The opulent halls of the Diamond Benefit Gala shimmered under the crystalline glow of imported glass-blossom chandeliers. Each surface—from the polished obsidian floor to the towering, gilded archways—reflected the glint of Marantha’s elite, a swirling constellation of tailored suits, silk gowns, and calculating smiles. Lestari, draped in an elegant gown of deep cerulean that echoed the distant ocean, kept her stance locked against the lingering vertigo. Her sensory gift had flared violently, leaving an acrid metallic hum along her teeth. He moved beside her, the Selenian Silktwist suit drape shifting with fluid poise, unbothered by the grand company. He remained tranquil while her vision prickled with residual auric flares. Julian Da Silva, his own custom tailoring loud and over-embroidered, watched them from across the grand ballroom with pinched lips. Mateo Ouyang, lurking at Julian's elbow, muttered into the younger executive's ear. The main benefit lot sales commenced with the usual parade of antiquities and modern canvas. Lestari forced a serene smile, nodding at a few key investors, but her attention was irrevocably tethered to Ignacio. He had been quiet since their arrival, watching the room with detached amusement. The first few items went for predictable, astronomical sums. Then, the auctioneer, a man with a booming voice and a perfectly coiffed silver mane, introduced the next lot. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he announced, gesturing to a velvet-draped pedestal, “we have a truly… unique item. A piece of Marantha’s industrial history! This, my esteemed patrons, is Lot 73: a vintage cargo manifest, recovered from the wreckage of the ‘Sea Serpent,’ one of the earliest mercantile vessels to navigate the treacherous Crimson Straits!” A spotlight flared, illuminating an oxidized iron logbook, its cover warped, its pages water-damaged and brittle. A collective murmur of confusion rippled through the elegant crowd. This wasn’t a painting. It wasn’t a jewel. It was… refuse. A prop. Lestari frowned, a sense of unease prickling her skin. This was unusual, even for a philanthropic gathering's novelty lot. Her sight, however, registered only a faint, dull echo of lost copper and the bitter tang of decay from the artifact itself. Ignacio, however, leaned forward, a subtle shift in his posture. A flicker of keen interest, almost too quick to catch, crossed his features. Lestari watched him, intrigued. Was he genuinely interested in this piece of maritime history? He had seemed so indifferent to everything else. Julian Da Silva stepped forward from the shadows near the back of the room with an oily smirk. “A truly *historic* piece, indeed,” he sneered, his voice carrying over the microphone he had apparently commandeered from a startled aide. He approached the pedestal, circling the corroded logbook with theatrical disdain. “And I daresay, a demanding acquisition for anyone without… substantial liquid assets. Perhaps our esteemed guest, Mr. Vargas, would care to make the opening bid?” He shot Ignacio an insolent look, a clear attempt to corner him and expose his assumed poverty. Ignacio’s lips curved into a slow, deliberate smile. He slowly raised his hand. “A flat hundred grand in credits,” Ignacio said, his quiet voice slicing through the chatter. The entire room fell silent. Lestari nearly gasped. That much for an oxidized scrap of iron? Was he insane? Or was this… part of the game? Julian’s smirk faltered for a fraction of a second, replaced by a flash of genuine surprise. He hadn’t expected Ignacio to bid, let alone with such an extravagant sum. The plan had been to make Ignacio squirm, to reveal he couldn't even afford the starting bid for something worthless. But this was… different. Julian quickly recovered, his ego reasserting itself. “Ah, Mr. Vargas, a man of surprising… enthusiasm!” Julian chuckled, a brittle sound. “A hundred grand, you say? Well, I wouldn’t want to deprive this cause of a generous contribution. Two hundred thousand.” Ignacio’s smile widened, a hint of something dark and ancient lurking behind his calm facade. “Three hundred.” A ripple of nervous laughter spread through the crowd. This was no longer a bidding round; it was an execution. Lestari felt a cold thrill. She knew this expression on Ignacio’s face now – the prelude to a meticulous dismantling. He was enjoying this, every calculated move. Lestari saw a sickly bile-green haze radiate from Julian's words, whereas Ignacio's baritone summoned sudden, sharp crimson flares. “Half a bar!” Julian declared, his collar straining against his neck. His voice was no longer a playful sneer but a strained bark. He had to win. He couldn't let this NoodleDash driver outbid him, especially not for something he himself had introduced as worthless. “One flat,” Ignacio stated, eyes fixed on Julian with cold invitation. A collective gasp echoed through the ballroom. A full bar for sea-rotted iron! The absurdity was reaching critical mass. Lestari watched Julian, seeing the carefully constructed mask of indifference begin to crack. Ignacio was playing him, like a maestro with a poorly strung instrument. Julian’s jaw tightened. He glanced around the room, acutely aware of the eyes on him, the whispers, the barely concealed smirks. He was Julian Da Silva, CEO of Da Silva Holdings, heir to a shipping empire. He could not be outmaneuvered by a commoner. He had to demonstrate his superiority. More importantly, he couldn't let the man Lestari had called her fiancé look financially stronger. The Syndicate, he knew, valued strength. This was a direct assault on his standing. “Three million!” Julian roared, slamming his hand on the podium. His voice was hoarse, his face now a mottled purple. The auctioneer looked between the two men, hands shaking slightly over the polished wood block. Even Mateo, usually so composed, gaped in confusion. This wasn’t part of the plan. Ignacio leaned in slightly, his voice low and carrying easily through the hall. “Is that all, Julian? I would have thought the future CEO of Ouyang Maritime could afford a trinket to remember his first defeat.” The barb struck home. Julian’s eyes blazed with fury. His reputation, his pride, his very lineage was being questioned, publicly, by a man in a courier’s suit (even if it was a priceless one). The Vespera Syndicate, he knew, respected power. He couldn't appear weak. He had to crush this upstart. And this logbook, while worthless, represented a public victory. He had to have it. “Five bar!” Julian shouted, his pitch breaking. “Five million credits for the… the historical artifact! And that, Mr. Vargas, is my final offer. Do you dare top it? Do you even *have* that capital?” His chest heaved, a vein throbbing visibly in his temple. Ignacio paused, letting the silence stretch, letting Julian twist in the spotlight. He met Julian’s gaze, a slow, pitying smile gracing his lips. He then shrugged, a gesture of casual dismissal. “It’s yours, Julian. A truly fitting memento.” The auctioneer, visibly stunned but ever the professional, brought down his gavel with a resounding *CRACK!* “Sold! To Mr. Julian Da Silva, for five million credits!” A collective explosion of murmurs, gasps, and outright snickers erupted. Julian stood there, chest heaving, clutching the corroded relic like a trophy, though his pupils contracted with horror. Five whole bar. For *this*? His personal liquid funds, earmarked for a crucial corporate acquisition, had just been vaporized. In Lestari's sight, Julian's aura bled into a sickening, churning purple-black, signaling the instant evaporation of his liquidity. He had fallen straight into Ignacio's trap, and he hadn’t even realized it until the trap had sprung. Lestari watched, fingers curling tightly into her palms. Ignacio had not just humiliated Julian; he had drained him through sheer psychological baiting. It was a masterpiece of social and economic warfare. The man was lethal behind that polite posture, and she could not look away. The soft glow of her synesthesia around Ignacio had intensified, a radiant, all-consuming supernova, not just of wealth, but of raw, untamed power. As the gala continued, the story of Julian’s astronomical purchase of garbage spread like wildfire. He was the laughingstock of Marantha’s elite, his name bandied about with open derision. Humiliated and enraged, Julian retreated to a secluded balcony, the cool night air doing little to douse the inferno of his fury. Mateo, his face pale with a mix of shock and fear, quickly followed. “You fool!” Julian hissed, grabbing Mateo by the lapels of his expensive jacket. “Your grand plan to humiliate him? He just drained my war chest! Five million! Gone! Do you have any idea what this means for the Anvil Merger?!” Mateo stammered, “But… I thought… he’s a courier! He shouldn’t have been able to bid at all!” Julian pushed him away, his eyes glinting with a dangerous resolve. “It doesn’t matter! He played me. And now, I’ll play him. I’ll play *all* of you. Ouyang Maritime is vulnerable, Mateo. And I have connections. Connections that even the Vespera Syndicate respects. I’ll make sure Lestari knows exactly what it means to cross Julian Da Silva. The hostile takeover starts tomorrow. You, Mateo, will ensure the board is ready.”

Bidding on Garbage