The polished hardwood pressed unforgivingly against my bare skin as i lowered myself to the floor, legs folding beneath me in a tight, defensive ball.

  The chill radiated upward like slow poison—through my thighs, my ass where the thong offered no barrier at all, up my spine—making every muscle clench tighter.

  The micro bikini top rode up slightly with the movement, the thin strings pulling taut across my chest, and I could feel the ridiculous triangles shifting, exposing more than they hid.

  Heat bloomed across my cheeks again, stubborn and unwanted, a deep crimson I couldn't will away no matter how hard I stared at the floor.

  "I hate this..." The whisper barely disturbed the thick air. I turned my head, pressing my hot cheek against the rough scab on my knee.

  The skin there was angry—red around the edges, fresh scabs crusting over where the concrete had torn me during the drag. It stung when I brushed against it, a small, sharp pain that felt almost comforting in its familiarity.

  Something real amid all this staged unreality.

  I exhaled shakily, breath fogging faintly in the cooler pocket of air near the floor.

  "I'm gonna get hurt again, aren't I?" The question came out small, almost childlike, hanging between me and the motionless red curtain like it expected an answer.

  It made too much sense. The outfit wasn't random; it was chosen. The room wasn't random; it was built for spectacle. The dragging, the silence, the waiting—it all pointed the same direction.

  Toward pain. Toward exposure. Toward whatever came after the curtain parted.

  My throat worked. I swallowed once, twice.

  "I'm gonna end up killing myself at this rate..."

  The words dropped like stones into still water.

  They rang in my ears for a long second—too loud, too final—then I jerked my head up as if someone else had spoken them.

  "No," I muttered fiercely under my breath, rocking once, hard. "Fuck that. No."

  I dug the heels of my hands into my eyes until spots danced behind my lids, trying to shove the thought back down where it belonged.

  My breathing came faster now, ragged at the edges. "Just... words. Just me talking shit because I'm scared." I forced a bitter little ugh that didn't reach my eyes. "Not doing it. Not today. Not like this."

  I unfolded my arms enough to hug my knees tighter, chin resting on them, staring at the heavy velvet folds across the room. The spotlight still burned softly in the center of the empty stage-space, patient, waiting.

  I waited too—heart thudding too loud in the quiet, skin prickling with cold and dread and the slow, creeping certainty that something was about to change.

  The curtain didn't move.

  Until it did.

  The spotlight snapped to life with a low electric hum, the beam sliding across the dark floor like a searchlight before locking onto me—hot, white, blinding.

  I flinched hard, throwing an arm up to block it, but it was useless. The light painted every inch of my skin in stark relief: the ridiculous micro bikini top clinging to my chest, the thong stretched tight over my crotch, the way the shiny bck fabric caught every gleam and threw it back like I was some kind of exhibit.

  Then the curtain began to move.

  Heavy red velvet parted in slow, theatrical sweeps, the folds whispering against the stage floor.

  Behind it: rows upon rows of seats rising into dimness. Women. Maybe a hundred of them. All of them. Just elegant suits, sharp bzers, glittering neckces, crossed legs, and eyes—hundreds of eyes—fixed on me like I was the only thing in the world worth looking at.

  My stomach flipped so violently I thought I'd puke right there. Bile burned up my throat; I swallowed it down in a thick, choking gulp, tasting acid and panic.

  My knees locked. I couldn't move. Couldn't breathe right. The thong felt microscopic now, the pouch barely containing anything, every tiny shift threatening to let something slip out in front of all these strangers.

  A woman stepped out from the left—tall, poised, bck tuxedo hugging her like armor, dark hair slicked back. She held a slim microphone in one hand, shoes clicking like gunshots on the wood.

  "Gracias a todos por venir hoy," (thanks everyone for coming today) she said, voice smooth and amplified, carrying to every corner of the room. "Hoy se vende Miguel Rodríguez, novio de Car Juárez!" (Being sold today is Miguel Rodriguez, boyfriend of Car Juarez)

  The room exploded. Cheers, whistles, sharp cpping that rolled over me like a wave. My name. Car's name. Out loud. In front of everyone. Like I was merchandise.

  She walked straight to me, confident, unhurried. Her fingers closed around my upper arm—strong, no-nonsense—and she yanked me up. I stumbled to my feet, legs shaking like they might give out.

  My free hand flew back to cover my crotch, but she batted it away without looking, pulling me forward.

  My eyes darted everywhere—left, right, up into the tiers. Faces everywhere. Some smirking. Some leaning forward, lips parted. Some openly staring at my body, tracing the lines of the bikini, the bulge in the thong, the scabbed knee, the goosebumps on my arms.

  I felt stripped naked all over again, even though I was already wearing next to nothing.

  The cheers got louder as she dragged me to the very front of the stage. Women rose to their feet in waves, cpping, shouting, some raising phones like they were at a concert.

  My heart smmed against my ribs so hard I thought it would bruise them.

  "Empezaremos con cincuenta millones de pesos," (we'll start with fifty million pesos) the auctioneer announced, calm as if she were selling a painting or a car.

  Thirty hands shot into the air instantly—paddles fshing numbers, eager, impatient. Bids already flying before I could even process what was happening.

  I stood there at the edge of the stage, spotlight burning into me, a hundred women staring, cheering, bidding. My mouth was dry. My skin crawled. Every inch of me felt on dispy, judged, priced.

  And the only thing I could think was: This is it.

  This is really fucking happening.

  And there's no way out.

  The bidding climbed fast, voices overpping in a chaotic rhythm I could barely follow.

  "?Mierda, cien millones de pesos! ?Cien millones!" (Shit! One hundred million pesos! One hundred million!) the auctioneer shouted, her tone rising with excitement.

  The forest of raised hands thinned instantly—thirty down to maybe five, hands still high, fingers twitching like they were ready to go higher.

  I stood there frozen under the spotlight, skin prickling, heart jackhammering against my ribs.

  The micro bikini felt like it was shrinking by the second, every string pulling tighter, the thong pouch straining as my body reacted to the adrenaline in the worst possible way. I could feel eyes still on me even as the numbers kept jumping.

  "What the fuck... why do they want me..." I whispered, the words barely making it past my lips.

  My voice cracked. None of this made sense. I wasn't rich. I wasn't famous. I was just... me. Miguel. Car's boyfriend. And now apparently worth something to these strangers. My stomach churned harder; I tasted bile again.

  "?Doscientos millones de pesos!" (Two hundred million pesos!) the auctioneer called out, sweeping her arm toward the remaining bidders.

  "?A una! ?A s dos!" (Going once, going twice!)

  A beat of silence—thick, electric. Then she yelled.

  "?Vendido a dama de rojo!" (Sold to the dy in red)

  The room erupted in appuse—sharp, polite, but enthusiastic. Women cpping, some whistling, a few ughing low like they'd just watched the best part of a show. My ears rang with it.

  The heavy red curtain swept closed again, velvet whispering across the stage floor, sealing me off from the audience. The spotlight dimmed to a soft amber glow. Suddenly it was just me and the auctioneer and the quiet hum of the room behind the fabric.

  Out of sight.

  But not safe.

  My legs almost gave out. I staggered back a step, bare feet sliding on the polished wood, one hand shooting out to brace against the nearest curtain fold. The appuse still echoed faintly through the velvet, muffled now, like it was happening to someone else.

  I didn't understand most of the Spanish—my brain was too scrambled—but the numbers, the "vendido," the way she'd said my full name like I was an item on a catalog... it hit like ice water.

  I'd just been auctioned off.

  Sold.

  To the woman in red.

  For two hundred million pesos.

  Whatever the hell that converted to in USD money, it was a fortune. And I was the thing they'd paid it for.

  Terror cwed up my throat, colder than the concrete cell, colder than the hardwood under me. My breathing came in short, shallow bursts.

  The scab on my knee throbbed in time with my pulse. I wrapped my free arm around my stomach, trying to hold myself together, but nothing felt solid anymore.

  Who was the woman in red?

  What did she buy me for?

  Before I knew it, the door shut behind me with that same hollow metallic cng.

  The echo lingered longer than it should have.

  I stood there for a moment after the auctioneer left, staring at the bnk concrete wall in front of me. The air felt colder than before, or maybe that was just me.

  My body still felt wrong.

  Exposed.

  Handled.

  Dispyed.

  I swallowed hard and forced myself to move.

  In the corner, where they'd tossed them earlier, were my old clothes. Slightly wrinkled. Familiar. Mine.

  I walked over quickly, almost stumbling in my rush, and knelt down. My fingers trembled as I picked them up. The fabric was soft compared to everything else in this room.

  I changed as fast as I could, pulling the shirt over my head and inhaling shakily when it settled against my skin. Even if it no longer smelled like home, it felt like it.

  Like armor made of memory.

  Once dressed, I backed myself against the wall and slid down until I was sitting on the cold floor again.

  The concrete seeped through the fabric, grounding and cruel all at once.

  And then the tears came.

  Not loud at first.

  Just silent streams running down my cheeks.

  It felt like no matter what I did—leave, love, survive, try again—something always dragged me back into darkness.

  Like happiness was temporary.

  Like safety had an expiration date.

  "My life is just... pain," I whispered hoarsely, hugging my knees to my chest.

  I tried to breathe through it.

  Tried to remind myself I had escaped before.

  But exhaustion wrapped around my thoughts, heavy and suffocating.

  The room didn't comfort.

  It didn't threaten.

  It just existed.

  And I sat there against the wall, crying quietly into my sleeves, wondering if peace was something other people were allowed to keep.

  ——