In the lawless zone of Pagad, nestled deep within the rot of corruption and decay, there stood a place even monsters dared to speak of only in whispers: Slaves for Auction. Here, beneath flickering lights and rusted steel, humans were displayed like cattle. Bought. Sold. Traded. Ranked by rarity. The auction had long been legalized by a government too broken to care and too greedy to stop it.
The stench of sweat, blood, and fear hung in the air like a permanent curse.
Cages were stacked high, layer upon layer, each one crammed with men, women, and children. Their eyes were hollow. Their futures sold. Their names forgotten.
A tall, older man dressed in a black suit and cap moved slowly through the dim corridor, accompanied by a staff member who spoke with the casual indifference of someone too used to suffering.
"They go fast, the rare ones," the staff said. "Young, obedient, clean blood those are our bestsellers."
The old man said nothing. His eyes wandered from face to face, heart growing heavier with every step. He didn't speak, but a fire burned quietly within him.
The world is cruel to those with nothing. That thought clung to him like the scent of rust in the air.
As they rounded a corner, the old man's gaze settled on something unusual—a cage draped in a filthy, oversized cloth. It was the only one covered.
He stopped. "Why is that cage hidden?"
The staff gave a quick, dismissive laugh. "Ah, that one? Nobody wants what's inside. We're planning to throw it out."
"Throw it out?" the old man echoed.
The staff shrugged. "More like feed it to the farm. We have lions, tigers—other beasts. Slaves who don't sell… well, we recycle them."
The old man's jaw tightened. He stepped forward without a word, drawn by a silent pull. The staff reluctantly peeled back the dirty cloth.
And there—crumpled in the far corner of the cage—was a boy.
A child.
He looked no older than eight or nine. His hair was thick with dirt, curled into tangled knots. His clothes were torn, stained, barely clinging to his emaciated frame. His knees were pulled tightly to his chest, arms wrapped around them, like a makeshift shield from the world.
The stench was unbearable. Even the staff flinched.
"Sir, may I cover it again? The smell is—"
"No," the old man said firmly, eyes never leaving the boy.
He stepped closer to the cage, crouching down. "What's your name?"
The boy didn't answer. He stared at the man with wide, frightened eyes. His lips quivered. No words came. Only silence.
The old man's chest tightened. This child was different. Broken, yes—but not beyond hope.
"I want him," the old man said.
The staff blinked. "You… want this one? Sir, he's useless. He won't be of any service to you. We have others—stronger, cleaner."
"I said I want him."
With a reluctant sigh, the staff unlocked the cage. The boy shrank back in terror, his breathing sharp and ragged. When the chain around his collar was tugged, he screamed—a cry that echoed with pain, with memories. Memories of abuse. Of hands that hurt. Of voices that yelled. Of dark places where no light entered.
He thrashed as the staff yanked the chain. "Stop," the old man ordered.
Then, he did something no one had done in that place for a long time.
He stepped inside the cage.
The man sat down slowly beside the boy, not touching him. Just being there. Close, but not imposing. He offered a small smile.
"You know," he began softly, "what they've done to you… it makes me angry. The world—this world—is full of pain. All we want is to live in peace, maybe find some happiness. But fate... fate doesn't care. Sometimes, it locks us up in dark cages, takes away our dreams, our voices, our light."
The boy listened, unsure why.
"This cage... it's small. It's filthy. Cold. Hopeless," the old man continued. "But outside… there's still sky. There's still wind. And maybe, just maybe, there's still something left for you."
The boy turned his head slowly. His voice was barely a whisper. "Aren't… you disgusted by me?"
The old man blinked.
And for a moment, time stopped.
A memory pierced through him like a blade—his daughter, laughing at the park, ice cream dripping down her chin.
"Papa, I wish you were here every day. I'm so happy when you are."
His eyes stung. A tear slid down his cheek.
The boy watched in awe. "Why are you crying?"
Before the old man could answer, the staff spoke again. "Sir, if the smell is too much just come out. We can lock it up again."
But the old man looked at the boy and asked gently, "Will you come with me?"
The boy hesitated, then slowly nodded.
The staff unlocked the collar, and the boy whimpered, flinching. But the man placed a hand gently over his, calming him.
Together, they stepped out of the cage. For the first time in years, the boy breathed air not laced with rust and rot
.
"Are you serious?" the staff asked again, bewildered.
The old man didn't answer. He simply walked, the child beside him, hand in hand.
They reached the exit when a large man in a dark suit appeared—round glasses perched on his nose, mustache curled in arrogant precision.
"Well, well. Mr. Vael," the man said, smirking. "What a surprise."
Vael didn't slow down. Didn't acknowledge him.
Jack stepped into his path. "Still ignoring me after all these years? And that boy really? That's who you chose?"
Vael's expression remained calm, but a storm brewed in his eyes.
"You're lucky," Jack continued. "That I even let you walk in here."
Vael leaned in close, his voice quiet and sharp. "You're lucky I haven't burned this place to the ground… yet."
He gently covered the child's ears as he spoke, shielding him from the venom of his words.
Behind them, the staff hurried up to Jack. "Sir… he didn't pay."
Jack waved him off, eyes still on Vael. "Let it go."
As Vael walked past, Jack called after him. "I hope… you find what you're looking for. With the boy."
No reply came.
Only the sound of footsteps fading into the night.
And behind them, the world kept turning ugly, brutal, and unchanged.
But for one child, something had finally begun to shift.