Chapter 1: The Auction
The air was thick with the smell of spent money—sickly sweet sake, sharp ozone, and a underlying note of salt. Velvet curtains, a deep, venous red, swayed against the walls as if breathing in time with the low electronic hum that filled the space. The crowd was a mosaic of tailored suits and sharp watches, their faces washed in the relentless crimson glow from the single spotlight over the central stage. It was a slab of black marble, polished to a liquid shine.
A hand between his shoulder blades shoved him forward. Megumi stumbled, his bare feet silent on the cold floor. The walk to the stage was a tunnel. He didn’t see the faces, only the shapes of them, the glitter of eyes and teeth. His own body felt like someone else’s blueprint: lean, pale, a structure of angles and lines he’d long wished were sharper, wider, less…this. The chill of the room puckered his skin. He focused on a crack in the marble ahead, a tiny, black lightning bolt.
“And here we have our final living canvas of the evening,” a smooth, amplified voice purred. The auctioneer was a silhouette. “A rare delicacy. Note the elegant lines, the exquisite pallor, perfect for presentation. Untouched, in the truest sense. The reserve is set… low.”
A ripple of laughter. Megumi’s jaw tightened so hard his temples ached. He ascended the two shallow steps and lay back on the slab as instructed. The marble was a shock, sucking the warmth from his bones. He stared at the ceiling, where a tangle of black pipes and wiring coiled in the shadows. The spotlight was a physical weight, a heatless sun burning away the last fiction of privacy.
Hands, gloved in clear plastic, began to work. Cool, cooked rice was patted onto his chest, his stomach, the flat planes of his thighs. He detached. He went to the ceiling, into the pipes. The slither of raw fish followed—salmon, tuna, uni—its bright colors a garish contrast against his skin. He felt like a ruined altar.
“Look at that,” a voice drawled from the front row. “They missed the best part.”
Megumi’s eyes, a stark, troubled green, flicked down despite himself. Sukuna leaned back in his chair, a crystal glass of amber liquid swirling in one hand. He was all sharp edges and contained power, his pink hair a violent pastiche in the red light. His crimson eyes tracked over Megumi’s body with the appraisal of a butcher assessing a cut.
“Be nice,” chided the man beside him, a silver-haired figure with absurd dark glasses hiding his eyes. Satoru’s smile was a quick, white slash. He rested his chin on his steepled fingers. “It’s a presentation. You have to admire the artistry. Though…” He leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping to a mock-conspiratorial whisper that the microphone picked up anyway. “The chef does have a pair of cute little tits, doesn’t he?”
The laughter was louder this time, closer. A hot needle of pure shame pierced Megumi’s sternum, targeting the very swell of flesh Satoru had named. He willed himself to sink into the stone, to vanish.
In the far corner, where the shadows were deepest, Nanami Kento adjusted his tie. It was already perfectly straight. He let out a breath so slow it was almost inaudible. His hazel eyes, tired and profoundly unimpressed, scanned the room before landing on his colleagues. He was paid to keep them alive, not to stop them from being monsters. A subtle, costly distinction. He calculated the remaining hours in the evening, the probability of a vehicular incident on the return trip, and his own mortgage payment. The math was bleak.
“Shall we begin?” the auctioneer sang.
The bids were numbers, meaningless sounds. Megumi counted the perforations in a ceiling tile. Nine across. Twelve down. One hundred and eight holes to hide in.
“Sold. To the gentleman in front.”
Sukuna didn’t raise a hand. He merely lifted his chin, a fractional nod. It was done.
The plastic-gloved hands returned, this time to lift him. He was rigid, a plank of wood decorated with food. They helped him sit up, then stand. Rice grains and a slice of cucumber slid down his thigh. He didn’t brush them away. He was led off the slab, through a parting sea of clapping hands and murmured congratulations, toward Sukuna’s table.
“A masterpiece,” Sukuna said, not to Megumi, but to the room. He set his glass down and picked up a pair of ceramic chopsticks. His movements were deliberate, theatrical. He selected a perfect piece of otoro from the curve of Megumi’s hip, the dark red flesh gleaming. He dipped it in a tiny dish of soy sauce held by a server, then brought it to his mouth. He chewed slowly, his eyes never leaving Megumi’s face. “Exquisite.”
“Save some for me,” Satoru said. He didn’t use chopsticks. He leaned in, his breath a warm cloud against Megumi’s ribs, and used his fingers to pluck a piece of salmon near his navel. He popped it in his mouth, licking the pad of his thumb after. “Mmm. Briny. You’re trembling. Cold, or just excited?”
Megumi said nothing. He held himself perfectly still, a statue in a downpour.
“Come now, don’t be shy. You’re the centerpiece.” Satoru trailed a single, dry finger up Megumi’s sternum, stopping just below his collarbone. “See? Cute.”
“You’re vulgar,” Sukuna stated, though he sounded amused. He then lifted his sake cup, tilted it, and poured a thin, clear stream directly onto Megumi’s shoulder. The liquid was cold. It traced a path down his chest, through the rice, into the hollow of his hip. Sukuna leaned forward and pressed his mouth to the trail, his tongue following the sake’s path with a slow, deliberate drag.
Megumi’s stomach turned. The sensation was grotesque, wet and intrusive. He fixed his gaze on a painting on the far wall—a chaotic splash of black ink. He became the ink. Spilled, formless, absorbing nothing.
“He’s no fun, Sukuna,” Satoru pouted. “Totally limp. Not a twitch.”
“The fun,” Sukuna said, pulling back, his lips glistening, “is in the cultivation, not the harvest. Patience.” He waved a dismissive hand. “Take him to the green room. Have him cleaned. We’ll continue this… more privately.”
A different set of hands, these ones not gloved, guided Megumi away from the table. The walk felt longer. The eyes followed. As he passed the dark corner, his gaze inadvertently met Nanami’s. The man’s expression was flat, a worn slate. No pity, no complicity, just a profound, exhausted acknowledgment of the situation. For a fractured second, it felt worse than the leering. It was a mirror reflecting back the sheer, absurd ruin of the moment.
The green room was just a small, windowless space with a shower drain in the floor and a hose. The attendant, a bored-looking woman, turned on the water without a word and began spraying him down. The rice and fish sluiced away in a gray, pathetic swirl. The water was tepid. She handed him a thin, white cotton robe.
“They’ll be in soon,” she said, her voice devoid of inflection. She left, locking the door behind her.
Megumi stood dripping on the drain, the robe hanging from his fingers. The silence was a roar. He could still feel the map of where the food had been, the ghostly imprint of cold rice and colder hands. From the other side of the door, he heard Sukuna’s low laugh, Satoru’s bright retort, and the steady, approaching click of expensive shoes on hard flooring.
He pulled the robe on. The fabric was cheap, abrasive. It stuck to his damp skin. He stood in the center of the room, waiting, the momentum of the evening crashing into the terrible, static calm. It wasn’t over. It was just beginning.