Chapter 33
title: "The Auction House Bleeds" wordCount: 2453
Petra won't meet my eyes, and that tells me everything I need to know before she says a word.
Her office sits above the Auction House floor, glass walls overlooking the chaos below. Soundproofed. Private. The kind of place where deals get made that never show up in the public ledger. She's standing at the window with her back to me, shoulders tight under her tailored jacket.
"The Bloom assassin," I say. "Chapter five of the rulebook says no violence on Auction House grounds."
"Sit down, Remy."
"I'm good standing."
She turns. Her face is composed, professional, but there's something in her eyes I've never seen before. Not quite guilt. More like resignation. "You want the truth or the version that lets you sleep at night?"
"Here's the thing." My burned palms ache where I'm clenching my fists. "I already know you're going to lie. Just tell me how much."
"One death per year." She says it flat, like she's reading a weather report. "The Auction House permits one death per year on its grounds. It's in the original charter, buried in subsection forty-seven of the operational guidelines. Most people never read that far."
The floor feels unsteady under my boots. "You knew."
"I've known for six years." Petra moves to her desk, pours herself something amber from a crystal decanter. Doesn't offer me any. "The System calls it a pressure release valve. Keeps the market volatile. Profitable. One death reminds everyone that the stakes are real, that the Auction House isn't a playground. Bidding goes up thirty percent in the month following an incident."
"You let someone die for profit margins."
"I let someone die so the Auction House survives." She takes a long drink. "You think this place runs on goodwill? The System built it. The System maintains it. And the System demands payment in blood once a year to keep the doors open. I don't make the rules, Remy. I just enforce them."
My father's voice echoes in my head. Good enough gets you killed. But this isn't about good enough. This is about Petra standing in her soundproof office drinking expensive whiskey while she explains why murder is acceptable overhead.
"The assassin came for me," I say. "You positioned me as bait."
"I positioned you as an opportunity." She sets the glass down hard enough that it cracks. "You're a crafter with a reputation. You draw attention. High-value targets. The kind of people who make dramatic moves. I didn't know the Bloom would send someone, but I knew someone would eventually try something stupid. And when they did, the Auction House would have its annual incident and you'd walk away with an enhanced reputation as someone dangerous to cross."
"Except I almost didn't walk away."
"But you did." Petra's smile doesn't reach her eyes. "And now you're more valuable than ever. A crafter who survived an assassination attempt on Auction House grounds. Do you know what that does for your market rate?"
I should leave. Walk out. Let her drown in whatever justifications help her sleep. But my interface is still showing Marcus's dropping vitals and the accept button pulsing like a heartbeat and I need to understand how deep this goes.
"The Proving Ground," I say. "You know about it."
"Everyone knows about it now." She gestures at the window. Below, the Auction House floor is packed, but the usual frenetic energy is muted. People clustered in small groups, interfaces glowing, all watching the same feeds. "Forty-seven participants and counting. The System's been recruiting for weeks."
"Recruiting crafters specifically."
"Among others." Petra refills her glass. "You're not special, Remy. You're just useful. And the System collects useful things."
The words hit like a hammer to the sternum. Not special. Just useful. My father taught me to weld and curse and survive, but he never taught me how to be anything more than a tool in someone else's hand.
"I'm done here," I say.
"Wait." Petra's voice cracks on the word. "There's something else you need to—"
The lights flicker. Once. Twice. Then steady, but wrong. Too bright. Too white. The kind of illumination that doesn't come from electrical fixtures.
Below us, the Auction House floor goes silent.
I take the stairs three at a time, Petra's footsteps echoing behind me. The main floor opens up like a cathedral, vaulted ceilings and marble columns and enough space for three hundred people to bid simultaneously. Right now, all three hundred are frozen, staring at the center of the room.
Where something is forming.
Not materializing. Forming. Like reality is bending around a shape that shouldn't exist, folding in on itself until it creates a figure from nothing. Humanoid. Roughly. Two arms, two legs, a head. But no face. No features. Just smooth, reflective surface that shows distorted versions of everyone watching.
A System Avatar.
I've seen them in feeds, in historical records from the first Spire. Never in person. They only appear for major announcements. Policy changes. Declarations of war.
Or recruitment.
"Remy Voss." The Avatar's voice comes from everywhere and nowhere, resonating in my chest like a bass note. "Crafter. Survivor. Candidate."
Every eye in the Auction House turns to me.
I don't move. Don't speak. My interface is screaming warnings, but I keep my hands at my sides and my expression neutral. The thermal dynamics are off. The whole situation is off. Avatars don't appear for individual crafters. They don't interrupt Auction House sessions. They don't—
"The System recognizes your potential," the Avatar continues. "Your skills. Your... resilience. We offer you a choice."
Here it comes. The trap dressed up as opportunity.
"Accept the designation of Sanctioned Crafter." The Avatar extends one hand, and a contract materializes in the air between us. Glowing text, dense paragraphs, the kind of legal language that takes hours to parse. "Exemption from Proving Ground participation. Full System support for your projects. Access to materials and facilities beyond current market availability. Protection from hostile actors."
The crowd murmurs. Someone behind me whispers, "He'd be insane to refuse."
"In exchange," the Avatar says, "you craft exclusively for System-approved clients. Your work serves the collective. Your innovations benefit all."
I step closer. The contract rotates, showing me different sections. Compensation packages. Resource allocations. Security guarantees. It's generous. Almost obscenely so. The kind of offer that would set me up for life.
Then I see the clause at the bottom. Subsection twelve. Paragraph four.
All items crafted under this contract remain System property in perpetuity. The System reserves the right to reclaim, modify, or redistribute any creation at any time for any purpose.
"You want to own everything I make," I say.
"We want to ensure your work serves its highest purpose." The Avatar's featureless face tilts. "Individual ownership is inefficient. Collective benefit is optimal."
"Optimal for who?"
"For survival." The Avatar's hand remains extended. "The second Spire approaches. Humanity requires unified effort. Sanctioned Crafters will build the tools necessary for our continued existence. You can be part of that effort. Or you can face the Proving Ground with a two point one percent survival rate."
My father's face flashes through my mind. That smile that wasn't his smile. The way he looked at the camera like he was seeing through it. Seeing me.
"How many have accepted?" I ask.
"Seventeen crafters currently hold Sanctioned status." The Avatar's voice carries a note of something almost like pride. "Their work has already begun. Weapons. Armor. Infrastructure. The foundation of our defense."
Seventeen. Out of how many crafters total in the city? Fifty? A hundred? The System is cherry-picking the best and binding them with contracts that sound like protection but read like ownership.
Kess appears at my elbow. I didn't hear her approach. She's staring at the contract, her eyes moving fast, reading. "Remy, don't you think we should—"
"No," I say.
The word drops into silence. The Avatar's hand doesn't move. The contract keeps rotating, patient, waiting.
"No?" The Avatar's voice carries no inflection. Just curiosity. "Clarify."
"I'm not signing." I take a step back. "I'm not crafting for the System. I'm not giving you ownership of my work. And I'm not letting you turn me into another tool in your collection."
The murmur from the crowd turns angry. Someone shouts, "You're throwing away a gift!" Another voice: "Selfish bastard!"
Petra's hand lands on my shoulder. "Remy, think about what you're—"
I shrug her off. "I've thought about it. The answer's no."
The Avatar's hand slowly lowers. The contract dissolves. For a long moment, nothing happens. Then the Avatar speaks again, and this time there's something new in its voice. Not anger. Not disappointment. Just... acknowledgment.
"Noted," it says. "Your choice is recorded. The Proving Ground awaits."
Then it's gone. Not fading. Not dissolving. Just gone, like it was never there. The lights return to normal. The crowd erupts into argument, people shouting at me, at each other, at the empty space where the Avatar stood.
I'm already moving toward the exit.
The alley behind the Auction House smells like garbage and rain. I lean against the brick wall, my burned palms pressed against the cool surface, trying to breathe through the adrenaline crash. Seventeen crafters. Seventeen people who looked at that contract and saw safety instead of chains.
Maybe they're right. Maybe I'm the idiot throwing away the only lifeline I'll get.
"That was either really brave or really stupid." Yuki steps out of the shadows, her interface glowing. "I'm leaning toward stupid, but I've been wrong before."
"You recorded it," I say. Not a question.
"Every second." She taps her interface. "The Avatar's offer. Your rejection. The crowd's reaction. All of it."
"Why?"
"Because the System doesn't make public offers like that unless it's desperate." Yuki moves closer, her voice dropping. "Seventeen Sanctioned Crafters. How many more has it approached privately? How many accepted without the dramatic floor show? This isn't recruitment, Remy. It's a draft. And you just painted a target on your back by refusing."
Kess emerges from the Auction House's back entrance, her face flushed. "Do you have any idea what you just did? That was immunity! That was safety! That was—"
"Ownership," I interrupt. "That was the System buying me. Buying my work. Buying everything I'll ever create."
"Better than dying in the Proving Ground!" Kess's voice cracks. "Better than whatever happened to your father! Better than—"
"My father's in there because the System wanted him in there." The words come out harder than I intend. "And now it wants me. Not because I'm special. Because I'm useful. And the second I stop being useful, that contract won't mean anything."
Kess opens her mouth. Closes it. Her eyes are wet, but she's not crying. Just angry. "So what's your plan? Walk into the Proving Ground and hope you're part of the two percent?"
"I don't have a plan." My interface pulses. New notification. I don't want to look. "I just know I'm not giving the System what it wants."
"Even if it costs you everything?" Kess asks.
"Especially then."
Yuki's interface chimes. She glances at it, and her expression shifts. "Remy. Check your notifications."
I don't want to. My hands are shaking. The burned skin on my palms feels tight, like it's trying to split open. But I pull up my interface anyway.
The message is short. Direct. Impossible.
[PROVING GROUND ENTRY CONFIRMED]
Transport initiates in 6 hours
Current participant count: 47
Projected survival rate: 2.1%
Note: Refusal of Sanctioned Crafter status triggers automatic enrollment. Thank you for your service.
"I didn't accept," I say. My voice sounds distant. Wrong. "I didn't press the button. I didn't—"
"You refused the alternative." Yuki's reading over my shoulder. "The System gave you a choice. Safety or the Proving Ground. You chose the Proving Ground by default."
Kess grabs my arm. "We can appeal. There has to be a process. We can—"
My interface updates again. A countdown timer appears. Five hours, fifty-nine minutes, forty-three seconds. Below it, a map showing a transport location. The old industrial district. The same place where I found Marcus's workshop gutted and empty.
"There's no appeal," I say. "The System doesn't negotiate."
"Then we run." Kess's grip tightens. "We get you out of the city. We find somewhere the System can't—"
"There's nowhere the System can't reach." Yuki's voice is flat. "And running just makes you a fugitive. They'll hunt you down and drag you back. Or kill you. Whichever's more convenient."
The countdown ticks down. Five hours, fifty-nine minutes, eighteen seconds.
Somewhere in the Proving Ground, Marcus is dying. Or something wearing his face is dying. And in six hours, I'll be there too. Forty-seven participants. A two point one percent survival rate. One person walks out. Maybe.
My father used to say that good enough gets you killed. But he never told me what to do when good enough is the only option left.
Kess is still talking, her words tumbling over each other, something about legal challenges and System oversight and ways to delay the transport. Yuki's recording everything, her interface capturing my face, my reaction, the countdown timer reflected in my eyes.
I'm not listening to either of them.
I'm watching the numbers drop. Five hours, fifty-eight minutes, thirty-two seconds. The map pulses, showing the exact coordinates where I need to be. Where the System will take me whether I go willingly or not.
My interface chimes one more time. A new message. Not from the System. From inside the Proving Ground.
A video feed. Marcus's face. His real face, not the puppet version from before. His eyes are unfocused, his skin gray, but his lips are moving. Forming words I can't hear.
The feed cuts to black before I can read them.
The countdown continues. Five hours, fifty-seven minutes, nine seconds.
And somewhere in the city, forty-six other people are watching the same timer, making the same calculations, wondering if they're part of the two percent or the ninety-eight.
My interface locks. The countdown freezes at five hours, fifty-six minutes, forty-four seconds. Then new text appears, overwriting everything else.
[PRIORITY OVERRIDE]
Proving Ground transport accelerated
New departure time: 14 minutes
Reason: Critical participant status requires immediate intervention
Participant Marcus Voss: Life support failing
Report to transport coordinates immediately or forfeit entry
Kess is screaming something. Yuki's interface is flashing red. The alley tilts sideways, or maybe I'm falling, or maybe the world is just breaking apart the way it's been threatening to since Marcus opened his eyes in that hospital bed.
Fourteen minutes.
The map updates, showing the fastest route to the transport coordinates. Two miles. Through the industrial district. Past the gutted workshop. To whatever's waiting.
I start running.