The theatre darkened again.
A ripple passed through the crowd—not excitement, not yet. Anticipation. The kind that makes men lean forward without realising. They could feel it too.
Something was coming.
Leonhardt sat still, one leg crossed over the other, elbow draped along the armrest. Zafira leaned into him, body brushing his side with unconscious familiarity now, her thigh pressed against his.
Erina sat straighter on his other side, hands folded neatly in her lap, every breath measured. Controlled. But her green eyes flicked to the stage with a sharpness he didn't miss.
Good.
She was learning.
The stage lights dimmed, then turned violet. A new hue. The plague-masked hostess returned, movements more restrained now, as if even she had stopped pretending this was just an auction.
"A moment of pause, Esteemed Patrons," she said, her voice silk over steel. "The next item is not a person."
Murmurs.
Curiosity. Mild confusion. Excitement.
