Chapter 2 ( The Product And The Auction)
1164 Words
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Zoya sprinted toward the door, her heart hammering against her ribs.
Behind her, boots thundered on concrete and guards shouted in a language she didn’t understand. Her ankle screamed with every step, but she didn’t stop—because ahead, there was light.
She was three steps from freedom when the doorway filled. Black. Two guards. A wall of muscle.
The lock clicked. Final as a gunshot.
A fist tangled in her hair and yanked her down hard onto freezing concrete. Pain exploded across her scalp as he dragged her. Zoya clawed at his wrist, kicked, fought—but her body was starved, injured, useless.
“Product,” another guard barked. “Valuable. No damage to face.”
The fist paused. Then he threw her. She slammed into the hallway wall and slid down, tasting iron.
Another guard grabbed her by her elbow and took her to a room. He pushed her in and closed the door.
A silent man tossed a bundle at her—black pants, a plain T-shirt. He pointed to a door. Shower room. Single bulb. Cracked, moldy tiles.
The door slammed behind her. For ten seconds, Zoya just stood there, shaking. _Don’t break down. Hold yourself together._
She stripped off the airport clothes—stiff with blood and dirt—and stepped under icy water. She scrubbed until her skin was raw. The water ran brown, then pink, then clear.
A fist hammered on the door. “Time’s up!”
She dressed fast. The same guard’s hand clamped around her elbow like a vise, bruising bone, and dragged her down endless gray hallways. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting sick, yellow shadows.
He kicked open a steel door.
Zoya’s breath caught.
The room was massive, cold, and reeked of fear. Dozens of people sat on icy concrete, separated into two trembling groups—men and women. Blood crusted on split lips. Bruises bloomed purple and black. Zoya thought may be they tried to ran away like me but got caught and beaten like this.
The air stank of sweat, terror, unwashed bodies, and harsh antiseptic that couldn’t quite mask the rot underneath. Armed guards lined the walls, rifles held across their chests, fingers resting too close to triggers.
At the front hung a massive curtain, blood-red and heavy. A single spotlight glared down on it, making the fabric look wet.
The guard shoved Zoya toward the women. She fell to her knees. No one helped her up.
No one looked at her every single person was scared.
Then a mechanical groan filled the room as the red curtain rose.
On the other side: rows of chairs, blinding lights, and hundreds of people.
Every single one wore a mask.
Most wore white—wealthy, but not ultra-rich. About twenty wore gold that gleamed like coins. And in the back, swallowed by shadow, five people sat perfectly still in matte black masks.
White Masks = Rich. Buy maids, labor.
Gold Masks = Ultra-rich. Buy “special products.” No laws touch them.
Black Masks = VIP. Five people total. Underworld kings, billionaire CEOs, warlords. Black means you own the auction, the guards, the country. If you mess with them you and your family would be vanished .
A man in an expensive suit stepped onto the platform. He smiled like a shark. “Welcome, ladies and gentlemen. Let the auction begin.”
He gestured to the prisoners. “Golden masks first. Choose your product.”
Gold masks rose and filed backstage. The air thickened with cologne and cigar smoke. They began inspecting people, grabbing chins, checking teeth like horses.
Zoya’s stomach twisted. She hated this,how those people were treating them. Like a thing, like a product. A bloated man with a wine glass swaggered up to the women. He reeked of alcohol and sweat. He yanked a girl to her feet—the one sitting right in front of Zoya. She couldn’t have been older than twenty.
He cupped her face, his thumb smearing her tears. “Beautiful,” he slurred.
The girl sobbed and tried to pull away. Her eyes darted around, begging someone, anyone, to help. No one moved.
Something inside Zoya snapped.
She shot to her feet and seized the man’s wrist. With all her starved strength, she twisted.
A sickening _crack_ echoed. The man howled, his wine glass shattering on the concrete.
“You ugly fat pig!” Zoya snarled, stepping between him and the girl. “Can’t you see she’s terrified?”
Zoya stood in front of the girl protecting her.
The entire room went dead silent. Even the guards froze. Two armed men started moving toward her, rifles rising.
The bloated man clutched his wrist, face purple with rage. “You’ll pay for that, b***h—”
In the deepest shadows, where the lights couldn’t reach, a man in a black mask leaned forward. Piercing green eyes never left Zoya.
Slowly, deliberately, he smiled.
And in a voice like smoke, too low for anyone but the man beside him to hear, he whispered, “Well… this seems interesting.”
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*Because of all the commotion, a manager stepped out.* The guards quickly explained everything that had happened.
At first, the manager apologized to the gold-masked man. Then he began to butter him up, bow and offering smooth words, trying to salvage the situation. But the gold mask didn’t listen. He was still fuming, clutching his wrist, his face twisted with humiliation.
The manager’s patience snapped. He turned his anger on Zoya. “Take her,” he ordered a guard. “Teach her a lesson.”
The guard stepped forward, grabbing his rifle by the barrel, ready to strike her with the butt.
Before he could swing, a cold voice cut through the room.
“Stop.”
It wasn’t loud, but it silenced everything.
The man in the black mask had spoken. He stepped forward, shadow trailing behind him. “I want her,” he said.
The manager obeyed without hesitation. “Of course, sir. Immediately.”
The black-masked man turned to the golden one. “Do you have any objections?”
The gold mask shook his head fast. “No, absolutely not. No problem at all.” Fear dripped from his voice. He recognized the aura in that tone—controlled, lethal, unchallenged. Besides, the black mask represented power beyond him. No sane man would cross him.
The manager gestured to the guards. “Make her unconscious.”
Zoya didn’t go quietly. She swung, kicked, clawed at anyone who came near. Three guards seized her, pinning her arms and legs to the concrete. She snarled, twisted, fought until her chest burned.
One guard pressed a cloth over her mouth and nose. The chemical scent hit her lungs. Her vision blurred.
She hit one last guard across the jaw. Her fist connected, but her strength was already fading.
The room tilted. Her knees gave out.
Before she hit the floor, darkness took her.
End of Chapter 2
- Writer
