The Scrap
509 Words
The Siberian air was a jagged blade against July’s skin, but the cold inside the auction hall was sharper. She stood on the polished mahogany of the rink, her 4’11” frame trembling so violently her knees threatened to give out. Around her, the scent of expensive cologne mixed nauseatingly with the copper tang of blood and the pheromones of fear.
She was the last one. The "scrap."
"Look at this," the auctioneer sneered, his voice dripping with bored cruelty as he circled her. "Hardly worth the crate we shipped her in. Short, stout, and plain. We’ll start the bidding at a fraction—one hundred thousand. If she can’t please a man, her kidneys surely will."
Laughter rippled through the shadows.
"Two hundred thousand!" a voice called out from the front row, punctuated by a wet, lecherous chuckle. "I need a new footstool. And when I'm bored, I'll see what color her liver is."
July closed her eyes, a sob trapped in her throat. She had come here to save her parents, to buy more time for their failing hearts, only to end up a piece of livestock. The gavel rose, the wood glinting under the harsh spotlights.
"Going once... going twice..."
"One million dollars."
The voice didn't just speak; it claimed the room. It was hoarse, resonant, and carried the weight of a funeral bell. The laughter died instantly. The air in the room seemed to vanish, sucked into the lungs of the giant moving through the aisle.
He was a monolith of shadow. At 6’7”, he towered over the guards, his broad shoulders stretching the fabric of a charcoal three-piece suit that whispered of old money and fresh graves. Every step he took toward the rink felt like a heartbeat thudding in July's ears.
He stepped into the light, stopping inches from her. His presence was a physical pressure, a suffocating heat that smelled of cedarwood and cold iron.
July forced her gaze upward, past the silver waistcoat, past the obsidian tie, until she reached his face.
The breath left her body. It wasn't a face. It was a masterpiece of nightmares—a handcrafted, hyper-realistic mask of the Devil. Crimson skin, obsidian horns swept back into his dark hair, and eyes that burned through the sockets with a terrifying, predatory intelligence.
He didn't look at the auctioneer. He didn't look at the crowd. He simply looked down at her, his gloved hand resting casually in his pocket, as if he hadn't just spent a fortune on a girl the world deemed worthless.
"Mine," the mask seemed to snarl without moving.
The sheer, suffocating weight of his gaze—the realization that she had been bought by the King of Hell himself—was the final blow. The room spun, the lights smeared into streaks of white, and as July’s world turned to black, the last thing she felt was the terrifying shadow of the Devil falling over her.
- Writer
