A pitch-black room. Nothing exists but a singular circle of white light.
Mulvaney stands at its center, shivering and half-dressed. He achingly raises his bruised right hand to shield his eyes from the oppressive glare.
“Tell me what you want!” he shouts into the void.
Only silence answers.
Somewhere lurking in the darkness, six hulking silhouettes watch his every move. They place votes among themselves, haggling over the future services of their fresh captive.
Mulvaney massages his temples. His mind, still a blank slate. The last twelve hours, gone.
The one thing he does know for certain: he’s for sale.
The Weekday One Hundred 