The dream. It didn't float. It dragged in the black soot of the stage.
Solar stood there. The Grand Auction House smelled like old, wet paper and the bitter, sharp tang of almonds. Poison. He liked it. The air was thick. Stale. It tasted of other people's vomit and the salt of dried tears. This was the "Final Liquidation." The place where the Solar Group turned a child's memory into a profit margin. Behind him? A mountain of trash. Collateral. Broken dolls. Wedding rings with the stones ripped out. Letters tied in rotting, blue ribbon. To the owners? It was their life. To Solar? It was just uncollected interest.
"Lot 405, sir. Hand-drawn maps. Sector 3. Belonged to a navigator. He... he died before the last payment."
Elias was sweating. The stage lights were hot. Orange. Cruel. He held the wooden gavel like a piece of hot coal. CLICK. CLICK. "The bidding is... dead, sir. People are afraid. They say the maps are cursed. By the dead man."
Solar laughed. A dry, hollow rattle. Like stones in a tin can. HA. HA. "Cursed? A curse is just a liability, Elias. It hasn't been appraised yet. Ghosts don't pay rent. If they want to haunt my warehouse, charge them for the storage. Start the bid at 500. No buyers? Burn them. I can sell the ash to the filters. 5% markup."
BANG.
The gavel hit the wood. A gunshot in a church. The crowd—a sea of ragged coats and hollow, hungry eyes—flinched. They weren't here to buy. They were here to watch their own souls go under the hammer.
"Audit the nostalgia, Elias!" Solar hissed. His voice was a cold rasp. It cut the air. "I want a profile on every bidder. If they hesitate? Increase the pressure. Tell them the money goes to their own debt. It's a loop. They're buying back their misery with the credits I lent them yesterday. It's beautiful."
CLATTER.
A box of old toys fell. A porcelain doll shattered. CRACK. Solar didn't move. He didn't blink. He just touched his cufflinks—human bone. Cold. Hard. He looked at the front row. A woman was sobbing into a dirty rag. Her son's violin was next.
"Going once!" Elias shouted. His voice cracked. "Going twice!"
"You're selling their souls, Solar!" a voice roared. The Shadow. He was at the back. Near the exit. His silver mask reflected the orange light. "Those aren't 'assets'. Those are the only things they have! You're stripping them naked for a few lines in a ledger!"
Solar smiled. A jagged, white line in the dark. HA. HA. "Humanity is a depreciating asset, ghost. High maintenance. Low resale. You think you're a hero? You're just a spectator. You want to save their 'dreams'? Open your wallet. Buy the lot. Otherwise? Shut up. Watch the liquidation. I don't audit feelings. I audit reality."
He turned to the Enforcers. Their armor was polished. It reflected the crying faces. CLANK. CLANK. "Increase the 'Sentimental Surcharge'. 20%. If they love it, it's expensive. I want the total by midnight. And Elias? If the woman keeps crying, charge her for 'Noise Pollution'. This is business. Not a funeral."
THUD.
Another box. Medals. Old war medals. Solar picked one up. Cold. Useless. CHINK. He tossed it back. Trash.
"The audit is moving to the spirit, ghost!" Solar roared. "Everything is for sale. Even the things you hide in the dark. I'll find the price for your mask soon. And I'll sell it. To the highest bidder."
He turned his back. He walked to the elevator. He didn't feel the hate. He didn't feel the guilt. He just felt the math.
"Elias!" he barked.
"Yes, sir?"
"Take the unsold dreams to the furnace. The steam can heat my office. I like the smell of burning hope. It keeps the staff focused. It keeps them hungry."
Solar poured a glass of water. GLUG. GLUG. He drank it slowly. The interest never sleeps. And tonight? Even the dreams were sold.
The auction was final. And Solar had the hammer.