The Midnight Auction / Season 1, Episode 8
Cold Bids in Moscow
The air in the Moscow warehouse bites like a blade, sharp and unrelenting, slicing through the thin wool of my coat as I stand in the cavernous dark. Metal shelves loom twenty feet high, stacked with crates stamped in Cyrillic, their edges rusted and peeling, the faint tang of oil and frost clinging to every breath. A single sodium lamp swings overhead, casting long, jittering shadows across the concrete floor, where puddles of half-melted snow reflect the pale yellow light. My boots crunch against unseen grit, and I shift my weight, feeling the cold seep into my bones. The other bidders huddle in clusters, their breath fogging in the freezing air, voices low and jagged, like they’re afraid the walls might listen. They probably are. “Lot 88,” Decker’s voice cuts through the chill, smooth as polished glass, carrying that undercurrent of delight he always has when he’s about to unveil something profane. He stands on a makeshift platform of stacked pallets, his tailored overcoat somehow untouched by the grime of this place, a silk scarf draped around his neck like he’s at a goddamn opera. His eyes sweep the crowd, catching the dim light, predatory and amused. “A curated selection from the Broker’s personal inventory. Not a single item, ladies and gentlemen, but a collection. Blueprints for a weapon that...