40. Cam
The security guard’s hand tightens around his weapon, his gaze lingering on me a beat too long. He nods toward the thin, fresh scar just above my cheekbone.
“Interesting mark.”
I don’t flinch. “Yeah,”
I say coolly, adjusting my cuff.
“Amazing what these girls can do when they’re not properly sedated.”
It lands exactly how I want it to—casual, cruel and completely believable. His suspicion fades, replaced by a flicker of amusement. He gives a grunt of approval, the kind men like him mistake for camaraderie, then steps forward to pat me down. Quick, impersonal. He checks my pockets, brushes past the burner phone, then waves me through, allowing me to step into the den.
It’s colder in here, and it’s been decorated to look sleek and expensive. The lighting is low, the air thick with cologne and anticipation. About fifteen men mill around, all dressed in tailored suits like mine, sipping whiskey, checking their watches, murmuring to each other in low voices. Predators in polished shoes.
They’re waiting to be let into the auction room.
There will be more online, no doubt—anonymous bidders hiding behind screens. But these are the ones who like to see the merchandise up close. The ones who want to inspect the girls like livestock before they buy.
I scan the room, keeping my expression neutral. Detached. Interested, but not overeager.
The plan is simple; bid, but don’t win. Blend in. Talk just enough to be remembered, but not questioned. Embed myself deep enough that they start to trust me.
Because the closer I get to them, the closer I get to her.
And I’ll walk through every circle of hell if it means getting Nell back.
A chime sounds—soft and utterly out of place—and the double doors at the far end of the lounge swing open.
A man in a charcoal suit steps out, clipboard in hand, earpiece tucked discreetly beneath slicked-back hair.
“Gentlemen,”
he says with a practiced smile.
“the viewing is about to begin. If you’ll follow me.”
The room stirs. Conversations end mid-sentence. Glasses are set down. Every man straightens his jacket, adjusts his cufflinks, and moves as one toward the doors like they’re being summoned to a private tasting.
I fall in line, keeping my pace measured, my expression unreadable. Just another buyer. Just another monster in a suit.
We’re led down a short corridor, the lighting dimming with each step. The air changes—cooler now, sterile, like a gallery or a morgue. The walls are lined with velvet drapes, soundproofing the space, swallowing our footsteps whole.
Then we enter the room.
It’s quiet. Too quiet.
A semicircle of leather chairs faces a raised platform at the centre, lit by a single overhead spotlight. The rest of the room is cloaked in shadow. A bar lines the back wall, untouched, because let’s face it, no one’s here for drinks.
I take a seat near the edge, close enough to observe, far enough not to draw attention. The others settle in, murmuring to each other in low tones—discussing numbers, preferences, past purchases like they’re comparing vintage wines.
A man steps onto the platform. He’s tall, silver-haired, wearing a three-piece suit and a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.
“Gentlemen,”
he begins, voice smooth as silk.
“Thank you for joining us tonight. We have a particularly rare selection for you—fresh arrivals, unspoiled, and highly exclusive. As always, discretion is paramount. No recordings. No names. Just numbers.”
He gestures to the side, and a door opens.
And the first girl is led in.
She’s young. Barely eighteen, if that. Wearing nothing but a thin slip of material, her eyes vacant, her body trembling. A handler stands just behind her, hand on her shoulder like she’s a product on display.
The room leans forward.
I force myself to stay still. To breathe. To watch.
The auctioneer’s voice cuts through the silence, calling out numbers like he’s selling art or livestock. Around me, men begin pressing the remotes we were handed at check-in—small, sleek devices that make it all feel disturbingly normal. A few bids flash in from online, their presence marked only by a soft chime and a number on the screen behind the stage.
I place a bid of my own—low, noncommittal—just enough to blend in. Just enough to keep suspicion off my back.
But all I can do is watch.
The girl on stage is barely standing. She’s trembling, her arms wrapped around herself like she’s trying to disappear. Her eyes are wide, glassy, staring somewhere far beyond the room. She’s not here—not really. She’s already retreated somewhere inside herself, and I know that look. I’ve seen it before.
She’s petrified.
Disconnected.
Gone.
And I know—deep down, in the part of me that still dares to hope—that I won’t be able to save her. She’ll vanish into the hands of some predator with a black card and a dead soul, and whatever life she had before this will be erased.
She’ll live her own private version of hell.
And no one will come for her.
I clench the remote in my hand, forcing myself to stay still. To stay in character. Because if I break now—if I so much as flinch—I lose everything.
The bidding ends with a final chime and the curtain draws closed around the stage, swallowing the girl like she was never there. Just another transaction. Just another body sold.
A waiter appears beside me, silent and efficient, and sets a glass of whiskey on the table. I nod without looking at him, then throw it back in one swallow. The burn scorches down my throat, but it’s not enough—not nearly enough—to sear away the guilt curdling in my gut.
I deserve worse.
For watching. For pretending. For playing along.
But before I can drown in a wave of guilt the curtain parts again.
Another girl steps onto the stage—or rather, stumbles. She’s young, maybe even younger than the last. Her limbs are loose and uncoordinated, her head lolling slightly as she tries to stay upright. She’s drugged. I can see it in the way her eyes struggle to focus, in the way her knees buckle with every step.
She’s being held up by nothing but instinct and willpower.
Just like Nell was.
The room shifts forward again—predators scenting weakness. The bidding will start soon. The men around me murmur, amused, as if her fragility makes her more valuable.
I grip the remote tighter, my knuckles whitening, knowing all I can do is sit here silent and watch as her life is ripped from her.
I can’t save this one either.
But I’m getting closer.
Every second I endure this nightmare, every lie I tell, every bid I place—it all brings me one step nearer to her.
And when I finally have Nell in my arms again, it will all be worth it.
The next round begins. The bidding starts higher this time, and it drags on longer—two men locked in a silent war, their remotes flashing as they try to outbid each other.
The girl on stage doesn’t even flinch. She’s gone somewhere deep inside herself, and I don’t blame her.
The night unfolds in the same sick rhythm.
Girl after girl. Life after life. Stolen, stripped, and sold.
They’re not whores. They’re not willing. They’re just girls—young, terrified, and thrown headfirst into a world they never had a chance to understand.
I place a few more bids, just enough to stay in character, though each one feels like a betrayal. But I remind myself—if I try to save any of them now, I lose Nell. And I can’t lose her. Not again.
It’s her or them.
And right now, it has to be her.
When the final girl is sold and the curtain closes for the last time, the men drift back into the lounge. The mood shifts into something lighter, celebratory. Glasses clink. Laughter rises. They compare purchases like they’ve just left an art auction, not a human marketplace.
I join them, just enough to blend in. I sip my drink, nod at the right moments, ask the right questions. Every word is a performance. Every smile a mask.
“I must admit,”
one man says, raising his glass.
“I haven’t seen you at these auctions before.”
I offer a casual shrug.
“Just moved back down from up north. I used to attend the circuits up there. But I have to say…”
I lower my voice, lean in slightly.
“The stock down here? Much better quality.”
The words taste like poison.
But I say them anyway.
Because this is the only way in.
And I’ll crawl through hell on my knees if it means getting her out.
“Tell me about it,”
the man says, swirling the amber liquid in his glass.
“Some of the ones I’ve picked up over the last few weeks? Outstanding. It’s rare we even get a look in these days, though—not with the Broker sniffing around.”
I keep my expression neutral, but my ears sharpen at the name.
“I know he never shows up in person,”
the man continues, lowering his voice slightly.
“but he always sends someone. Always. Jammy bastard manages to scoop up half the stock before the rest of us can blink.”
The Broker.
That’s a name I’ll be digging into the second I’m out of here.
“In fact,”
he adds, leaning in conspiratorially.
“I’m pretty sure he’s hosting his own auction soon. Probably clearing out the old inventory to make room for the next intake. Standard practice and all that.”
He rolls his eyes and takes another sip.
“I’ll be there. Looking to make a bigger purchase this time—I might finally get my hands on something premium. But honestly, this sable rep, or whatever they call themselves is always at these events, so if you see his name get your bids in quick.”
I nod, forcing a smirk, the words already burning my throat.
“Sounds like a good opportunity. I’ve been meaning to expand my collection.”
I want to vomit.
I want to grab this man by the throat and make him choke on every word he just said.
But I can’t. Not yet.
Being undercover is a mindfuck.
I’m walking, talking, breathing the very thing I swore I’d destroy.
But I’ll play the monster if it means saving her.
The hotel room is silent, save for the low hum of the mini-fridge and the occasional creak of old pipes behind the walls. I’ve killed every light, drawn the blackout curtains, and wedged a chair under the door handle. It’s not paranoia—it’s protocol. When you’re digging into the kind of filth I’m about to, you don’t take chances. I can’t risk going home mid operation either, so Boomerang will have to be happy with Talia’s daily visits while I’m away.
I slide the burner laptop from its case and boot into a hidden operating system—one I built myself. No traceable IPs, no auto-logins, no connection to anything that could lead back to me. Just a clean, encrypted shell and a tunnel into the underworld.
The browser launches with a flicker. I route through three layers of VPNs, then bounce through a private relay in Estonia. It’s slow, but safe. I’m not just browsing—I’m infiltrating.
I navigate to a hidden forum I’ve been monitoring for months. It’s called The Velvet Room, a grotesque euphemism for what it really is—a marketplace for human lives. The interface is sleek, disturbingly professional. Categories are coded in euphemisms—‘inventory, merchandise, private viewings’. Each thread is a window into someone’s nightmare.
I log in using my cover identity: T_Hale47. The profile is thin but credible—low activity, a few cryptic comments, a history of ‘browsing’ but never buying. Enough to pass as a cautious but serious client.
I scroll past threads labeled; New Eastern stock – verified only, Clearance event – no questions asked, Private showcase: 12 lots, all unlisted
Then I see it.
[INVITE ONLY] Broker Winter Auction – 3 Days Remaining
Location: Disclosed to verified clients only
Inventory: 12 lots [unlisted]
Live bidding begins at 21:00 GMT. Remote access permitted with biometric verification.
The post is pinned, locked, and encrypted. But the metadata is enough to confirm it—this is real. The Broker is hosting a private auction. And it’s happening in three days.
I scan the RSVP list. Most usernames are anonymised strings of numbers and symbols. But one stands out; Sable_Rep.
That’s it. The Broker’s representative. The one who shows up in his place. The one who handles all the transactions, the logistics, and the girls. I’ve only managed a quick sweep so far, but I’ve learnt enough about Sable_Rep to know he handles all the dirty work.
I click the profile. It’s locked, of course—no posts, no messages, no history. But I don’t need access to the account. I just need the trail.
I launch a script I embedded in a similar forum weeks ago—a zero-day exploit that scrapes metadata from encrypted profiles. It’s a long shot, but it’s all I’ve got.
The screen flickers.
A ping.
An IP fragment.
A location tag—London. Soho district.
Got you.
I sit back, heart pounding, the glow of the screen casting shadows across the room. The Broker’s auction is real. It’s happening soon. And Nell might be there. The chances are she’s hasn’t been transported too far yet, and if he’s in the area hunting girls, she may well have been picked up by him or someone attending the auction.
I close the laptop, wipe the session, and stash the drive in the lining of my jacket. My hands are shaking, but not from fear. From fury. From the knowledge that I’m close—so close I can taste it.
Three days.
That’s all I’ve got.