John's body jerked upright, gasping like he hadn't breathed in days.

  The air was nearly too thick to breathe. His skin prickled with sweat as his eyes adjust to the lighting; Dim, golden and flickering like a neglected office building's. He's sat in a velvet chair. High-backed and uncomfortable, facing toward a large circular stage made of dark wood. Dozens of other seats are positioned around him, some empty, others occupied by strangers who didn't seem to be breathing. Or blinking... They're just watching the empty stage.

  The room was stretched like a cathedral- Tall and narrow, but every centimeter was blanketed in dust. Gilded trim lines the crimson wallpaper. Huge chandeliers hang overhead, many of the candle arms bent or missing entirely. Curtains are drawn tightly across high-arched windows.

  The only sound John could hear at this point was the slow, methodical tapping of someone's heels against the marble floor. A figure walked onto the stage- Tall and thin, clad in a tuxedo that shimmered with slick fancy colors. His face seemed to physically shift slightly every time John tried to make eye contact- It was like trying to see clearly through warped glass.

  "Lot seventy-one," the man said, voice oily-smooth. "A designer watch once worn by a man who stepped over corpses to climb the corporate ladder!"

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  No one spoke, yet the man's gavel fell.

  "Sold."

  John's throat felt dry. He didn't even remember standing, but suddenly he was on his feet.

  All the guests' heads surrounding him turned to look at him. That's when he finally noticed something.

  All of their faces are the same. Down to the littlest hairs on their beards. In fact, they all looked like the auctioneer.

  "Why am I bidding?" he thought. "I don't want this..."

  But, something had his hand. Not necessarily a force, like a handcuff, but rather a compulsion just like blinking or swallowing when you aren't thinking about it. The auctioneer kept announcing, and John kept buying. Again and again, obtaining another piece of status that meant nothing at all, but had to be his.

  The lights began to dim slowly.

  The auctioneer stopped speaking all of a sudden. Slowly and deliberately, he raised his arm and pointed toward the farthest corner of the room.

  John turned his head to see what he was pointing at... And there it was.

  The same monster that just ripped his head off. The hulking, misshapen beast wearing its torn tuxedo like a joke aimed right at John's stupid face.

  None of the other guests around him ran, or even looked scared. Their expressions remained completely unchanged as they watched the monster step onto the stage right beside the auctioneer.

  Then the auctioneer raised his arm again... This time, he pointed at John.

  "Lot seventy-seven," the auctioneer announced. "John Kage. The man who murdered his wife."