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There was a light behind my eyelids. Bright. White.

Too bright.

My mouth was dry. Limbs heavy. My tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth. Something clung to my temple. My chest ached.

Voices.

Low. Male.

“—delicate, like porcelain.”

“He’ll break easy. That’s why he’s valuable.”

“Look at that mouth. Small. Pretty.”

I blinked. Eyes stinging.

Gray ceiling. Cold light. Metal table under me.

Two men stood overhead—one bald, tattooed. The other sharp-jawed, sneering. Both gloved.

The bald one pinched my chin.

I flinched. “E-excuse me—”

Before the words even formed, he slapped me hard across the face.

Pain bloomed. My ears rang. I fell off the table, landing hard.

“Zatknis’, suka,” the bald one muttered.

I didn’t know what it meant. I understood the threat.

I stayed down, shaking.

Then—“Wh-where’s my brother?”

No answer.

“I-I got a t-text—” I pushed up, dazed. “I-I’m n-not supposed to b-be here. I c-came to f-find—”

“Back on the table,” the other man snapped, grabbing me.

I twisted free, backing into a wall.

“No. P-please—I got a message. His name’s Jesse. Jesse Ruelle—”

My hands fumbled at the door handle. Locked.

“Let me out!”

They moved fast.

One grabbed my neck. The other twisted my arm until I cried out. My foot kicked—pointless. They slammed me onto the table.

“Stupid little bitch,” one spat.

Then—

“Enough.”

A woman’s voice. Cold. Sharp.

The men froze.

She entered. Click of heels. Poise of power.

She was too beautiful. Skin like iced honey. Lazy, dark eyes. Long black hair. Spiral tattoo up her arm. A beauty mark above her lip. Lethal elegance.

She didn’t look at them. Just came toward me.

“Back off the product,” she said, voice accented. Commanding.

The men stepped back instantly.

She crouched in front of me. I pressed into the wall.

“Don’t be scared, sweetheart.” Her voice was silk. “They don’t bite unless I say so.”

Her hand brushed my cheek.

“I’m s-sorry,” I whispered. “I d-don’t understand—”

She tilted her head. “No, darling. You don’t. That’s the problem.”

“Wh-where am I?”

“You came on a Friday. Only products and invitees enter on Fridays.” She frowned. “Someone let you in. Someone’s getting fired. Or worse.”

“I-I’m n-not a product. I got a t-text—about my brother—”

“Which means someone either sent you here… or someone fucked up.” She paused. “Either way, blood’s going to spill.”

“I came f-for Jesse. Please, I—I’m not supposed to be—”

“Oh, honey.” She sighed. “They always come for someone.”

“I’m n-not a—”

She touched my chin and tilted my head up.

“If not for the rules,” she murmured, “I’d keep you.”

The way she said it made my stomach twist.

She stood. “Dress him. No more bruises.”

Only then did I realize—my clothes were gone.

A sheer silk robe clung to my skin. Not mine. Not warm. I hadn’t even noticed.

Hands grabbed my arms.

“W-wait—”

“Shh.” Her voice came close again, breath on my ear.

“Be a good boy. Obey. And maybe you’ll make it through tonight… intact.”

I couldn’t breathe.

As they dragged me out, her eyes never left mine.

The hallway was red-lit. Like the building was in lockdown.

I didn’t speak. Didn’t breathe too loud. My heart pounded in my throat.

We stopped behind a heavy velvet curtain.

One of the men shoved a tiny earpiece into my ear. I flinched.

“Do not fall,” he grunted. “When they call your name, you go.”

I nodded.

He slapped my head anyway.

Then pulled the curtain aside just enough.

My stomach dropped.

A circular stage. Lit blinding white. Three levels of balconies ringed the space, packed with people in full-head masks—bulls, birds, goats, monsters.

No noise.

Just pens clicking. Papers shuffling. Shadows whispering.

The first boy on stage had chains over his chest and silver contacts. Red collar. He didn’t flinch.

“Two million,” the auctioneer said.

Bidding climbed to ten in seconds.

Next—a woman with long braids and caramel skin. She walked barefoot, hips swaying like the stage bowed to her. She sold for twelve.

Then—an androgynous figure. Gray-painted skin, white hair, translucent robe. Crawling with a chain in their mouth.

Fifteen million.

I could barely breathe.

I looked down.

Sheer black robe. Mid-thigh. Gold ribbon at the waist. Nothing underneath. My lips were glossy. I could taste it.

I wasn’t clothed.

I was packaged.

“Next,” a voice echoed through my earpiece. “Product Code: Dove Twelve. Item: Virgin, Male. Rare stock. Low dosage of Cloud Smoke, minor trauma response—”

I didn’t even hear the rest.

The curtain opened, and I was pushed forward.

I stumbled out, hands clenched at my sides, blinking against the light. I could feel them watching. All of them. Dozens, maybe hundreds of people.

I couldn’t make out any eyes. Just masks.

Mortal Elephant. Mortal Bull. Mortal Goat. Mortal Swan. Names lit up across the digital board around the balcony like a scoreboard.

And me.

Just me.

Naked. Alone. Cheap.

“Starting bid: $5,000,” the auctioneer called.

I felt it like a slap.

That’s all?

That’s all I was worth? What the fuck, Luca, did you want to be sold?

“Six thousand,” someone said.

“Ten.”

“Fifty.”

I stood still, shaking. I didn’t dare make eye contact with any of them, even if I could tell where their eyes were. They were whispering. Writing notes. Nodding to the others.

“Seventy-five,” a voice called.

“Eighty.”

“Ninety.”

The bidding stalled. I swallowed hard. Please, I thought. Please just let it end.

Then—

“Four hundred thousand.”

The voice was cool. Unhurried. Feminine.

My eyes jerked toward the sound.

There—two balconies up, stage left—a Fox mask, slender and carved like it was sculpted from bone, turned slightly toward the stage. But it wasn’t the mask that made me choke.

It was the dress.

Black and sleek with silver embroidery, tight to the body like a second skin. The spiral tattoo on her arm coiled just above her glove.

Her.

The woman from earlier.

She leaned back, casual. Like this was nothing.

The board flashed her alias: Mortal Fox.

“Four hundred and fifty,” another voice called.

I looked to the right.

A fat man. Sweaty. His elephant mask was gold-plated, the trunk swinging when he moved. He was fanning himself, already panting.

I could feel my stomach lurch.

“Five hundred.”

“Five-fifty.”

“Six million,” she said, flatly, like she was swatting a fly.

The crowd shifted. Not noisy, just… murmuring. Even the masked ones looked surprised.

My breath caught.

The auctioneer paused.

“Six million,” he repeated. “To Mortal Fox. Going once—”

Then—

“Twenty million,” said a voice.

Loud. Echoing. Warped, like it had been filtered through a machine.

The room froze.

My spine locked up.

The figure stood at the very top level. Alone. Front and center. He was dressed in an obscenely expensive looking suit—black on black, with a blood-red tie—and instead of a mask, he wore a paper grocery bag.

A brown bag. Like the kind you get from a corner store.

Someone had painted a smiley face on it.

Two dots for eyes. One big, crooked grin.

The screen didn’t display his name. It glitched.

No alias. Just the words:

THE DEVIL HAS ENTERED THE BIDDING.