Page 21 of Shadow Waltz
The corridor leading to the auction floor stretched ahead like a throat waiting to swallow me whole. Classical music drifted through hidden speakers, some waltz that probably cost more to license than most people made in a year. The sound scraped against my nerves like fingernails on concrete, too beautiful for what was about to happen, too clean for the filth it would soundtrack.
I'd heard stories about this place during my previous three trips through the system. The Shadow Auction, they called it. Run by someone known only as “The Prince”—a name that carried weight in circles where real names got you killed. Theother operations I'd been sold through were amateur hour compared to this. Whitmore's private collector network, Webb's Chicago connections—they were small-time compared to what I'd heard about The Prince's empire.
They said he was untouchable, that he'd built something that made other trafficking networks look like corner drug dealers. They said he collected broken things and made them beautiful, that he turned human misery into performance art. Most importantly, they said no one who went through his auction ever escaped to tell about it.
I'd been through this three times before, and each time I'd told myself I'd find a way out, that I'd survive long enough to burn it all down. But that was before Julian's betrayal broke something inside me that I couldn't fix. Before I understood that trust was just another word for suicide, that hope was the cruelest joke the universe played on people like me.
Now I just felt tired. Bone-deep, soul-killing tired that made every breath feel like drowning in slow motion. The fight had gone out of me somewhere between the holding cell and this moment, leaked away like blood from a wound that wouldn't heal. Maybe it was better this way. Maybe surrender was the only honest response to a world that had made it clear I was nothing more than merchandise to be bought and sold.
The doors to the auction room loomed ahead, and beyond them I could hear the murmur of voices and the clink of champagne glasses. Rich people making small talk while they waited to buy human beings, treating atrocity like entertainment. The casual evil of it should have made me angry, but anger required energy I no longer possessed.
“Don't cause trouble,” one of the guards muttered as we approached the entrance. “The buyers don't like damaged goods that fight back.”
I almost laughed. If only they knew how thoroughly broken I already was, how little there was left to damage. But I kept my mouth shut and my eyes forward, playing the role of compliant victim one more time. What was the point of fighting when the outcome was always the same?
The spotlight hit me like being born into hell for the fourth time. Hot and blinding after the dim corridors, it turned everything beyond its reach into impenetrable shadow. I squinted through the glare at rows of masked faces that reflected the light like porcelain death masks, each one representing money and power and the kind of hunger that devoured everything it touched.
The theater had clearly been beautiful once, probably sometime in the early 1900s when this part of the city still had pretensions of culture. Crystal chandeliers cast fractured light across velvet seats arranged in careful hierarchies of wealth and influence, and the architecture spoke of an era when people believed in beauty for its own sake. Now it was just another backdrop for human misery, elegance turned obscene by the purpose it served.
The air itself felt thick with expensive cologne and barely contained violence, the kind of atmosphere that made your skin crawl even when you couldn't identify the specific threat. I caught fragments of conversation from the front rows—Russian, German, Spanish—languages of money and power discussing my body like it was a piece of art they were considering for their collections.
“Ladies and gentlemen, Lot 17,” the auctioneer announced, his voice booming with theatrical enthusiasm. “A fascinating specimen of resilience and spirit, seasoned by experience but retaining that essential spark our clients find so appealing.”
Specimen. Seasoned. Essential spark. The words washed over me like acid rain, each euphemism another layer ofdehumanization designed to make what happened here feel civilized. I'd heard variations of this script three times before, in different venues with different buyers, but the core never changed. They always made it sound like a privilege, like being sold was somehow better than the alternatives. This auctioneer was more polished than the others, his delivery smoother, but the product he was selling was the same broken boy I'd always been.
“Note the fine bone structure,” the auctioneer continued, circling me like a predator sizing up prey. “The lean muscle definition earned through years of... character-building experiences. The scars that speak to a life fully lived, each one a story waiting to be explored.”
He gestured for me to turn around, and I obeyed because resistance was pointless. I'd learned that lesson in three previous auctions, where fighting back had only resulted in additional pain and higher starting bids. The spotlight followed my movement, casting my shadow across the stage like a cross waiting for crucifixion. I could feel hundreds of eyes cataloguing my body, reducing me to the sum of my parts, calculating my worth based on damage and beauty in equal measure. The evaluation was more thorough here, more professional. These weren't the desperate perverts who'd bid on me before—these were connoisseurs of human misery.
In the front row, a woman in silk leaned forward with obvious interest. She had the kind of predatory elegance that came from never being told no, never facing consequences for the harm she caused. Diamonds glittered at her throat like captured stars, and her blonde hair was pulled back in a style that probably cost more than most people's rent. When she smiled, I saw the hunger that lay beneath her sophisticated mask—the same look Julian used to get when he thought I wasn't watching.
“Magnificent,” she murmured to her companion, a man whose face looked like it had been carved from marble by someone with a grudge against humanity. “Such beautiful damage. You can practically taste the trauma.”
The casual way she discussed my suffering made my stomach clench, but I forced myself to remain motionless. Movement was weakness, emotion was vulnerability, and I had none left to spare.
Two rows back, a Russian oligarch whose face I recognized from news reports studied me through opera glasses, as if I was a specimen in a museum exhibit. Roman Sokolov—the kind of man who started wars for entertainment and considered human suffering a commodity to be traded on global markets. His presence here meant serious money was about to change hands. I'd heard his name whispered in the Chicago operation, always with the kind of fear that came from knowing what happened to people who crossed him.
But it was the figure in the private box above the main floor that made my skin crawl with instinctive recognition. Even through the spotlight's glare, I could feel the weight of that particular gaze, different from the hungry stares around me. This one studied me with calculating intelligence rather than simple lust, as if trying to solve a puzzle rather than price a commodity.
The Prince. It had to be. The stories hadn't mentioned how young he looked, or how his stillness made him seem like a predator carved from shadow and patience. He sat perfectly motionless in his private box, observing the proceedings with the detached interest of someone who owned everything he could see.
There was something about the way he held himself that reminded me of every dangerous man I'd ever encountered, but amplified to a degree that made my nerves sing withwarning. This wasn't just another buyer with money and twisted appetites. This was something else entirely—apex predator in human form, the kind of monster that other monsters feared.
“The bidding will begin at fifty thousand dollars,” the auctioneer announced, and the first paddle went up.
The casual way they discussed the price made my stomach turn, but I'd learned to swallow that particular brand of nausea years ago.
“Sixty thousand,” called a voice from the back.
“Seventy-five,” countered another.
Each bid was a nail in the coffin of my freedom, but I felt nothing. I'd watched this same process three times before, seen my life reduced to numbers on paddles held by people who saw me as entertainment. The bidding always followed the same pattern—cautious opening, gradual escalation, then a feeding frenzy when the serious buyers started competing. The numbers meant nothing. The people meant nothing. Even my own life felt like an abstract concept, important to someone else but meaningless to me.
The woman in silk raised her paddle with casual elegance. “One hundred thousand.”
The ease with which she increased the previous bid made something crack inside my chest, but it wasn't anger. It was the sound of whatever was left of my spirit finally giving up completely. She could afford to buy me like a piece of furniture, use me until she got bored, then discard me without a second thought. That was my value in this world—entertainment for people with more money than conscience.
“One twenty-five,” called Sokolov, his voice carrying the casual authority of someone who'd never been told no.