That’s a name I’ll be digging into the second I’m out of here.
“In fact,” he adds, leaning in conspiratorially, “I’m pretty sure he’s hosting his own auction soon. Probably clearing out the old inventory to make room for the next intake. Standard practice and all that.” He rolls his eyes and takes another sip. “I’ll be there. Looking to make a bigger purchase this time—I might finally get my hands on something premium. But honestly, this sable rep, or whatever they call themselves is always at these events, so if you see his name get your bids in quick.”
I nod, forcing a smirk, the words already burning my throat. “Sounds like a good opportunity. I’ve been meaning to expand my collection.”
I want to vomit.
I want to grab this man by the throat and make him choke on every word he just said.
But I can’t. Not yet.
Being undercover is a mindfuck.
I’m walking, talking, breathing the very thing I swore I’d destroy.
But I’ll play the monster if it means saving her.
The hotel room is silent, save for the low hum of the mini-fridge and the occasional creak of old pipes behind the walls. I’ve killed every light, drawn the blackout curtains, and wedged a chair under the door handle. It’s not paranoia—it’s protocol. When you’re digging into the kind of filth I’m about to, you don’t take chances. I can’t risk going home mid operation either, so Boomerang will have to be happy with Talia’s daily visits while I’m away.
I slide the burner laptop from its case and boot into a hidden operating system—one I built myself. No traceable IPs, no auto-logins, no connection to anything that could lead back to me. Just a clean, encrypted shell and a tunnel into the underworld.
The browser launches with a flicker. I route through three layers of VPNs, then bounce through a private relay in Estonia. It’s slow, but safe. I’m not just browsing—I’m infiltrating.
I navigate to a hidden forum I’ve been monitoring for months. It’s called The Velvet Room, a grotesque euphemism for what it really is—a marketplace for human lives. The interface is sleek, disturbingly professional. Categories are coded in euphemisms—‘inventory, merchandise, private viewings’. Each thread is a window into someone’s nightmare.
I log in using my cover identity: T_Hale47. The profile is thin but credible—low activity, a few cryptic comments, a historyof ‘browsing’ but never buying. Enough to pass as a cautious but serious client.
I scroll past threads labeled;New Eastern stock – verified only,Clearance event – no questions asked,Private showcase: 12 lots, all unlisted
Then I see it.
[INVITE ONLY] Broker Winter Auction – 3 Days Remaining
Location: Disclosed to verified clients only
Inventory: 12 lots [unlisted]
Live bidding begins at 21:00 GMT. Remote access permitted with biometric verification.
The post is pinned, locked, and encrypted. But the metadata is enough to confirm it—this is real. The Broker is hosting a private auction. And it’s happening in three days.
I scan the RSVP list. Most usernames are anonymised strings of numbers and symbols. But one stands out; Sable_Rep.
That’s it. The Broker’s representative. The one who shows up in his place. The one who handles all the transactions, the logistics, and the girls. I’ve only managed a quick sweep so far, but I’ve learnt enough about Sable_Rep to know he handles all the dirty work.
I click the profile. It’s locked, of course—no posts, no messages, no history. But I don’t need access to the account. I just need the trail.
I launch a script I embedded in a similar forum weeks ago—a zero-day exploit that scrapes metadata from encrypted profiles. It’s a long shot, but it’s all I’ve got.
The screen flickers.
A ping.
An IP fragment.
A location tag—London. Soho district.
Got you.
