Page 107 of Brutal Union
For the amount of money in the room, the setting is deliberate in its opulence. The auction isn't hidden away in some dingy basement—it’s held in a private salon on the top floor of a five-star hotel, repurposed just for tonight. The walls are silk-paneled in a muted gold, trimmed with inlaid mahogany and hand-carved molding. Crystal chandeliers hang low over the space, their warm light catching on every ring, every polished shoe, every crystal flute of champagne. There’s a quartet tucked into the far corner playing soft cello and piano arrangements, a soundtrack to human commerce.
Every guest here arrived by invitation only—vetted, escorted through secured elevators, and ushered into this sanctum like royalty. The air is thick with expensive cologne, cigar smoke, and the quiet murmur of small talk. No one raises their voice. Everyone sips with perfect posture. There’s something surrealabout it—this level of control, of etiquette, draped over the ugliest transaction imaginable.
The chairs are identical rows of deep burgundy leather, each stitched with precision and engraved with golden seat tags. Personal attendants linger nearby to top off drinks or adjust a cufflink. The men in attendance are dressed in custom tailoring, dark and understated, with the kind of fabric that says more than diamonds ever could. And they’re not alone—some have women on their arms, others bring sons, proteges, or bodyguards, but all of them wear the same expression. Calm. Cold. Hungry.
These are the untouchables. The oligarchs, arms dealers, syndicate heads, and royal trash who buy people like cattle and shake hands over the ashes. They smile like they’re at a gala. Laugh softly, like someone just told a joke about golf and not a girl’s starting price.
I stay near the back, arms crossed, the weight of my tailored black suit pressed into my shoulders like armor. It fits too perfectly, like everything else here. Like everything is just a little too quiet, too clean, too polished. I track the stage, where a red velvet curtain draws back to reveal the third item of the night.
The auctioneer is young, stylish, and rehearsed—his tuxedo fitted tight around his frame, voice smooth as he gestures toward the girl standing at the center of the platform. She’s beautiful in a sad, soft way. Dressed in satin, hair curled, lips painted with a delicate gloss. Her hands stay clasped in front of her like she’s being presented at a debutante ball instead of sold to the highest bidder.
“Lot Three,” the auctioneer announces, his voice laced with honey. “Fluent in English, Mandarin, and Arabic. No priorowners. Exceptional health. Trained in etiquette and obedience. Starting bid: seventy million yen.”
The first paddle rises immediately—row one, seat six. Then another. And another.
The girl doesn’t flinch.
Beside me, someone whispers something about her posture, how refined she looks. Another murmurs a compliment about the hollowness of her collarbone. A man in the second row dabs his mouth with a linen napkin and raises his paddle for a second time.
I don’t move. I don’t speak. I count the seconds it takes for her to be sold—fifty-seven million American dollars.
“This next one comes to us from the farmlands of Hokkaido,” the auctioneer announces, his voice oozing sleaze under the fake polish of charm. He paces the edge of the stage, gesturing with the flair of a man who thinks he’s God’s gift to trafficking. “A soft little country blossom, raised on clean food and fresh air. Her curves? All natural. Her spirit?Eagerto serve.”
He grins like he’s just offered them a vintage bottle of wine instead of a terrified girl.
Ashley cautiously takes a step onto the stage, and smiles to the audience so demurely you’re sure she is not meant for this world.
“She’s pure,” he adds, letting the word drip from his mouth like syrup. “Untouched. We’ll start the bidding at fifty million dollars. Do I hear an opening bid?”
Three hands go up almost immediately.
One belongs to a jittery man in the back corner—the section reserved for the latecomers, the irrelevant. His hand hovers for a second, hopeful, then wilts as he catches sight of the competition. He slouches back into his seat, already defeated.
The second man sits mid-row, a little off to the right. His hands are tattooed, his knuckles thick with callouses. Could be a disgruntled bodyguard sent to run errands, or maybe ashateigashira—an underboss,with a fat envelope and strict instructions: get a girl, stay under budget. He lowers his hand slowly, annoyed. Not surprised.
Because the third bidder is sitting in the front row.
His salted black hair is slicked back into a perfect ponytail, not a strand out of place. His suit is traditional, but the fabric’s too crisp, too new to be old money. He doesn’t even glance around—just raises his hand with that smug assurance that only comes from real power.
“I’ll take her for three hundred,” he says, voice calm, confident, practiced. And familiar. Hauntingly familiar.
My stomach drops. A cold sweat beads along my spine, because who would think tonight of all nights Takeda Matsumoto, my father, would want to participate in his own sick deeds.
“Sold!” the auctioneer crows, clapping once with performative delight.
I start to move, already tapping my earpiece again. “Aoi, secure her. Don’t let them take her anywhere alone.”
“Already on it,” she says. “She’s being moved to a private holding. I’ll follow.”
Before I can respond, a second voice cuts into the channel—low, gravel-thick, unmistakable.
“This is Bhon,” he says flatly. “That was the last of the children.”
My jaw locks. I scan the room, watching for a signal, anything off. “Then where the hell is Mia?”
“Now for item number four,” the announcer purrs, pausing with an overdone sweep of his arm, “Ourrarestitem of the night.”
A hush falls over the room. Men lean forward in their chairs, drawn like vultures to something already half-dead. And that’s when she steps out. A fucking vision of weaponized elegance. Her robe is a deep crimson, the fabric of a traditionalfurisode,a formal Japanese Kimono,the kind worn only by the most eligible women in old Japanese society. The sleeves are long, brushing the floor with every step she takes. Gold embroidery winds through the silk in patterns that shimmer with movement, catching the stage light in subtle flickers. The robe hangs half open—not by accident, but by design—revealing the black lace beneath, a bodice cut from fine lingerie, each edge trimmed in gold thread that matches the robe’s lining. It doesn’t cling to her. It presents her.
