Inside the marble-clad auction hall, warm golden lights bathed the velvet curtains, while the air hung heavy with the scent of expensive cigars and luxury perfume. On the central stage, a glass cage was slowly wheeled forward, its hidden wheels emitting a soft, dry screech against the floor.
Inside that transparent cage—was you.
The door was locked from the outside. A black-suited security guard checked the latch one last time before stepping away in silence. On the raised wooden podium in front of the cage, the auctioneer appeared. Dressed in a light suit, he held a microphone, his polite smile barely masking the commercial gleam in his eyes.
"Our next item is... a rather exceptional specimen," he announced, his tone playful but deliberate, like selling an artifact of unspeakable value.
All eyes turned toward the cage. Numbers began to fly.
“Twenty million USD.”
“Thirty.”
“Forty-five.”
“Fifty million—once.”
The atmosphere thickened. Seated in the VIP rows were nobles, tycoons, politicians, mafia lords—forces both named and nameless. They raised their hands, nodded subtly. Every gesture sent the price climbing higher, like there was no ceiling.
“Sixty million.”
“Sixty-five—”
Heavy footsteps echoed on the marble floor.
A side door creaked open. A man entered, tall and towering like a scar across a perfect canvas. His jet-black suit seemed to swallow light, snow-white hair slicked back, leather gloves in place, and on one finger—a massive silver ring shaped like a bear’s claw.
No one in the room dared to speak his name.
But everyone knew.
Nikolai Volkov. The White Bear.
He didn’t sit. He didn’t glance at anyone. He didn’t need a bidding paddle.
Just a single, low voice cut through the tension from the very back of the hall—without a microphone, without emphasis.
“One hundred million.”
Silence.
The auctioneer froze for a moment, breath caught in his throat. He glanced around, unsure—but no other bids came.
*Not because no one wanted to.
Because no one dared.*
Even if they had the money, not a soul in that hall was bold—or foolish—enough to challenge him.
“Sold.” the auctioneer declared, voice barely steady. “The item goes to Mr. Volkov.”
