The Girl for Bidding

My name is Viola Scott. Before I met Yale Shawn, my life was like shards of glass scattered across asphalt—my mother's blood spilled beneath the iron rod of debt collectors, my father's half-used ticket left behind during his illegal crossing, and the utility knife I hid in my sleeve. When I was sixteen, the loud crash of the security door being kicked open was the last memory I had of 'home.' My mother shoved me into the wardrobe and stood blocking the door herself. As the last muffled groan escaped her, I clutched the half-knitted scarf she had made, my nails digging into the wooden panel. Later, I became a wandering soul on the streets, stealing rice balls from the convenience store during the day and sleeping under the bridge at night. Fighting was an everyday occurrence—living day by day seemed all I could do—until that rainy night when I turned eighteen. A group of people surrounded me, brandishing iron rods, saying they wanted to 'repay their father's debt.' I was already braced for the beating when someone suddenly stepped in front of me. It is Yale Shawn. He wore a clean white shirt but bore those rusty sticks without flinching. Before he passed out, he grabbed my wrist and said, "Viola Scott, from now on, I will protect you." That hand was so warm—warm enough to bring me to tears. I began to learn how to wear skirts without holes, to replace the utility knife with lip balm, to act like a "normal person," and to speak of "love" aloud. Yale Shawn said he had a twin brother named Calvin Shawn, who lived abroad most of the time; whenever he returned, his gaze toward me was always sharp. But Yale Shawn said, "You're just overthinking it," and I believed him. And then there was Vivian Jones, whom Yale Shawn described as a "good friend who had grown up with him since childhood." She would poke my forehead with her red-painted fingernails whenever no one was around. "Viola Scott, an orphan like you, is not worthy of Yale Shawn." I didn't argue; at that time, I thought that as long as Yale Shawn loved me, no one's words mattered. Until the day Vivian Jones invited me to a café, saying she had a gift from Yale Shawn to give me. When I arrived, she was the only one there, sitting by the window, playing with a silver pen in her hands; the red on her nails looked like freshly congealed blood. "Viola, come over and sit." She smiled and waved; the glitter on her eyelashes dazzled my eyes painfully. Just as I sat down, something struck the back of my neck, my vision went dark, and I lost consciousness. When I woke again, I found myself lying inside a cold iron cage, my clothes replaced by an almost transparent silk nightgown. Noisy voices surrounded me, and the spotlight was so bright I could barely open my eyes. This was the Underground Market — a place I had built with my own hands, which had now become the stage where I was auctioned. Vivian Jones stood on the auction platform, twirling a leather whip in her hand, followed by two men, walking toward me. "Everyone, today's auction item is Yale Shawn's girlfriend, Viola Scott." Her voice came through the microphone, tinged with a harsh laugh: "Starting bid, five hundred thousand?" Below the platform, some people whistled, others raised bidding cards; their gazes pierced me like needles. I clenched my fists, my nails digging into my palms. Then I saw them—two Yale Shawns. One wore a black suit and gold-rimmed glasses, affectionately tousling Vivian Jones's hair. Another man in a white shirt, with the top two buttons undone, stared at me with the disdainful look of someone assessing trash. "Just a dog we've finished playing with, and he thinks he's worth a million?" The man in the white shirt, 'Yale Shawn,' spoke; his voice was identical to Yale Shawn's but laced with venom. I stood inside the iron cage, my body trembling. It turned out that the story Yale Shawn told about his "younger brother being abroad" was a lie; all along, I had been a fool. Vivian Jones, whipping her lash, leaned in and tried to hit me inside the iron cage: "Give the bosses a smile!" Just as the whip was about to strike my cheek, I grabbed its tip with my opposite hand and pulled with all my strength. Vivian Jones lost her balance and stumbled forward; seizing the opportunity, I pulled the whip inside the cage and fiercely swung it out — the leather whip hissed through the air and struck her face hard. "Ah!" she screamed, clutching her face as fresh blood seeped through her fingers. "I will kill you!" I opened the iron cage door — this lock was of my own design, and only I knew how to unlock it from the inside. Walking onto the auction stage, I snatched the microphone; my voice was as cold as ice: "The final auction begins now. The item for sale: Yale Shawn, Calvin Shawn, starting bid one dollar." The audience instantly fell silent. Those who had been eyeing each other fiercely just moments ago now kept their heads lowered; no one dared raise their placards. They all knew who held authority in this underground market.