"Seven-ninety-one."
$791,000,000.
The screens updated with a soft chime.
The room held its breath.
Silva shifted in his seat, gold lamé catching the light. His voice came out hoarse but determined.
"Seven-ninety-two."
$792,000,000.
Omar's hand shook as he raised his paddle, thobe rustling with the movement. His whisper carried in the silence.
"Seven-ninety-three."
$793,000,000.
Hale leaned forward, chalk-stripes perfectly pressed despite the tension. His voice was a low growl.
"Seven-ninety-four."
$794,000,000.
Al-Fahd lifted his paddle with deliberate slowness, gold rings catching light. His voice was rough, strained.
"Seven-ninety-five."
$795,000,000.
The incremental crawl continued. Each bid slow, calculated, dragging through the thick atmosphere of competition and desire.
Tanaka again, jaw clenched.
"Seven-ninety-six."
$796,000,000.
Silva, sweat visible on his brow.
"Seven-ninety-seven."
$797,000,000.
Omar, voice trembling.
"Seven-ninety-eight."
