Walking home from Emily's club, I feel it. Eyes on my back, footsteps that match mine too precisely, the prickle of being watched. I turn twice, see nothing but empty sidewalk. Tell myself I'm paranoid. But the feeling follows me all the way to my door.
Inside, I pull up my laptop with shaking hands. Little time left, and I'm out of options.
"Organs," I mutter, typing. "There has to be something."
The results disappoint immediately. Kidneys fetch money, but only through black markets I can't access. Legal routes mean years of waiting lists. My body is worth less than I imagined within legal boundaries.
Clinical trials next. Fifteen thousand for months-long trials with permanent side effects. Waiting lists longer than my deadline.
"Useless. All of it, useless."
The searches grow darker. Quick cash desperate. Emergency money no questions. Each query returns scams, pyramid schemes, sex work.
My phone alarm goes off. Shift starts in ten minutes.
"Shit."
I'm still in yesterday's clothes, haven't showered, and the office is twenty minutes away. I grab my bag and run.
The elevator ride up to the office feels like ascending to my own execution. When I step onto the floor, Whitney's already waiting, arms crossed, her expression sharp with malicious pleasure.
"Well, well. Knight finally decides to show up." Her voice carries across the empty space. "Thirty-five minutes late. That's a new record."
"Traffic," I say, moving toward my desk.
"Traffic." She laughs, cold and mean. "At midnight? Try again."
"I don't owe you an explanation."
"Actually, you do. Since I'm the one who has to cover you, when you decide that showing up is optional." She follows me, her heels clicking. "You look like hell, by the way. Did you sleep in those clothes?"
Something snaps inside me. The exhaustion, the terror, the weight of impossible problems… it all crystallizes into fury.
"Back off, Whitney."
She blinks. "Excuse me?"
"I said back off." I turn to face her, and my voice comes out steady, cold. "I'm here. I'll do my work. What I look like is none of your business."
"I'm your senior… "
"You're my coworker who enjoys making other people miserable because your own life is empty." The words pour out before I can stop them. "So how about you worry about your own deadlines and leave me alone?"
Her mouth opens, closes. For the first time since I've known her, Whitney looks genuinely shocked.
"You can't talk to me like that."
"I just did."
The air between us crackles with tension. I've never pushed back before. Never fought. And the shock on her face is almost worth the consequences I'll face later.
"Everything all right here?"
James's voice cuts through the standoff. He materializes beside us with that unnatural quiet he has, his presence warping the space around him. The air grows heavier, charged, like the moment before lightning strikes.
Whitney straightens immediately. "Mr. Bloxham. I was just addressing Knight's tardiness."
"Were you?" His gaze moves to me, and something in my chest tightens. His eyes are too dark, too focused, like they see through skin to whatever's bleeding underneath. "Theresa, is there a problem?"
The way he says my name makes me tremble. Makes me hyperaware of my pulse, my breathing, the heat crawling up my neck.
"No problem," I manage.
"Good." He turns to Whitney, and his tone shifts, becomes glacial. "Then I'm sure there's no need to continue this conversation. Don't you have the Tokyo reports to finish?"
Whitney's jaw tightens. "Yes, Mr. Bloxham."
"Best get to them, then."
She walks away, and I'm left standing too close to James, his attention still fixed on me like a physical weight. There's something wrong about him up close. The way he moves too smoothly, the way his gaze never wavers, the precision in every gesture that feels rehearsed rather than natural.
"Thank you," I say quietly.
"You handled yourself well." His lips curve slightly. Not quite a smile. "I didn't know you had that in you."
"Neither did I."
"Perhaps you should surprise yourself more often." He studies me with an intensity that makes my skin feel too tight. "Are you certain everything's all right? You seem..."
"Distracted?"
"Hunted."
The word freezes between us. For a second, I swear he hears the panic rattling in my chest. His gray-blue eyes drop to my throat, tracking my pulse like he can count each beat.
“Theresa,” he says quietly, and the sound of my name feels more like an assessment than concern.
“I should get back to work.”
“Then work,” he murmurs, not moving. “But remember, stress leaves a scent.”
I blink. “What?”
He smiles, faint and unreadable. “Get some air once in a while.”
And then he’s gone, leaving the room charged, like the echo of lightning after it strikes. I lower myself into the chair, trying to steady my hands, but they won’t stop trembling.
I pull up my laptop when no one's looking. The searches turn desperate.
Fast large sum illegal.
Scams. Pyramid schemes. Sex work.
My fingers hover over the keyboard. There's one search I haven't typed. Won't type. Can't type.
"No," I whisper. "There are lines."
But Alan's broken body is a line. The photographs are a line. The deadline is a line.
I type: virginity auction real
The screen darkens around a single link. Virtue Exchange.
"Don't click it."
I do.
The site loads with professional precision. Clean design. Minimalist. Current Listings: 47.
Listing #1847: F, 22, European, Verified. Current Bid: $92,000
"Jesus Christ."
Listing #1851: F, 19, Asian, Verified. Current Bid: $112,000
The numbers are staggering. Life-changing. The kind of money that makes eighty-three thousands look possible.
"This is wrong."
But so is watching them hurt Alan again.
My finger hovers. The world narrows to this single point… this moment where I choose his life over everything I thought I'd never become.
Register as a Seller.
I click.