Page 13 of Shadow Waltz
“Good afternoon,” she said, her voice carrying easily through the room. “I know you're all anxious about what comes next, so I want to take a few minutes to explain the process.”
She moved to the front of the room, positioning herself where everyone could see her, like a teacher addressing a class or a corporate executive giving a presentation. The casual normalcy of it was somehow worse than outright cruelty would have been.
“Tonight, you'll be participating in a private auction,” Carina continued. “Our clients are people of taste and refinement who understand the value of quality merchandise. They're looking for companions, not just temporary entertainment, so those of you who are selected should consider yourselves fortunate.”
Companions. Merchandise. The euphemisms kept coming, each one more insulting than the last. But I noticed that some of the lots were nodding along, buying into the fiction that what was happening to them was somehow better than the alternatives.
“The process itself is designed to be as dignified as possible,” Carina said. “You'll be presented individually, your unique qualities highlighted and appreciated. Our buyers are discerning, so not everyone will be selected tonight, but those who are will find themselves in comfortable situations with people who can provide for them in ways they've never experienced.”
The runaway kid was listening intently, probably hoping that “comfortable situation” meant something like a job or a place to stay in exchange for light housework. The girl with the bruises was staring at the floor, her expression blank in the way that suggested she'd heard this speech before and knew exactly what it really meant.
“Questions?” Carina asked, scanning the room.
A young man near the front raised his hand tentatively. “What if we don't want to be here?”
Carina's smile didn't waver, but something cold flickered in her eyes. “That's not really a relevant question anymore. You're here, and you're going to remain here until someone decides to take you home. The only choice you have is how you handle that reality.”
“And if we refuse to cooperate?”
This time it was Miguel who spoke, his voice stronger than it had been all day. Every head in the room turned toward him, and I could feel the tension ratchet up several notches as Carina focused her attention on him.
“Then you'll discover that cooperation can take many forms,” she said calmly. “Some voluntary, some not. I think you'll find that voluntary is preferable.”
The threat was subtle but unmistakable. Play along, or we'll make you play along. Smile for the buyers, or we'll give you something to really cry about. The choice was an illusion, just another way of making the victims feel complicit in their own destruction.
“Mr. Santos,” Carina said, consulting her tablet. “This is your third time through our system. I'd think you'd know better by now than to ask questions you already know the answers to.”
Miguel met her gaze without flinching. “Maybe I'm a slow learner.”
“Or maybe you're testing boundaries that don't exist.” Carina made a note on her tablet, probably flagging Miguel as a potential troublemaker. “I hope for your sake that you remember what happened to the last person who thought they could disrupt our operations.”
She didn't elaborate on what had happened to that person, but the implication was clear enough. Step out of line, and you'd disappear in ways that wouldn't show up in any official records. The system had ways of dealing with problems thatdidn't involve police or courts or any of the institutions that were supposed to protect people like us.
“Any other questions?” Carina asked, her tone suggesting that further inquiries would be unwise.
The room stayed silent, the weight of her threat settling over us like a blanket made of lead. Even the runaway kid seemed to understand that this wasn't the time for curiosity or hope.
“Excellent,” Carina said. “Dinner will be served in one hour. I suggest you eat well and get some rest. You have a big evening ahead of you.”
She left the room with the same casual confidence she'd entered with, taking most of the air with her. When the door closed behind her, the silence stretched out like a wire pulled too tight, ready to snap at the slightest provocation.
Miguel leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes again. “Third time's the charm, right?”
“What happened the other times?” I asked.
“First time, I got bought by a collector in Connecticut. Rich old fuck who liked pretty boys who could fight back just enough to make it interesting. Lasted about two years before he had a heart attack.”
“And the second time?”
“Businessman from Chicago. Thought he could break me, turn me into the perfect little housewife. Turned out he was wrong about that.” Miguel's smile was sharp as a knife. “Amazing how much damage you can do with a kitchen knife if you're motivated enough.”
The casual way he talked about violence was both reassuring and terrifying. Miguel had survived by adapting, by learning to be what his owners wanted until the moment came to be what they didn't expect.
I thought about Cass, the way I always did when things got bad enough that hope felt like a luxury I couldn't afford.Wondered where they were now, whether they'd survived their own nightmare, whether they ever thought about the promises we'd made to each other when we were young enough to believe in fairy tales.
“Promise me you'll fight for something better,” Cass had said, their voice weak but determined even as blood ran down their chin. “Even if it hurts. Especially if it hurts.”
I'd made that promise, but I'd also broken it. For years, I'd chosen survival over resistance, compliance over defiance, because fighting back had seemed like a luxury I couldn't afford. But sitting in this room, surrounded by people who'd been reduced to inventory numbers and market values, I realized that I'd been looking at it backwards.