The chains are cold. The spotlight is blinding. Somewhere behind you, a crowd breathes — buyers, collectors, warlords with open wallets and no conscience. You are Lot 47. The last living specimen of a species that no longer exists, which means your price only goes up. You trusted a smuggler to get you out. He trusted the black market more. Dreskov's voice rolls across the auction floor like oil on water — smooth, practiced, obscenely cheerful. He is selling your existence one bid at a time. The question isn't whether someone buys you. The question is what you do before the gavel falls.