Chapter 74
Chapter 74
Elise's POV
The lights in the hall dimmed.
Not a complete blackout, but reduced to an ambiguous brightness—just enough to make out the silhouettes of people and objects, yet casting everything in a veil of haze. The crowd settled into silence, conversations fading away, all eyes converging on the platform ahead, illuminated by a spotlight.
The auctioneer took the stage.
A middle-aged man in a tailcoat, hair slicked back without a strand out of place, leaning on a slender black cane, his face wearing a professional smile. He delivered his opening remarks in three languages—English, French, and one I couldn't identify—then bowed slightly, signaling the entrance of the first lot.
"Distinguished guests, welcome to tonight's main event."
His voice came through the sound system, deep and smooth, reverberating through the hall.
"Tonight's rules remain the same as always: all items have been authenticated, transactions settled in cash or equivalent assets, and all sales are final. Additionally, permit me to remind you all—" He paused, his smile deepening, "tonight's offerings may venture into certain... sensitive territories. If your constitution is not sufficiently robust, I suggest relocating to the jewelry section downstairs."
A ripple of laughter spread through the audience.
Someone said something at a volume I couldn't quite catch, and the person beside them laughed in response. The atmosphere was relaxed and languid, like a gathering of old friends at a private party.
"Then." The auctioneer tapped his cane lightly against the floor. "Let us begin. The first lot."
The spotlight swung toward a door at the side of the platform. The door opened.
A woman walked out.
I held my breath.
She was beautiful. The kind of meticulously crafted, almost unreal beauty—mixed-race features with the depth of a sculpture, black hair cascading to her waist, lips painted a rich crimson, her figure barely contained by a scant black garment. Her gait had been trained, each step landing on some invisible beat.
But her expression was empty.
Those eyes looked forward without focus, without emotion.
The auctioneer began his introduction:
"Twenty-two years old. Eurasian heritage, fluent in four languages. Piano grade ten, three years of professional equestrian training. Medical report available here—" He gestured toward a screen beside him. "All indicators perfect. No bad habits, no family history of hereditary disease. Personality assessment shows extremely high compliance."
He paused, scanning the audience below.
"Starting bid: three hundred thousand US dollars."
The bidding began.
Someone raised their paddle. A man in a dark gray suit seated in the front left row, without even glancing at the price, simply held up his number.
"Four hundred thousand." Another voice came from the right. A woman, around fifty, wearing a string of pearls, her voice lazy.
"Five hundred thousand."
"Seven hundred thousand."
The numbers climbed rapidly. Those raising paddles showed no sign of tension; some were even chatting with their neighbors.
"Hey, Marc." I heard someone say. "Does your wife know you're buying pets again?"
A burst of laughter.
The man called Marc—the one who'd bid first—didn't even turn his head: "What could she do if she found out? The last one ran off in less than six months. I need a replacement."
"Well, you'd better keep a closer eye on this one." Someone else chimed in. "This one looks like she's got more spirit than the last. If she runs, you won't catch her."
Another round of laughter.
I clenched the fabric on my lap.
The way they discussed that woman—it was like debating a potentially defective appliance. No malice, no deliberate degradation—just pure, matter-of-fact refusal to see her as human.
The woman on stage hadn't moved once throughout.
I felt something uncomfortable churning in my stomach.
Instinctively, I looked toward Victor.
He was leaning back against the sofa, one hand resting on the armrest, the other holding his whiskey, his gaze falling on the hall beyond the window, expression indifferent.
Uninterested.
For some reason, I felt relief.
The thought seemed absurd even as it formed. What difference did it make whether he cared? If he didn't buy her, someone else would.
But I still felt relief.
Victor noticed my expression and turned to look at me.
"Uncomfortable?"
I didn't answer.
"Where there's demand, there's trade." His voice was flat. "Even if this place shut down, the same thing would happen somewhere else tomorrow. You can stop one auction. You can't stop human nature."
I nodded.
I knew it was true. Didn't mean I had to like it.
When the second lot appeared, I'd already braced myself. But this time the item wasn't a person—or rather, not a complete person.
The auctioneer's tone shifted, carrying a subtle gravity:
"The second lot. A service commitment."
He didn't bring anyone onto the stage, instead pointing to the screen behind him. A photo appeared—a man's face blurred for processing, but the sharp contours and blade-like gaze were visible.
"Code name 'The Cleaner.' Freelance operative. Over the past decade, twenty-seven contracts completed across four continents. One hundred percent client satisfaction, zero failure rate."
The audience quieted somewhat. The previous casual atmosphere contracted a degree.
"What's being auctioned is priority service rights. The successful bidder may invoke this individual's services once within the next twelve months—target unlimited, location unlimited, security level unlimited. The only exception is no contracts targeting government officials of the highest level."
"How much?" someone asked.
"Starting bid: two million US dollars."
"Three million." Someone immediately followed.
I looked toward Victor.
He didn't even glance at the window, only raised his glass for a sip.
The subsequent items grew increasingly varied.
One lot was equity transfer for a casino located in a South American country. During the introduction, the auctioneer specifically emphasized the monthly cash flow of that district and the local police's "cooperative attitude." Final price: four million eight hundred thousand. The winner was a fat man in a floral shirt who'd only raised his paddle once, as if buying vegetables at a market.
One lot was an intelligence chain. An internal memo from a major nation's treasury department, involving directional adjustments to three key policies over the next six months. Starting bid one million, final sale at one million six hundred thousand. The buyer was a tall, thin young man who looked not yet thirty, his bidding hand trembling.
"Kid, you got the money?" someone nearby teased.
"I represent my family." The young man's voice shook slightly, but his tone was firm.
"Oh, a rich second generation out to see the world."
"Shut up, let him buy." Another voice cut in, carrying undeniable authority. "That's the Kim family's young master."
The area around the young man instantly quieted.
I watched all of this, the discomfort in my chest slowly transforming into something approaching cold observation. When things beyond normal comprehension pile up densely, human response mechanisms automatically downshift—from shock to curiosity, then to numbness.
I began noticing strange details.
For instance, the final prices here weren't actually that high. That casino equity, based on the profitability the auctioneer touted, should have a payback period under two years—this kind of asset would be fought over tooth and nail at any normal commercial auction. But here, its final price could only be called "reasonable," hardly explosive.