A man in a charcoal suit steps out, clipboard in hand, earpiece tucked discreetly beneath slicked-back hair. “Gentlemen,” he says with a practiced smile, “the viewing is about to begin. If you’ll follow me.”
The room stirs. Conversations end mid-sentence. Glasses are set down. Every man straightens his jacket, adjusts his cufflinks, and moves as one toward the doors like they’re being summoned to a private tasting.
I fall in line, keeping my pace measured, my expression unreadable. Just another buyer. Just another monster in a suit.
We’re led down a short corridor, the lighting dimming with each step. The air changes—cooler now, sterile, like a gallery or a morgue. The walls are lined with velvet drapes, soundproofing the space, swallowing our footsteps whole.
Then we enter the room.
It’s quiet. Too quiet.
A semicircle of leather chairs faces a raised platform at the centre, lit by a single overhead spotlight. The rest of the room is cloaked in shadow. A bar lines the back wall, untouched, because let’s face it, no one’s here for drinks.
I take a seat near the edge, close enough to observe, far enough not to draw attention. The others settle in, murmuring to each other in low tones—discussing numbers, preferences, past purchases like they’re comparing vintage wines.
A man steps onto the platform. He’s tall, silver-haired, wearing a three-piece suit and a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.
“Gentlemen,” he begins, voice smooth as silk. “Thank you for joining us tonight. We have a particularly rare selection for you—fresh arrivals, unspoiled, and highly exclusive. As always, discretion is paramount. No recordings. No names. Just numbers.”
He gestures to the side, and a door opens.
And the first girl is led in.
She’s young. Barely eighteen, if that. Wearing nothing but a thin slip of material, her eyes vacant, her body trembling. A handler stands just behind her, hand on her shoulder like she’s a product on display.
The room leans forward.
I force myself to stay still. To breathe. Towatch.
The auctioneer’s voice cuts through the silence, calling out numbers like he’s selling art or livestock. Around me, men begin pressing the remotes we were handed at check-in—small, sleek devices that make it all feel disturbingly normal. A few bids flash in from online, their presence marked only by a soft chime and a number on the screen behind the stage.
I place a bid of my own—low, noncommittal—just enough to blend in. Just enough to keep suspicion off my back.
But all I can do is watch.
The girl on stage is barely standing. She’s trembling, her arms wrapped around herself like she’s trying to disappear. Her eyes are wide, glassy, staring somewhere far beyond the room. She’s not here—not really. She’s already retreated somewhere inside herself, and I know that look. I’ve seen it before.
She’s petrified.
Disconnected.
Gone.
And I know—deep down, in the part of me that still dares to hope—that I won’t be able to save her. She’ll vanish into the hands of some predator with a black card and a dead soul, and whatever life she had before this will be erased.
She’ll live her own private version of hell.
And no one will come for her.
I clench the remote in my hand, forcing myself to stay still. To stay in character. Because if I break now—if I so much as flinch—I lose everything.
The bidding ends with a final chime and the curtain draws closed around the stage, swallowing the girl like she was never there. Just another transaction. Just another body sold.
A waiter appears beside me, silent and efficient, and sets a glass of whiskey on the table. I nod without looking at him, then throw it back in one swallow. The burn scorches down my throat, but it’s not enough—not nearly enough—to sear away the guilt curdling in my gut.
I deserve worse.
For watching. For pretending. For playing along.
