"People shouldn't be afraid of their government. Governments should be afraid of their people."

- V for Vendetta

_ _

"Good afternoon, Marked citizens of Sector 10! I interrupt your regularly scheduled government propaganda to bring you an exciting program of news and essays. If you're a first time listener, I'm Hope. Welcome to the revolution."

It's freezing in this fucking warehouse - cold enough for his breath to hang in the air and his teeth to chatter - and he hates how his voice sounds in the echoing space. The wind pushing through the holes in the tin roof rattles the metal rafters overhead, making them creak and groan. Fortunately, they're too high up to be picked up by his shitty mic, but the persistent noise makes it hard to hear the police scanner he's positioned next to him on the frigid concrete floor.

And fuck it's cold. His threadbare scarf and patchy coat are doing almost nothing to combat it. There's a hole that's reopened in his sleeve recently and the chill seeping in has made his whole right arm numb. Even with gloves, he can barely feel his fingers as he carefully adjusts dials on his makeshift audio processor.

But if there's one thing Jung Hoseok knows how to do, it's adapt to circumstance. Raids pushed him out of his usual, much comfier broadcasting spot in the storage room of a shop, so he's making do with abandoned warehouses at the edge of the sector for now.

Needs must.

"Weather, as you are all aware, is currently shit. We're expecting snow later in the week, so make sure to stock up on blankets and do any needed clothing repairs ASAP. Buses are probably also gonna be down, like always, so prepare for that, too. Raids have been picking up across the sector and patrols have tightened near the border gates, which we can thank our illustrious new monarch for. So keep your heads down. Hopefully, he'll get bored of picking on us soon and we can all breathe a little easier."

The police scanner crackles to life, making him pause. Something's up, but it sounds like it's west of him - on the other side of the sector - so he's safe for now. The mark on his neck still itches - a fucked up Pavlovian response or something. He resists the urge to touch the tattooed symbol and adjusts his sound again.

"Until then, I have a new essay from RM to read. This one's a doozy, so settle in. Get a cup of tea." He pulls up the encrypted email on his contraband laptop and takes a deep breath. They haven't had anything new from RM - real name unknown - in nearly a month. He'd been worried, briefly, that their faceless revolutionary contact had been sanctioned like... - but this came in via Taehyung last night. Not everything is gone, it seems.

(Just the important things.)

"Right. Here goes. 'Hope, as we all know, can be a difficult thing to hold on to. It doesn't grant us the promise or the certainty of a better future. It requires us to rely on blind faith. That change will come, that suffering will end, that tomorrow will be better. Many would say, that after a hundred years of darkness, it is silly to believe that the sun will return. Our new king's continued cruelty - the raids, the rising number of sanctioned, the increased rationing - makes our hope seem even more foolish. But we must keep believing. No night lasts forever. No injustice is eternal. And it is our hope, our continued strength in the face of overwhelming adversity, that will allow us to prevail. Don't listen to the posters the monarchy plasters across the sectors or the messages that are broadcast to your radios. No matter what they say, we do not deserve this. No one should be punished for something that is not their choice, something they are born with and cannot help. The king and his chaebol court can tighten the noose all they want, but a time will come when -"

His phone buzzes on his knee, cutting him off mid-sentence.

He pauses, flips it open. One word: run.

Shit.

The scanners are crackling again and he wasn't paying attention. Something else is up and this time it's only a few blocks away, at another warehouse. He needs to move.

"Sorry, folks. It looks like I'm gonna have to cut it short today. I'll be back, though, so keep your ears open. For now, this is Hope, signing off."

He cuts his signal and begins packing up with practiced speed. The portable equipment - all painstakingly built out of scraps he's been collecting since he was a teenager - goes into his bulky backpack: police scanner first and then his processor, antenna, mic, headphones, and transmitter. Two fake courier packages go on top of all that and then he's forcing the ancient zip closed and heaving the thing onto his back. He's got a courier band around his arm, courtesy of Jimin, so the police shouldn't look twice at him, once he gets away from here and into the city proper again. He secures his face mask over his nose and mouth and tug his beanie low over his ears.

His phone buzzes again.

Clear?

Moving now, he types back, and does just that.

He bolts the warehouse doors behind him, re-secures the padlock he picked to gain entry, and sets off at a jog. This part of the sector is mostly just a maze of active and inactive warehouses - some still used for resource distribution and some, like the one he commandeered, long fallen into disrepair. The elites of Sector 1 have never really cared about upkeep out here on the fringes and it shows. He checks his watch as he turns a corner, weaving his way towards the taller buildings in the distance. The face of it cracked two weeks ago and he hasn't been able to scrape together enough funds to get it repaired, but he can still read the time, at least. Seven p.m., which means he has two hours to make it back to the apartment before curfew.

Should be plenty of time, provided the buses are running.

Noise to his left. He stops, pressing his back against the wall of another warehouse. It sounds like police radios, voices, but they're still three warehouses over, probably interrogating the distributors. They like their surprise inspections, and the new king has given them even more freedom to conduct them.

Hoseok drops into a crouch and quietly sneaks his way past, wincing as the voices raise: one in anger, one in fear. He forces himself to keep moving. Stopping to help would only get him sanctioned.

Eventually, he's clear of the warehouse district and back in the main city, amidst the tall, run-down apartment buildings and the shops that struggle to stay open even with increased resource restriction. He enters the stream of pedestrians, most of them on their way home from work, and keeps his head down. There are police here, too, but they don't seem to be actively searching for anything, just conducting their regular patrols while everyone gives them a wide berth.

His usual bus stop is empty, with a sign that says "Currently out of service." And next to it is a brand new, shiny government poster.

REMEMBER: THE ABILITIES OF MARKED CITIZENS ARE DANGEROUS. REPORT ANY SUSPICIOUS ACTIVITY TO POLICE IMMEDIATELY. UNCHECKED MARKED CAN CAUSE LARGE AMOUNTS OF DAMAGE AND BODILY HARM.

Beneath the message is a picture of cracking ground - like the earth is being split in two - and a man with the Marked symbol tattooed on his neck, his mouth open in a furious, feral roar.

"Great design, isn't it?" a familiar voice says from behind him. "They really went all in."

He spins around to see Taehyung standing on the curb. He's got a scarf around his neck and a hat pulled low over his ears, as well. Face mask in place and usual battered leather bag slung over his shoulder. The patch on the arm of his coat is coming loose and Hoseok makes a mental note to do some mending soon. At least all of their boots are still in relatively good shape.

"They really did," Hoeseok says.

There have been a new wash of posters across the city in the last two weeks. Probably because of the Marked man whose powers went haywire in spite of the seals tattooed on all of their necks. It was a tiny earthquake he created - barely enough to rattle the walls on two buildings - but it was all the monarchy needed to begin fresh crackdowns in earnest.

Hoseok wants to rip this stupid poster down, but that's ground for sanctioning as well, and there are police still around. He shoves his hands in his pockets, but Taehyung has none of his hesitation. Just marches up and tears the thing straight from the wall.

"Tae," Hoseok hisses in warning.

"I don't care," Taehyung snaps back, shoving the remnants of it into his pocket.

It's useless to fight him on this, so Hoseok sighs and changes topics. "What're you doing all the way out here?"

Taehyung nods his head towards a cluster of government administration buildings up the street. "They have the best wireless in the sector. I was borrowing it."

And this is another battle they've been fighting for the past year. "Kim Taehyung, if they catch you-"

"I know," Taehyung cuts him off, gloved fingers tightening on the strap of his bag. "I know what will happen, hyung, okay?"

They all know. It's a threat that's hung over them their whole lives. Ever since they were tested and tattooed and deemed less as fucking children . It's haunted them through crowded orphanages and into tiny apartments and menial jobs. It breathes down their neck, hotter and hotter with each infraction - each strike that gets tattooed as a line beneath their Mark. Until they reached sixteen and now all it takes is one slip up and you're gone forever, whether you're on your third strike or not. You're sanctioned into government service. To the factories in the industrial sector or the farms beyond the city, trying to yield food from a devastated earth. Or to the auction houses in Sector 1. To be sold and bought by the elite like ... like pets.

They sanction you and you never come back.

And Taehyung, with two strikes on his neck and fire in his eyes, knows this as well as breathing. He just doesn't care.

He hasn't cared since -

Hoseok cuts off that train of thought before the wound in his chest reopens, and shakes his head. "Just be careful."

"I am," Taehyung insists. Hoseok isn't sure whether to believe him or not. It's really not like he can talk, either, with his underground broadcasts. They're all playing with fire.

"C'mon," Hoseok says. "We're wasting daylight." And it's going to be a long walk home without the bus.

Taehyung falls into step beside him, long legs keeping up easily with Hoseok's brisk pace. Somewhere in the last year, he's grown up - twenty-one now and full of the fire and the fury that once was contained in Yoongi's smaller frame, that made him tower and ... and Hoseok isn't thinking about Yoongi. Not right now.

"Have you heard from Jimin? And how did you know about the warehouse inspections?"

"Nothing from Jimin," Taehyung says and neither of them comment on the worry in his voice. "And I was piggybacking off their server, remember? I saw the orders come up. Thought I'd give you some warning."

"Thanks," Hoseok says. Then, more hesitant. "Any luck?"

"No," Taehyung grits out - the clench of his jaw visible even beneath the black fabric of his mask. "But I'll keep looking."

Hoseok has no doubt of that. Taehyung will probably never stop looking. Not until he's dead or taken, too. Or, miracle of all miracles, he succeeds.

"I'll find them," he adds, and now he sounds like the boy Yoongi brought in off the streets four years ago - determined, brave, but still so young, too.

Hoseok squeezes his shoulder, and the rest of the journey home is spent in silence.

_ _

Home is a tiny apartment on the fifth floor of one of those rundown buildings. Their heating is spotty and their electricity even worse. Hot water happens once in a blue moon, when their ancient heater feels like cooperating. Their bed is two mattresses shoved into a corner; their kitchen table has uneven legs and wobbles constantly; their appliances are always on the edge - coaxed back to life over and over again by various patchwork repairs; and the only light available is from a single bulb hanging from the ceiling. The floors are wood and scuffed beyond any hope of repair and in the winter the cold seeps up from them and through the walls and the cracks in the window that won't close all the way, chilling them to bone even beneath their mountain of blankets.

It's been five of them crammed into it for years, eking out a living as best they can.

Well, five until a year ago. Until -

But he isn't thinking about that. It's three now, and they still make do, even with a gaping hole in the center of them.

"He's late," Taehyung says from the kitchen table, drumming his fingers against the rough surface. Hoseok adds a little more water to the soup - they have to stretch it for three days, since with Yoongi and Jungkook no longer contributing to the household income, ration cards have been harder to come by - and checks the clock.

Five minutes until curfew. His stomach knots.

God, he can't lose anyone else.

"He'll be here," he says and turns the burner down to simmer. "He's always made it before."

"Yeah, well so did Yoongi and Jungkook," Taehyung snaps and their names hit like the thunder in the small apartment. Loud enough to hurt.

"I know," Hoseok says quietly, as Taehyung winces and sags in his seat. "He'll be here."

And as if summoned, the front door bangs open, letting in a gust of wind, a flurry of rain, and a very drenched Park Jimin.

"Fuck," Taehyung says, lurching up to help Jimin wrestle the door closed and peel his sopping coat off. "Two minutes, Chim, you're gonna give me a heart attack."

Jimin scrubs a hand through his wet hair, dark strands clinging to his forehead and cheeks. He looks exhausted, but he still tries to smile. "I made it, though. I'm fine."

"What happened?" Hoseok asks, pulling three cracked bowls down from the cupboard. Jimin begins shedding clothes as Taehyung goes to retrieve blankets.

"Raid," he says shortly. "Close to us. We had to take the long way back to avoid patrols."

"Did they find anything?"

"No."

But it was a close call - Jimin's face says that, and the tension still bleeding out of his spine. Four years of smuggling goods in from the other sectors, and they've never had anything major intercepted. A few items lost here and there, but nothing to link back to Jimin and the others. Yoongi built the network well, built it to last and run like a well-oiled machine, and it does. Even without him. Even with Jimin desperately trying to live up to his legacy and shoulder the burden of responsibility.

Agust, Yoongi went by, and now the name is Jimin's, and all the weight that comes with it.

"All these raids," Jimin says, accepting a fresh pair of underwear from Taehyung and pulling it on. Taehyung drapes a blanket over his shoulders and pushes him into a chair. "I feel like I can hardly breathe."

"New king is trying to prove himself," Hoseok says with a shrug.

"Yeah, by picking on easy targets," Jimin huffs, scratching at the tattoo on his neck. He has only one strike - pickpocketing, when he was a starving orphan on the streets of Sector 10. Before Yoongi and his bleeding heart came along. "As if life wasn't shit enough already...." he shakes his head.

Hoseok sets the bowls in front of them and takes his own seat. The chair requires careful balance, since one of the legs is slowly breaking, and he braces a heel on the floor to keep it steady. The apartment feels too empty without Yoongi and Jungkook, and he's still not used to it. To having room to put his elbows on the table instead of being wedged in between the two of them - their warmth on either side.

"Did you find anything?" Jimin asks Taehyung, and Hoseok almost can't stand the hope in his voice.

"No," Taehyung says, eyes on his soup. "But I will."

Jimin smiles again, wan, and turns to his own food.

Later, as Taehyung and Jimin get ready for bed, Hoseok adjusts the bucket under their leaky window and stares out at the city lights. From this high up, he can almost see the gleaming skyscrapers of Sector 1 on the horizon.

Hope, RM wrote. Hope, the moniker he uses for his broadcasts. Hope, the flicker he holds in his chest that somewhere out there, in that distant sector, Yoongi and Jungkook are still alive. A year now, since they were ripped away, and a hundred since the Old World ended in famine and devastation and the New rose in its place - filled with authoritarianism and brutality in the name of survival.

So much time in darkness, hoping for the light.

He puts a hand over his tattoo, almost able to feel the phantom ache from when he got it as a child. It's infused with something - he's never known what - designed to keep his supposedly destructive powers dormant.

It was the Marked, the government posters say, that destroyed the world.

That caused the famine, the natural disasters, the poisoned Earth that still struggles to yield enough to feed everyone. And he's never wanted to believe that, but sometimes, the tattoo burns and he wonders at what sleeps inside of him. How great and terrible it might be.

You're just Hoseok, Yoongi would tell him. Stop brooding.

But Yoongi is gone, and it's Jimin that closes a hand over his shoulder. Says, quiet, "come to bed, hyung."

So he does, Jimin and Taehyung on either side of him, huddled together for warmth. The rain drums steady outside, dripping in through the edges of the window, and Hoseok closes his eyes, missing the two bodies that should be occupying space around them. Death and change are constants out here on the fringes. People die, people disappear - loss is as common as breathing. But somehow, for some reason, he never thought he was going to lose either of them.

How naive he'd been.

Like most nights lately, sleep is a long time coming.

_ _

It's raining, loud enough to sound like drums on the roof of the car, to nearly drown out the buzz of Namjoon's thoughts. He can't ignore the anxiety knotting in his stomach, though, and it's hard not to fidget - tug at the sleeves of his expensive jacket, brush imaginary lint from his pant legs. Across from him, Seokjin is as composed as always, looking every inch a noble in his fine clothes. His cousin has always fit well in their glittering world while Namjoon prefers the shadows and the safety of his own apartment.

Seokjin has a file open on his tablet, flipping through the pictures and info forwarded to them by their usual auction house. Men and women, all artfully styled and beautifully made up with the finest cosmetics. Companions is the official term. Slaves, is what they really are. Once purchased, anything is permitted. Hurt them, kill them, no one bats an eye.

It makes Namjoon sick.

"I think this one would be good," Seokjin says, holding up the tablet. It's a woman, Namjoon's age, with soft features and short-cropped hair. Three previous owners, three strikes on her record - destined for the boarding houses unless bought by someone benevolent enough to give her a final chance.

Or someone like Kim Seokjin, who buys the unsellables so he can have the pleasure of torturing and murdering them in the privacy of his own home, instead of some grimy boarding house. At least, that's what the rumors say. About both of them.

"What's on her record?" Namjoon asks, shoving down a fresh wave of nausea.

Seokjin flips the tablet back around. "Three escape attempts. Nearly got out of the sector last time. No violent behavior, though. Just lazy owners."

Oh. "That's good. She sounds perfect."

Seokjin sighs and his calm mask drops a fraction - enough for Namjoon to see a flash of weariness underneath. He recognizes it as the same feeling weighing down his own bones. They're both so tired. They both hate this part.

"I wish I could buy them all," Seokjin mutters, swiping to the next picture. A young man this time, with cat-like eyes and smooth, pale skin.

"Too much attention," Namjoon reminds him. It's amazing that they've gotten away with their operation for the past three years - they can't do anything to jeopardize their already precarious position.

"I know," Seokjin says. Then, "you should pick one."

Namjoon shrugs. He hates looking at the files, seeing another person's life and agonies spelled out in uncaring black and white. "I'll decide when we get to the auction house."

Seokjin shakes his head, but doesn't press the issue. Namjoon acts more on impulse than Seokjin's careful planning, but his instincts haven't steered him wrong so far. Or maybe it's his bleeding heart that guides him. Or his guilt - that he is a member of a powerful chaebol family, cocooned from the hardships of their difficult world, while the Marked that get paraded out for him are destined for cruel lives and ignominious ends, and it is merely an accident of birth that's placed them in these two opposing positions.

"You're brooding too much," Seokjin tells him, reaching over to adjust the sit of Namjoon's jacket. "Lighten up. This is supposed to be a fun activity, remember?"

Namjoon grimaces at him and Seokjin laughs, though there isn't much humor in the sound.

"We're here, sirs," their driver announces, and Namjoon peers out the window at the large auction house, with its gleaming facade. It's the biggest in Sector 4, one of the biggest in the whole city, and it plays at opulent elegance: valet parking, a fountain out front and dark, tinted windows for privacy. A greeter at the door who takes their coats and ushers them into the foyer, with marble floors and two large crystal chandeliers glittering overhead. There is an open bar and comfortable seating and, Namjoon knows from experience, an auditorium to their left, where the occasional large auction is held. Lots of companions at a discounted price. Or a promoted event - a companion desirable enough the auction house believes they can rack up even more of a profit by turning their sale into an experience: a presentation and alcohol and lots of greedy elite, competing for ownership.

There is rare art on the walls and flowers in vases scattered around - all designed to give off a welcoming feel, and to hide the darkness at the heart of everything that happens here.

Every time Namjoon sets foot in this place, he wants to burn it.

But he plasters his mask on instead. Kim Namjoon, of one of Seoul's eight powerful chaebol families that sit in the king's court. Not an heir, true, but still an important figure - worthy of deference - whose family oversees all the energy and transportation services in the city.

This is why the woman who meets them inside, immaculate in a cream-colored suit, bows to them, fixing them with her most beatific smile. Though he frequents this auction house a lot, he's never seen her before. There tends to be a large turnover among auctioneers - perhaps guilt gnaws at them, too.

"Welcome, sirs," she says. "Let me escort you to your viewing rooms."

Upstairs, ringing the foyer. Where potential purchases can be evaluated in private. They're given separate ones and Namjoon takes a moment to breathe as he sinks onto the leather sofa lining one wall. There's a bottle of chilled champagne on the side table that he's too nauseous to drink, but he pours himself a glass for appearances sake. Glances at the modern art hung on the walls - shapes in a pattern he doesn't understand, all various hues of blue. Maybe it's meant to be soothing.

The door on the opposite side of the room opens - the one they bring companions in through. It's the same auctioneer as before. She hasn't given her name and he doesn't care enough to ask for it.

"Did you have a chance to look at the files we sent, sir?"

Namjoon relaxes against the couch and drapes arrogance around himself like a cloak. "No. But bring me your most difficult one."

"Ah," the auctioneer says with a knowing smile on her red lips. Namjoon's reputation always precedes him. "Looking for a challenge, sir?"

Namjoon smirks. Swirls his champagne in one hand. "Naturally. I always like a challenge."

"I have just the one. Please wait a moment."

She exits with swift and silent grace. Namjoon stares at the ceiling. There is another, smaller chandelier in the middle of it, and he watches dots of light reflect from the crystals across the cream-colored surface, steeling himself.

This is the part he hates the most.

Too soon, the door clicks open again and the auctioneer enters with a guard and the boy from the file that Namjoon briefly glanced at. He's as pale as the photo and as pretty. They've applied liner to his eyes and blush to his cheeks and his mouth is red red red. In another world - a different, better one - Namjoon might have felt a flicker of attraction. In this world, there is nothing but sadness and anger at the boy's downcast eyes, at the bruises visible where the loose black robe they have in him is falling open, exposing his chest. At the seals circling his thin wrists, marking him a sanctioned. At the initials of all his past owners tattooed up his arm - three in total and each with a line through them.

"This is Gloss," the auctioneer says with a wave of her hand. The boy bows obediently.

Namjoon crosses his legs and spreads his arms along the back of the sofa, every inch an imperious elite. "And why will he be a challenge?"

"Three escape attempts on his record," the auctioneer explains. "And one violent incident. If you don't want him, he'll be bound for the boarding houses."

Where he'll probably fetch a decent price. Those hellholes, who take sanctioned no one wants to buy any longer and cater to the most cruel and sadistic tendencies, love frail and breakable things.

"Violent incident?" he asks with an arched eyebrow.

"He ... attacked his last owner in an escape attempt. The man suffered a concussion."

Damn. They weren't kidding about a challenge.

"But there shouldn't be any repeat incidents," the auctioneer continues. The boy (Namjoon refuses to call him Gloss, even in his own head) keeps his head down and his shoulders bent. Namjoon stands, holding onto his steel, and tilts the boy's chin up with a rough hand.

Dark, dark eyes - made even more fathomless by the liner. And beneath the studied blankness, there's still fire. Enough to burn if Namjoon isn't careful. Which, perfect. He always wants the fighters.

"He's certainly beautiful," Namjoon allows, taking a step back.

The auctioneer snaps her fingers and the boy unties the robe, lets it hang open so all of him is on display. He's predictably naked underneath and Namjoon uses the opportunity to do a quick catalogue of his still-healing injuries. Mostly bruising, along his stomach and arms, with some fading welts on his thighs and back. He's favoring his left leg slightly, enough that he'd probably have a limp when walking, and he's too thin, but not alarmingly so.

He'll heal. Nothing life-threatening here, or that would require a doctor's assistance.

"You were thorough, I see," he says mildly, gesturing at the largest of the bruises, blooming across the boy's right side.

"A more severe rehabilitation was necessary, sir," the auctioneer demurs. "Considering the nature of the offense."

"Of course," Namjoon inclines his head in understanding. His stomach is churning.

"He should heal completely in a few weeks," the auctioneer adds. "If you don't mind being patient."

"Not at all." Namjoon twists his lips in his ugliest smile, dripping with arrogant cruelty. "It's better that way - breaking them all over again after."

The boy doesn't flinch, but tension flickers briefly through his jaw. At Namjoon's nod, he fastens the robe again, securing it tightly around his waist.

"I'll take him," Namjoon decides.

The boy meets all the criteria - young, but not too young, shallow wounds, unbroken spirit - and Namjoon doesn't think he can handle many more "inspections." His inner armor isn't as good as Seokjin's. Too much leaks out onto his face.

"Excellent!" The auctioneer declares with a clap of her manicured hands. "We'll have him prepared and delivered to you tomorrow morning, if that would suit you, sir?"

"That would be perfect," Namjoon agrees. It gives him time to prepare, as well.

The guard removes the sanctioned from the room and Namjoon is escorted back downstairs to fill out all the necessary paperwork. There's no sign of Seokjin - so either he already finished and is waiting by the bar, or his inspection took longer than anticipated. Namjoon hopes it's the former, as he scrawls his signature on yet another document. He can't wait to get out of here.

At last, with a final signed release form, granting him total ownership, Gloss is officially his. He reminds himself for the thousandth time tonight not to throw up. It's been years, he should be more used to this by now.

"Congratulations," the auctioneer says, handing him a datacard. "This is his full file and all his medical information. If for some reason he doesn't suit, we will accept him back for a small fee."

"I'm sure that won't be an issue," Namjoon assures her. After all, no one leaves the ownership of the Kim cousins alive. That's what the rumors say.

The auctioneer bows a final time and Namjoon leaves the office for the open foyer, trying to keep his pace slow and casual. Mercifully, he spots Seokjin by the bar, nursing a glass of whiskey.

"Ready?" Seokjin asks when Namjoon stops beside his stool.

"Yeah. Have them bring the car around."

Seokjin nods and calls for the bartender to bring his check.

_ _

It's still raining outside and Namjoon watches the water run in rivulets down the car window, catching the gleam of the passing city lights.

Seokjin whistles, flipping through Gloss' file. "He attacked his last owner with a vase, wow."

"I'll keep an eye on him," Namjoon promises.

"You'll have to," Seokjin agrees, setting the tablet aside. His expression softens, then, into one Namjoon is only allowed to see. "You okay?"

"I need to take a shower," Namjoon replies, grim. "But I don't think that will stop me feeling like a fucking monster."

"This is a necessary evil," Seokjin says quietly.

"It's an evil," Namjoon argues. "It's not necessary. And we're not doing enough to stop it."

"We're doing what we can, until the time comes when we can do more."

It's a mantra he's heard from Seokjin for months, but it never really eases the weight inside of him. They've been planning for years, trying to align pieces on a complicated board. At the end of, supposedly, will be a better world, but who knows when that end will come. They keep running into walls and complications and so for now they purchase companions no one wants and give them something of a future beyond the boundaries of Seoul, and it will never, ever be enough. Because for the handful they manage to save every year, hundreds die in captivity - in factories and farms and boarding houses and the penthouses of the powerful.

And the blood in Namjoon's veins burns.

"I know," he says to Seokjin, who doesn't need any of his doubt or his fear. "I know."

Seokjin squeezes his knee and leans back in the seat. "I'll start getting paperwork together. How long do you think it will take your boy to heal?"

Gloss. Namjoon wonders what his real name is.

"A few weeks, the auctioneer said. Probably three, I would guess. Maybe two at the earliest."

"That's a good window," Seokjin agrees. "Just be careful."

"I will," Namjoon reassures him. He can handle a few weeks, surely. He's done it numerous times before.

He picks up the tablet from where it's resting next to Seokjin on the seat and pulls up the file once more. Twenty-four years old; sanctioned due to an altercation with the police; three owners, all reporting troubling and defiant behavior, along with the numerous escape attempts, though he never got far; statistically healthy, even after two rehabilitations.

But it's the flicker in the boy's eyes that Namjoon can't get out of his head. Pure fire, if only for an instant.

Hopefully, it will be enough. For now, Namjoon sets aside his fears and worries and the ever-present guilt and watches the city glide by through the rain-blurred windows.