I didn’t come to bid.
I came to watch who thought they owned the room.
Greenland started as a joke. A word. Then someone threw out a number big enough to make it real. That’s how land changes hands now—not with flags or soldiers, but with casual voices and imaginary money.
I sat down when it stopped being funny.
Nobody asked me to. Once the cards are dealt, presence is consent. Greenland lay flat on the table between us—quiet, white, and suddenly priceless. Everyone wanted what was under it, around it, or near it. Nobody wanted to admit why.
The bids got louder. Bigger. Sloppier.
“I bid another ten billion,” someone said, like confidence comes with free refills.
I didn’t raise. I stayed in.
That’s when they noticed me.
Greenland isn’t the prize. Never was. The prize is who blinks first, who needs to win, and who can afford to wait while the pot swells and the masks slip.
I tapped the table.
Greenland’s in play.
And I’m not leaving.