"Who thinks ten million?" the auctioneer boomed. A black card slapped the table. Men laughed like predators. "Ten-two," a voice called from the back. "Eleven," another answered, sharp. Glass chandeliers scattered light over cages and expensive flesh. The cage under the platform had lights inside it, and she could see the metal bars press into her palms. A man reached through and laughed, fingers brushing her wrist as if testing meat. "Keep your hands on your bids," the auctioneer said. "No touching the exhibits." "Too late." The man smirked. "This one sells best with custom options." Emmeline pressed her fingertips against the cold bars. The humanoid body that housed her still reacted to touch. She remembered pain, not past names. She remembered a smell from nightmares. She did not remember the word that started both the nightmares and the hunger. "One hundred and twenty," someone added. "One hundred and twenty-one." Bids flew like teeth. "Who offers one-fifty?" The auctioneer leaned forward. "One-fifty, one-seventy—" A hand plunged through the bars and grabbed her chin. "Look at her face," a rich man said. "Perfect for parties." "Get your hands off her," a voice snapped from the gallery. The man who owned the hand smiled and pulled back, annoyed. "She isn't a charity case." A different voice, low and shaped like a blade, said, "She isn't anything you think." Heads turned. Men froze mid-bid. The smirk on the hand-holder's face faltered. A silence