19:35 PM | Auction Hall, The Veil Society Gala
The velvet curtains peeled back with all the subtlety of a stripper's finale slow, deliberate, designed to make you look even when you knew better.
Crystal chandeliers burst to life overhead, fracturing the smoky haze into a thousand glittering lies. Light scattered across spiraling tables like diamonds on a fresh grave. Wealth, vanity, and danger all dressed up in Hermès and hollow smiles.
Adrian followed Aveline through the crowd, trying to match her rhythm without looking like a lost puppy. Her heels struck marble with the precision of a metronome or an execution countdown. She never glanced back. Didn't need to. She knew exactly where he was, where everyone was, probably down to their last shallow breath.
Table 3A. Front row seats to whatever circle of hell she'd reserved for the evening.
She slid into her chair like a knife finding its sheath one fluid motion, all silk and steel. Crossed one leg over the other with the kind of elegance that looked effortless but absolutely wasn't. The fabric of her dress caught the amber light, whispering secrets against itself.
Her lips curved. That smile. The one that said I already know how this ends, and you're not going to like it.
"Watch it go down like this," she murmured, lifting a glass of wine the color of fresh blood.
And then she dropped it.
Crystal exploded against marble sharp, sudden, violent. Shards scattered like tiny stars across a crimson galaxy. The sound cracked through the room like a starter pistol.
Waiters flinched. Guests turned, all wide eyes and clutched pearls.
Aveline didn't move. Just leaned back, arms crossed, breathing ice.
Adrian stared at her eyes pale irises around pupils so black they could've been portals to the void. No warmth. No hesitation. Just the kind of cold that made hypothermia look cozy.
What the hell was that supposed to mean?
"That supposed to mean something?" he asked, keeping his voice low.
She tilted her head toward the stage. "You'll see."
Of course. Because why explain when you can be cryptic and terrifying?
19:45 PM | Stage Presentation
The host strutted forward in a suit that cost more than Adrian's car, wearing the kind of smile that came factory-installed on people who'd never heard the word "no."
"Ladies and gentlemen," he purred into the microphone like he was seducing it, "welcome to the future of human evolution."
Holographic DNA helixes materialized behind him, spinning in mid-air with all the authenticity of a politician's campaign promise. Labs appeared on-screen gleaming white coats, sterilized perfection, scientists grinning like they'd just discovered sliced bread instead of playing God in the basement.
Vials glowed an ethereal amber color. Very dramatic. Very fake.
Adrian leaned in. "Let me guess — half the footage is bullshit?"
"Three-fourths," Aveline said without blinking.
Then the lights flickered. Once. Twice. Like the universe itself was having second thoughts.
The feed stuttered. The scientist's smile froze into something grotesque, mouth caught mid-lie. The pristine lab dissolved into static.
Cut to security footage.
Grainy. Raw. Real.
A dog small, terrified, trembling crammed into a cage barely large enough for regret. The camera angle was overhead, cold, clinical. The perspective of a god who'd stopped caring.
A gloved hand entered frame. Syringe. Glowing blue liquid.
Vx1.089.
The needle plunged in. The dog yelped high, sharp, the kind of sound that stays with you.
Then the transformation began.
Skin split like overripe fruit left in the sun. Eyes liquefied into weeping red sores. The whimper twisted into shrieks that clawed their way out of the speakers. The camera shook. Static hissed like the universe was trying to censor what came next.
Silence.
Just the dog's body. Motionless. Leaking something dark onto cold steel.
The room erupted. Gasps rolled through the crowd like a wave hitting shore. Some fled chairs scraping, heels clicking in frantic percussion toward the exits. Others stayed, frozen, hungry for the kind of horror they could whisper about later over champagne and canapés.
Adrian's stomach clenched even as a smirk tugged at his lips. Brilliant. Horrifying. Effective.
"You did that?"
"Overrode the system," she said, casual as ordering decaf.
"Of course you did."
Her smile sharpened into something that could draw blood.
20:00 PM | The Auction
The auctioneer's voice had lost its polish. Sweat beaded at his temple despite the arctic air conditioning.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he said, clearing his throat like he could clear the room's horror with it, "bidding opens for Vx1.089, prototype batch A. Early access only."
Adrian leaned back. "They're still selling that? After... that?"
Aveline raised her paddle.
The movement was fluid. Deliberate. The kind of confidence that comes from knowing you've already won.
Silence rippled outward like she'd just pulled a pin on a grenade.
"Opening bid: one million," the auctioneer announced.
"One-point-five," Aveline said smoothly, voice detached enough to perform surgery.
Adrian swallowed. One-point-five million. Just like that. Like ordering extra guac.
"You're buying it?"
"Owning it," she corrected, eyes never leaving the stage. "Control the supply. Control the chaos."
The numbers climbed. Two million. Two-point-one.
Then he appeared.
Dominic Eltrune.
Tall. Angular. Graying temples slicked back with enough product to lubricate a small engine. His paddle rose with the speed of continental drift — deliberate, challenging.
"Two-point-two."
Aveline's smirk didn't even flicker. "Two-point-three."
Eltrune's jaw tightened. Knuckles went white around his paddle. "Two-point-five."
The room held its breath like it was underwater.
Aveline leaned forward slightly. Those black-pupiled eyes burned through the ice of her irises.
Her voice dropped — soft, lethal, the whisper of a blade leaving its sheath.
"Two-point-eight."
Silence swallowed the room whole. No challengers. No one stupid enough.
She smiled. Ruthless. Elegant. Victorious.
The gavel came down. "Sold. Two-point-eight million to paddle forty-seven."
Adrian exhaled slowly. Two-point-eight million. Without blinking. Without hesitating.
Who the hell is she?
20:40 PM | Payment Desk
An assistant slid a black velvet folder across the mahogany counter. Adrian watched crisp edges, embossed seal catching light like a threat.
Aveline didn't flinch.
She extracted her wallet with the ease of someone who'd done this before. Many times. Probably in scarier places.
Inside gleamed a card that looked less like payment and more like a declaration of war.
CPEX. Canadian Platinum Express Card.
Inside gleamed a card that looked less like payment and more like a declaration of war.
Obsidian black. Genuine metal, not plastic — the kind of weight that said power without opening its mouth. A red maple leaf caught the light in the upper corner, bold and unapologetic. Her name etched at the bottom in letters that looked like they belonged on treaties and death warrants.
He'd seen murder weapons less intimidating than that card.
She swiped it like it was nothing.
The terminal beeped — soft, satisfied and most probably orgasmic.
$2,800,000 — APPROVED.
She adjusted her grip with surgical precision. Thumb poised against the card's rainbow edge like she was signing a death warrant. A ritual. Power made visible.
The assistant leaned in. "Receipt?"
Aveline's gaze zeroed in, sharp enough to draw blood. "Printed. No trace."
Adrian exhaled slowly. She just moved nearly three million dollars in thirty seconds. On a card that looks like it was designed by someone who hates poor people.
What the actual hell.
"Luxury is its own weapon," she said, voice clipped but faintly amused, sliding the card back into her wallet with the same reverence some people reserved for loaded guns.
The terminal beeped final confirmation. Whispers rippled outward glances, envy, suspicion spreading like gossip at a funeral.
She'd won. Controlled the serum. Controlled the chaos.
She glanced at Adrian, lips curving. "Don't blink. Or you'll miss everyone else realizing they're irrelevant."
20:55 PM | Contract Room
The legal file slid across the table thick, sealed, stamped with wax and bureaucracy's finest bullshit.
Adrian eyed it warily.
LEGAL CONTRACT FILE // ACCESS GRANTED
CONTENT WARNING: This document contains terms related to high-risk biological materials, legal disclaimers, and binding medical protocols.
AGREEMENT SUMMARY:
· Sample: Vx1.089 (Prototype Batch A)
· Usage Restriction: Early access only; unauthorized injection results in permanent ban and/or legal action (and probably death, but that's implied)
· Replication Clause: Don't even think about it
· Liability Waiver: You break it, you bought it (literally)
· Non-Disclosure: Snitches get... legally destroyed
Adrian frowned. "Technically, we can't legally prove it's dangerous."
"Who cares about the law," Aveline replied coolly, pen poised, "when they're out here playing God?"
She signed with deliberate elegance looping, controlled strokes that looked more like art than bureaucracy.
The assistant looked up.
Adrian's stomach dropped.
Miranda.
Black hair. Severe ponytail. Piercing blue eyes that used to look at him differently. Sharp cheekbones. Lips pressed into a line thin enough to cut glass.
His ex.
"You've lost weight," she said, voice cool and cutting.
Aveline's smirk caught the tension like a shark scenting blood.
"Stop. That's my date," Aveline said. Calm. Lethal.
Miranda laughed — bitter, sharp-edged, the kind of laugh that meant nothing was funny. "You must be the new skank."
Everything slowed.
Aveline's hand shot out fast grabbing Miranda's ponytail, twisting sharply. Miranda yelped, stumbling, eyes wide.
"Who the fuck do you think you're calling a skank, bitch?" Aveline's voice was soft. Deadly calm. "Leave before I decide that ponytail would look better in my clutch."
Adrian stood frozen.
Holy shit.
Those black-pupiled eyes glinted predatory, controlled fury barely leashed.
Of course. What was I expecting? No wonder people are terrified of her. Who wouldn't be?
Aveline released her. Miranda stumbled back, hand flying to her scalp, breathing ragged.
"Next time," Aveline said quietly, smoothing her dress, "I won't be so kind."
Miranda muttered something — "Psycho" before fleeing, heels clicking frantically down the corridor.
Adrian exhaled.
Aveline adjusted her jacket. Utterly composed. Like she'd just corrected someone's grammar.
21:15 PM | Outside The Veil Society Gala
The night air bit with cold clarity after the suffocating warmth inside. Streetlights cast long shadows across wet pavement. The city hummed alive, indifferent, dangerous.
Aveline had disappeared behind her motorcycle for a moment, and when she emerged, Adrian's brain short-circuited.
The evening gown was gone. In its place a black motorcycle suit that fit like a second skin. Reinforced padding at the shoulders, elbows, and knees. Sleek lines that somehow made her look even more dangerous. Carbon fiber accents caught the streetlight, gleaming like armor.
She pulled her hair back with practiced efficiency, securing it before sliding on her helmet. The transformation was complete from champagne socialite to something out of a cyberpunk fever dream.
She checked the bike with methodical precision. Brakes clean. New gear snapped into place. Every movement efficient, deliberate.
She glanced at Adrian through the visor, then lifted it. That smile again faint, cryptic, unreadable.
"Don't think too hard, handsome."
The visor snapped down.
The engine roared low, predatory, hungry. Tires gripped asphalt with the certainty of a promise kept. Crimson taillight flared like an ember against the dark.
She vanished into the night.
Adrian remained on the steps, cold settling into his bones. The image burned into his retinas her in that suit, all lethal grace and controlled power. And that card. That goddamn card with its rainbow edges and blood-red back, capable of moving millions without a second thought.
The truth landed heavy, unavoidable:
He didn't really know her at all. Did he?