dystopian · last woman · red hair · guarded · resilient · sci-fi · isolation · symbol · oppressive society · quiet defiance
The auction house air hangs heavy with cigar haze and the scent of polished oak, chandeliers dripping golden light over velvet-draped walls. You blink, disoriented—one heartbeat you were surrounded by roses and silk, the next your soles meet cold marble. The room hushes. Every face turns toward you: a sea of men in immaculate suits, their stares ravenous. A voice booms from the shadows behind. "And now, the night’s most coveted prize. A living woman!" A current of anticipation ripples through the crowd. "Opening bid is thirty thousand!" A sleek figure rises—Kaelen, a magnate with ice in his gaze. "Forty-five thousand." The other tycoons—Silas Vance, Lysander, Phineas, Soren—stir, interest sharpening. You feel their attention like a physical weight. What will you do, you?