The crowd filters through a set of double doors into the viewing hall—if you can even call it that. It’s more like a showroom, dressed in opulence to disguise the horror. Velvet curtains line the walls, and soft lighting casts a golden glow over the space, as if that could make what’s about to happen feel less monstrous.
Glass display cases line the perimeter, but they’re empty—for now. The real merchandise is kept elsewhere, hidden until the bidding begins.
I move with the others, keeping my breathing steady. My eyes scan everything—not just the people, but the layout. Every room I can glimpse through open doorways, every corridor that twists out of sight. I note the angles, the exits, the blind spots. And the cameras. Discreet, but not invisible. One above the chandelier. Another tucked into the corner near the stairwell. A third just outside the viewing hall, angled toward the main corridor.
I make a mental map of every single one.
I’ll need it later.
A waiter offers me a drink. I take it, not because I want it, but because refusing would draw attention. The glass is cold in my hand, grounding me. Reminding me what I’m here for.
The guests begin to settle into clusters—men murmuring behind raised glasses, exchanging rumours about the “lots” being brought in tonight. I catch fragments of conversation:
“—barely sixteen, untouched—”
“—from Eastern Europe, I think. Perfect skin—”
“—one of them fought back. They had to sedate her.”
My jaw tightens but I keep my face neutral.
A second chime rings out—lower and longer this time. The murmur of conversation fades into silence as the crowd begins to move again, this time toward a set of heavy doors at the farend of the viewing hall. Two guards pull them open, revealing a room that feels more like a theatre than a marketplace.
Rows of plush seats curve around a raised platform at the centre. The lighting is dim, focused entirely on the stage. Velvet drapes hang behind it, deep crimson, like a curtain waiting to be drawn on something obscene.
I take a seat near the middle—close enough to see, far enough not to stand out. Around me, men settle in with the ease of routine. Some sip from crystal tumblers. Others scroll through digital catalogues on sleek tablets, reviewing the ‘lots’ like they’re shopping for antiques.
A man in a white tuxedo steps onto the stage, the same one who welcomed us earlier. He smiles, all charm and polish, as if this is a charity gala.
“Gentlemen,” he begins, voice smooth and practiced. “Thank you for joining us tonight. As always, we appreciate your discretion—and your loyalty.”
A few men chuckle. I don’t.
“Tonight’s selection is exceptional,” he continues. “Each lot has been carefully prepared, thoroughly inspected, and guaranteed to meet the highest standards. You’ll find a range of ages, backgrounds, and temperaments. Something for every taste.”
My stomach turns, but I keep my expression blank.
The first girl is brought out. She can’t be older than fifteen. Her eyes are vacant, her body trembling beneath the thin silk slip they’ve dressed her in. A collar gleams around her neck.
The bidding begins.
Fast. Ruthless. Numbers thrown out like they mean nothing.
Twenty thousand.
Thirty.
Fifty thousand.
Sold.
She’s led offstage without a word.
Another girl follows. Then another. Each one more broken than the last. Some cry. Some stare into nothing. One tries to run and is dragged back, kicking and screaming, by her hair.
All the while I sit here, silent, dying inside, knowing I can’t help any of them.
But then the host’s voice cuts through the room again, a little brighter now, like he’s been waiting for this moment.
