steady pulses. Watching. Recording. Selling.
This isn’t a room.
It’s a system.
That thought lands cold and clear. Not some basement full of men making ugly decisions in the dark. Not something messy and chaotic that can be dismissed as a nightmare. This is organized. Clean. Designed.
Someone built this. Someone paid for the lights, the mirrors, the platform, the cameras. Someone designed the page they’ll show me on. Someone decided how I should stand, how I should turn, how much of me they could display without needing to say the truth out loud. They aren’t hiding the evil. They polished it until it looked expensive.
“Move,” the man behind me says.
The collar presses when I flinch. I step onto the runway.
The surface is cold under my feet.
A voice comes through hidden speakers, smooth and detached. “Lot seventeen entering.”
