Benedict walked onto the stage, and the auctioneer's voice boomed. "Let's welcome Mr. Morrison!"
The women in the front rows swooned the moment he appeared, drawn to his effortless charm. I felt a flicker of unease, sensing Finnick's posture stiffen beside me.
Benedict's gaze slid toward Finnick, calm but loaded with something unspoken. "In times of need, helping the pack—the less fortunate—must come before personal keepsakes," he said, his voice steady. "Even this pen, a memory of my dear sister, must serve a greater purpose. Knowing she would approve brings me peace as I let it go."
Polite applause rolled through the hall, but I could feel the tension coiling around Finnick like a low growl.
The auctioneer jumped in. "The bidding starts at a hundred thousand!"
The pen gleamed under the lights. Its gold nib shone like it had been made for signing the fate of empires. Everyone seemed eager, throwing numbers into the room like weapons in a skirmish.
"One hundred thousand!"
