Chapter 1 Jace #2
There’s a flurry of activity as the buyers skim their screens, check the balance sheets, and load up on whatever digital currency is in fashion this week. One man laughs, a short, dry bark, and the handler next to him elbows him in the ribs. The sound dies instantly.
I watch the perimeter. I always watch the perimeter.
There’s a secondary entrance behind the pit, shielded by a black curtain.
From here I can see the feet of the first two assets, both bare, one shifting from side to side.
An assistant checks their wrists, flashes a light into their eyes, then disappears behind the curtain again.
The first asset is a girl, maybe seventeen. Blonde, tan lines on her shoulders, a ragged pink mark on her cheekbone. She walks out with the rigid, mechanical stride of someone who’s been coached on how to behave in front of strangers. She doesn’t cry, doesn’t look at the buyers.
The auctioneer introduces her by number—214—and lists her features with clinical efficiency.
Height. Weight. Fluency in two languages.
No chronic conditions. Virgin. The buyers make notes, a few raise their hands to signal interest. The girl stands in the center, eyes fixed on the back wall, not even blinking.
The process is fast. Each asset is on stage for less than five minutes.
The buyers ask no questions, make no overt bids.
Instead, they tap out offers on their tablets, the numbers visible only to the auctioneer.
Each transaction is finalized with a gentle beep, and the asset is ushered away, replaced by the next.
I tune out most of it. The pattern is always the same: the youngest and prettiest go first, then the exotics, then the men.
By the time they’re rolling out the third or fourth set, the buyers are restless, checking their feeds for news of the outside world.
It’s transactional, a way to pass the time until something better comes along.
But then they bring out #437.
At first, I think they’ve made a mistake.
This one is older, twenty or twenty-one.
Male, slim, bruises visible even under the harsh white light.
His hair is too long, pulled back in a messy knot, and there’s a faint ring around his throat where a collar used to be.
He walks to the center of the pit and stands with his hands at his sides, fingers curled in toward his palms.
The buyers react differently to him. Some look up from their tablets, a few lean forward. The auctioneer clears his throat.
“Asset 437. Elliot Rowe. Age: twenty-four. Five-foot-eight. Fluency in English, intermediate Mandarin. Clean genetic and criminal profile.” He pauses, glances at his own notes.
“High resilience to discipline. Responsive to both positive and negative reinforcement. No prior ownership outside official channels.”
I step forward, closer to the railing. There’s something about this one—nothing to do with his stats.
It’s the way he holds himself, like he’s folded in on an axis no one else can see.
His shoulders are hunched, but not from cold.
It’s protection, a reflex older than language.
His jaw is set, but his gaze is fixed on the floor, not defiant, not broken.
Dissociated.
The auctioneer signals for closer inspection. One of the buyers—older, pale, his face familiar from the dossiers—stands and walks down to the edge of the pit. He circles the asset, looking for flaws. He reaches out and grips the boy’s chin, tilting his head up.
That’s when I see it. The bruises around the neck aren’t from restraint.
They’re old, healed just enough to turn yellow at the edges.
The collarbones jut out too sharply, like he hasn’t eaten in a week.
But it’s the hands that give it away: the tremor, so subtle only someone trained for it would see.
Every muscle is ready to recoil. Survival on autopilot.
The buyer releases his chin and steps back. Elliot’s head drops immediately, hair falling over his eyes. His breathing is shallow, but not out of panic. Just…less. Like the body has decided it only needs half as much oxygen as everyone else.
My hands curl against the rail, nails pressing into the flesh. I don’t feel anger. I don’t feel anything. But the patterns are all there, and once I see a pattern I can’t unsee it.
The auctioneer drones on. “Bidding will open at—”
He never finishes. One of the buyers interrupts with a raised hand, the other buyers follow. In seconds, the numbers spike, each higher than the last. The room, silent before, is now an orchestra of fingers on glass, a digital war over a commodity that doesn’t even flinch.
Elliot stands there, waiting for the end.
I know the feeling. I’ve lived it.
I stare until the auctioneer’s voice breaks through. “Final call for Asset 437. Any further offers?”
Something in me tightens.
Not anger. Not need.
Just an unbridled want.
“Going one… going twice…”
None. The sale is complete. The winning buyer logs the purchase, stands, and nods to his handler. The handler writes something on a slip of paper and passes it to the auctioneer, who tucks it into his suit.
Elliot is led away. Not struggling, not looking back. Just moving forward, one foot in front of the other, the way you do when choice is long dead.
I exhale, and that feeling doesn’t disappear.
Maybe it’s because he’s weak.
Maybe it’s because he didn’t break long ago, like the rest of the line-up will.
But that want only grows with each passing minute.
The floor resets. Another round of assets, another round of numbers.
I stand at my post, but my eyes track the side door where they took Elliot.
The other buyers are buzzing now—word moves fast in rooms like this, even when no one is speaking above a whisper.
A few of them look my way, the same glance I’ve seen from men who think they’re predators but know, deep down, there’s always something larger in the dark.
The auctioneer’s voice smooths over the crowd, but the cadence is off. He’s waiting for something. I know the pattern, know the preamble before a disruption. It’s a learned script: maintain control, always act as if everything is proceeding as designed. Only the weak let you see the tension.
The winning buyer for Asset 437 is old syndicate.
His skin is pale, his hair a white sheet pulled tight, and his watch costs more than most houses in this city.
The handler with him is young but mean, the kind that cuts corners because no one ever made him bleed.
They walk with purpose as they move to the inspection alcove, the handler a pace behind, always scanning for security shifts.
They bring Elliot out for final delivery.
The protocol is that the asset stands on a glass plinth, wrists visible, shirtless, so that any last-minute flaws are documented before release.
Elliot’s feet are bare, soles pink from the cleaning bath, and his knees threaten to buckle with every step.
The buyer doesn’t speak. He circles once, then reaches out with slow, deliberate fingers and grips Elliot’s jaw.
The handler tells him to open his mouth.
Elliot does, mechanically, like a ventriloquist’s puppet.
They check his teeth, gums, tongue, then move to his arms, twisting each one to inspect the undersides.
When they press on his neck, the bruises bloom under the auction lights, uglier than before. The buyer smiles.
Elliot keeps his eyes down, but I see his chest twitch. The breathing pattern is off—three short, one long, like an engine about to seize. The mask slips. His eyes flick up, just for a second, and I see the flare of panic. The room shivers with the possibility of drama.
The buyer’s hand tightens around Elliot’s chin. “Pretty thing. Shame about the age.”
The handler snickers. “There’s ways around that.”
Something cold settles in my chest. I can’t call it anger. It’s more like alignment, the sensation when all the variables finally fit and there’s only one outcome left on the board.
I step forward from the wall, footfalls soundless, and say, “Mine.”
It’s not loud, but the word lands like a bullet.
The room goes still. The auctioneer freezes, mouth open mid-pitch. The buyers stare, processing what they’ve heard. The handler’s hand drops from Elliot’s arm as if burned. Even the guards on the perimeter stand straighter, not sure if they’re about to become part of the show.
I step up to the edge, locking eyes with the buyer. He recognizes me—of course he does. The Reaper. The Board’s last resort. He’s seen what happens to men who forget their place. He tries to smile, fails, and glances at the auctioneer.
“There’s a protocol,” he says, voice dry. “Bids are final.”
I don’t blink. “Override.”
The auctioneer glances at his tablet, scanning for the code. He finds it and blanches, then looks at me as if waiting for a trick.
“You’re here for security, not procurement,” the buyer says. His confidence is coming back. “If you wanted him, you should have said so before the hammer.”
I ignore him. I turn to the auctioneer. “Release asset 437 to my custody. Effective immediately.”
Silence. In every way that counts, the room belongs to me now.
The auctioneer taps his mic off, voice dropped for discretion. “With respect, Mr. Harrison, this is highly irregular. The Silent will—”
“The Silent sent me.” Not a lie. They sent me everywhere, even if they didn’t know it. I was their scalpel, their failsafe. If I wanted this asset, there was a reason. That was the rule, unspoken but unbreakable.
The auctioneer’s hand trembles as he enters the override code. The security glass slides away from the plinth, freeing Elliot. He stands there, swaying, not yet registering what’s changed.
The buyer huffs, turns to leave, but not before giving me a look that promises trouble down the line. He’ll try something. I make a note of the handler’s face, the way his lips pull back when he’s angry, how his right hand balls into a fist. He won’t need either hand where he’s going.
The other buyers settle back into their seats, but nobody is watching the assets anymore. They’re watching me, waiting to see if I’ll do something worth remembering.
I move to the glass and look Elliot over. He won’t meet my gaze, but I don’t need him to. The tremor is still there, but less, like his body is trying to conserve energy for whatever comes next.
I offer a hand. He hesitates, then places his fingers in mine. The bones are bird-thin, skin warm but clammy. I pull him down, away from the platform, and he follows without resistance.
The auctioneer starts up the next lot, voice brittle as ice.
We walk the perimeter of the floor, past the rows of buyers. Nobody moves to stop us. At the exit, I sign the digital release and press my thumb to the scanner. The confirmation chirps, and Elliot is officially mine.
He walks beside me, eyes on the ground, breathing steadier now. I feel him watching me from the edge of his vision, trying to decide if this is an upgrade or a new flavor of hell. It doesn’t matter. His wants don’t factor into this. Not yet.
We leave the room, and the silence behind us is denser than before.
Down the hall, past the security checkpoints, to the holding lounge where handlers collect their prizes. I sit him on a padded bench and kneel in front of him. He startles, then goes perfectly still.
“Look at me,” I say.
His eyes are liquid, brown and fractured. He does as I ask.
I check his pulse. It’s rapid but not wild. I check his wrists for marks—there are some, but they’re old, faded. His neck is worse. I reach up, brushing my thumb along the side of his throat, feeling the way he tenses under my touch. I don’t linger. I just need to know the boundaries.
“You’re safe for now,” I say.
He nods, but I can tell he doesn’t believe it.
The comm in my ear vibrates. “Status?”
“Event secure,” I reply, not mentioning that I have claimed one of the working stock as my own.
“Destination?”
“Home.”
I help Elliot to his feet. He moves easier this time, like he’s decided to survive a few more hours. That’s good. Compliance is easier when they haven’t given up.
We exit to the night, the air sharp, the city below indifferent. I flag a transport, program the route, and sit him beside me in the back seat. The car glides away from the curb, electric and silent.
He doesn’t speak for a long time. Finally, he says, “Why?”
I look at him, at the way his hands twist together, his knuckles white from pressure.
“Because I can,” I say.
It’s the truth, and also a lie.
The city swallows us whole, and behind us, the world turns, never stopping for the broken or the saved.