I know that.
I know it the same way I know I am one bad second away from putting my fist through the auctioneer’s teeth.
The girl does not look at me again.
She goes blank on the outside. Marble-still. But I know better now. I know what is under it.
The man with the microphone touches his earpiece, listens, then smiles wider.
“Sold,” he says. “Via phone to one of our long-time clients.”
The men clap.
I do not.
Two guards step in and take her off the stage.
My hands curl once at my sides.
That should be it.
A bad thing logged.
A face remembered.
A wrong added to the pile.
Instead, I keep seeing her eyes.
The way they hit mine for one second and made something ugly wake up in me.
The room moves on to the next girl.
I do not.
I watch the side exit where they took her. Track the two guards. One handler. Fast transfer. Clean enough to look routine if you do not know what you are seeing.
I know exactly what I am seeing.
And I know I am not letting her disappear into the dark without a trail.
I shift, ease back from the edge of the room, and cut through the side corridor like I belong there, shoulders loose, face bored, every step measured. The music dulls behind the walls. Perfume gives way to bleach and concrete and cold air slipping in from the service exit ahead.
Voices carry from outside.
A muttered curse.
A door shoving open.
A man says, “Watch her head.”
I step into shadow just beyond the exit and catch the whole thing.
The angelic girl in the chemise.
Two guards.
A dark van with the side door open.
