The Midnight Auction sat like a glinting tooth in Cerulean’s Harbor District—slick marble floors under yellowed brass, a chandelier that had seen better fortunes, and a balcony that gave you a view of both sin and swagger. Rain slapped the windows outside, turning the docks into a smear of neon and shipping lights. Inside, the air smelled of espresso, wet cash, and expensive disinfectant. Faith Harris sipped her espresso as if it were a test she’d already passed. The cup was porcelain—cream-coloured, rim nicked in one place where she'd punched a palm-sized dent into a boardroom table three years ago. She liked imperfections. They told you something had happened. Beside her, Josiah Braun kept the conversation to a low growl. He'd been a Marine once. The muscles in his jaw flexed like coiled wire. He wore the auction’s guest code—black blazer over a combat-cut shirt—and his eyes didn’t indulge in the crowd. He watched exits, watched cameras, watched the carriage doors as if he'd memorized every gait. "Make it interesting," Faith said, dry as a bone and twice as sharp. "Would rather make it quick," Josiah muttered. "Your kind of interesting's expensive." Faith smiled with one side of her mouth, the lazy, practiced smile that had cost rivals fortunes and marriages. She liked the way people tilted when they tried to figure her out. The balcony bar hummed. On the floor, bidders in tailored coats