Chapter 75

Chapter 75
Elise's POV

"The prices aren't high," I observed aloud.

Victor nodded.

"This is a channel," he said. "People don't come here to buy things. They come to meet people. Behind every item is a person, a power. The bidding process itself is a display—how much money I have, what resources I can mobilize."

He set down his glass.

"But when there's a need to demonstrate real power—there are exceptions."

I understood only vaguely.

At that moment, the atmosphere outside the window shifted again.

The auctioneer spoke once more, his voice lower and slower than any previous time:

"The next lot. Please pay special attention."

The screen on stage lit up, displaying not a photograph but a screenshot of densely packed technical documentation. Chemical structural formulas, flowcharts, data tables—I couldn't understand most of it, but I recognized a few words.

Addictive. Rapid onset. Undetectable.

My breath caught for an instant.

"A working formula for a novel compound, complete with full manufacturing process."

The auctioneer's voice echoed through the hall:

"This substance's addiction speed is approximately 300% faster than existing products on the market. A single use can produce dependency, and after three consecutive uses, the withdrawal success rate is less than three per thousand."

The hall fell terribly silent.

"As for side effects, the development team has done quite excellent optimization. The burden on the cardiovascular system is about one-third that of traditional products, and liver and kidney damage is controllable. Users can maintain normal social functioning for a considerable period—meaning it's not easily detected by family, friends, or employers. There's also a benefit: everyone wants customers who can live longer, don't they?"

He paused, revealing a knowing smile.

"In other words, this is an almost perfect product."

A perfect drug.

"It should be noted that this auction lot includes only the technical documentation. The seller provides no production equipment, raw material channels, distribution networks, or any other form of support. The only guarantee is that this technology will not be sold or leaked to any individual or organization other than the winning bidder. Permanent exclusivity."

Exclusivity.

I thought of those clients at the tattoo shop.

People with arms full of needle marks. People so thin they looked like skeletons yet still smiling. People dragged out while they could only convulse. New faces appearing every few days, then never appearing again.

My work as a tattoo artist had exposed me to large numbers of people most ordinary citizens would never encounter. Street thugs, gang lackeys, various marginal figures from gray areas. Some of them used drugs, some sold them, some did both.

If this technology entered the market...

My hands clenched into fists, unable to articulate why I felt so anxious.

"Starting bid: five hundred thousand dollars."

"Six hundred thousand."

"Seven hundred thousand."

Each paddle raise was more deliberate than before. No one was calling out prices casually now; every participant was seriously evaluating.

Eight hundred thousand.

Nine hundred thousand.

Nine hundred fifty thousand—

Victor beside me moved.

He picked up a small metal device from the corner of the coffee table, with only one button on it.

He pressed it down.

Outside the window, the auctioneer's words paused for an instant. Less than half a second, so brief that unless you were watching the entire time you wouldn't notice at all.

But he quickly recovered his composure, his voice even taking on a subtle note of deference:

"Private box zero. One million dollars."

The entire venue fell silent for a moment.

Everyone's gaze turned toward our direction—though through the one-way glass they could see nothing.

I turned to look at Victor.

He leaned back on the sofa, the hand that had just pressed the button already withdrawn, resting again on the armrest, his posture unchanged from before. If I hadn't seen him act with my own eyes, I would have thought he had never participated in this bidding at all.

One million dollars.

He said it so casually, without even blinking.

I felt a chill run through my body.

Fear.

I remembered what I had learned about Victor Sterling's true identity—the third young master of the Sterling family, ostensibly doing clergy work at the New Church, but secretly controlling a vast underground network. How vast exactly? No one could say for certain. But one thing was definite: in the shadows of this city, Victor's word sometimes carried more weight than the law.

What if he wanted to release this new drug into the market?

He had the channels. The connections. Sufficient funds to build production lines, establish distribution networks, buy off whoever needed buying. The technology's exclusivity meant that once he decided to do it, no competitor could stand in his way.

It might even be more terrifying than existing drugs. Because its side effects were smaller, more covert. Users could maintain normal lives for a long time, until one day they completely collapsed without realizing it. What did this mean?

It meant more people would unknowingly destroy themselves. More families would shatter. Those street thugs would have one more way to ruin themselves, faster and more ruthlessly.

And I was sitting beside this man at this moment.

Sitting beside someone who might push this thing onto the market.

"Elise."

Victor's voice sounded in my ear.

Only then did I realize my body had tensed up at some point. My fingers gripped the edge of the sofa, knuckles white, breathing shallow and rapid.

He was looking at me. Those gray-blue eyes held no questioning, no displeasure, only a faint expression as if evaluating something.

"What are you thinking?"

I didn't speak.

Not because I didn't want to. But because I didn't know how to begin. Are you planning to make money from this drug? Are you a dealer? Are you part of what destroyed the people I knew? These questions stuck in my throat; I couldn't voice a single one.

Because I was afraid to hear the answer.

Victor looked at me for two seconds, then shifted his gaze away, looking back out at the hall through the window.

"I don't do drug business."

When he said this sentence, his eyes fell on me, serious and solemn, as if reproaching me for even thinking such a thing of him.

I froze.

"This kind of thing getting out would only create chaos," he continued, his fingers tapping rhythmically twice on the armrest. "Addicts are uncontrollable. Uncontrollable people affect controllable environments. And I don't like uncontrollable factors appearing in my territory."

He paused.

"Since it appeared at my auction, I'll acquire it first. Then I'll investigate who's been developing this thing, and whether they have anything else behind them."

I see.

He wasn't buying it to use. He was buying it to contain it. To investigate.

The tension in my shoulders released all at once. My whole body sank back against the sofa as I let out a long breath. I didn't even know how long I'd been holding that breath.

"This is the first time," I said.

Victor turned his head to look at me.

"First time what?"

"The first time you've voluntarily told me about your..." I considered my word choice, "business."