Page 107 of Brutal Unionn
She exhales sharply, like she’s been holding her breath for days, and a grin cracks through her shell—too wide, too fast. Shestarts to take a step toward me, excited, desperate for more than words.
The lights above us flicker once, then again, before going dark for a full second. Then they blaze back to life in a harsher tone, tinted red along the baseboards.
That’s the signal. The auction will be starting in exactly three minutes.
I hold up a hand. “Hey—control that. They’ll see it on your face. You look too happy, they’ll sedate you again or worse. Understand?”
Ashley bites her lip, nodding fast, the grin falling back into a blank expression like a mask slipping back on. She’s good at this—too good for someone her age. That pisses me off more than anything else I’ve seen tonight.
“I’ll come back,” I say. “Stay ready.”
I slip back through the doorway, careful not to let the blood from the guards trail into the light. The hallway is empty now, most of the staff likely focused on the floor above. I move fast and silent up the stairs, my footsteps falling into the beat of the muffled music now echoing from the ballroom.
Once I reach the corridor just outside the main room, I tap the mic embedded under my collar. It chirps once in my ear, and I speak in a low voice.
“Aoi. I need you on the floor.”
Her voice crackles immediately, sharp and annoyed. “I told you, I’m already in place. What now?”
“There’s a girl. Auction name’s Ashley. Curly brown hair. Pale. Don’t let anyone else win her.”
She hesitates, then asks, “How much are we talking?”
I pause just before stepping through the black velvet curtains and into the glow of the auction floor.
“Fifty million dollars, but be prepared to go as high as 250 million.”
“Sho, what the actual fu—” Aoi’s voice cuts off in a hard static burst as the signal jams slightly under the building’s reinforced walls.
I smirk to myself and step onto the floor as the auctioneer announces the first lot. Velvet suits and cold eyes turn toward the stage, oblivious to the predator walking among them.
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 surreal about 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 prior owners. 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 girldoesn’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.
