The room begins to stir again—men rising from their seats, murmuring final thoughts, some already placing orders for transport or ‘preparation.’ I stay seated a moment longer, letting the crowd thin. My heart is pounding, but my face stays composed. I can’t afford to slip now.
As much as I want to run to her—tear through the walls and carry her out of this hell—I can’t. Not yet.
I have to keep up the act.
When the majority have filtered out, I follow the others back into the main seating area, where the mood has shifted from anticipation to indulgence. Laughter echoes through the room, glasses clink, and men swap stories about their ‘purchases’ like they’ve just left a high-end car auction. Some are already talking about the next event, comparing notes, trading names.
I slip into a conversation, nodding at the right moments, asking careful questions. Every detail matters. Every thread I pull could lead me closer to the Broker—the man behind all of this. The one I came here to destroy.
This mission doesn’t end tonight.
Not until the whole network burns.
Then he appears—the man who bid against me. His face is flushed, his tie loosened, his ego bruised.
“Congratulations are in order,” he says, forcing a smile. “I had my eye on that one. She was fiery.”
There’s a flicker in his eyes—something dark and possessive. The kind of look that makes my skin crawl.
“Good luck with her,” he adds, voice low. “You’ll need it.”
My jaw tightens. My fists curl at my sides. For a second, I see it—his neck snapping in my hands, the silence that would follow.
But I can’t. Not here. Not yet.
Just as I’m about to lose control, a man in a black suit approaches—clipboard in hand, smile rehearsed to perfection.
“Sir,” he says smoothly, “your paperwork is ready. If you’ll follow me, we’ll finalise the transfer.”
I nod, forcing my expression back into something neutral, and just like that the mask slips back into place.
But inside, I’m already counting down. Because soon, the mask comes off, and when it does, there won’t be anything left of men like him.
I follow the black suit down another corridor—this one quieter than the buzzing foyer. The laughter and clinking glasses fade behind me, replaced by the soft hum of fluorescent lights and the distant buzz of security systems.
He leads me into a small, glass-walled office tucked behind the main floor. Inside, a sleek black desk sits beneath a mounted screen displaying rows of numbers and names—inventory, no doubt. A printer churns softly in the corner, spitting out contracts like this is just another business deal.
“Lot Thirty-One,” the man says, tapping at a tablet. “Final bid, three hundred thousand. Payment method?”
“Wire transfer,” I reply, handing over the forged credentials. “Same account as you have on record.”
He nods, barely glancing at the details. “Excellent. We’ll process the transfer now. Once it clears, she’s yours.”
I watch him work, every keystroke another second I’m not with her. My fingers twitch at my sides, itching to move, to act—but I force myself to stay still. Calm and controlled, as always.
The man glances up. “You’ve got good taste. That one’s been difficult to keep in line. Bit of a wild streak I hear.”
I don’t answer, I just stare.
He clears his throat, suddenly uncomfortable. “Of course, she’ll be delivered to the vehicle bay. You’ll find her sedated and secured for transport. Standard procedure.”
The printer spits out the final page. He slides it across the desk with a pen.
“Signature here.”
I take the pen. My name—my alias—flows across the page in practiced strokes.
With that, it’s done.
