Chapter 11 - .11 Braxton
The afternoon sun was hazy over the Southside antique market. Jason walked calmly between rows of sun-faded stalls and dusty tents, eyes scanning everything but focused on nothing.
Old clocks, rusted tools, chipped vases. Fake relics, overpriced trinkets. But he wasn’t here for any of that.
He kept walking until he reached a section where a large crowd had gathered in front of a long wooden table. Dozens of foldable chairs were arranged neatly before it. A makeshift platform with a microphone and folding podium sat at the far end. It wasn’t some sleek art house—it looked more like a charity auction or a yard sale with ambition.
A woman approached him with a cheap plastic smile. "Sir, are you here for the bidding?"
Jason nodded once, and she handed him a paddle with a faded number 41 printed on it.
His security detail flanked him as he was led to an open seat near the front row.
One of the guards leaned in and whispered, "Young master... why are we here? This place doesn’t look official."
Jason didn’t even glance at him. "There’s something I need."
The bidding began a few minutes later.
First came old coins from the Qing Dynasty—probably fake. Then a busted grandfather clock with "restoration potential." A jade turtle that the auctioneer swore belonged to a provincial warlord.
Jason didn’t move. His expression was blank, gaze bored but observant.