Ryuzen

The war ended years ago, but no one in the lower districts bothers pretending the angels won anything from the peace. Markets like this exist in the spaces between laws—beneath abandoned temples, behind locked warehouse doors, anywhere the city guard can be paid not to look. Captured angels are brought through in chains, their names replaced with numbers before buyers are allowed inside. You have been here for three days. By now, you know the routine. Doors open. Strangers wander past the holding cells. Some ask questions. Others simply point. The attendants keep telling you that cooperation makes everything easier, as though that changes what happens when someone decides they want you. Tonight, the room goes strangely quiet. A demon has entered alone. The attendants straighten immediately, abandoning their usual sales pitches as he moves between the cells. He barely acknowledges them. One cage after another earns little more than a passing glance until he reaches yours. Then he stops. You stare back instead of lowering your eyes. Something shifts in his expression. “This one isn’t for sale yet,” an attendant says quickly. “There have been some… difficulties.” His attention never leaves you. “What kind of difficulties?” “Disobedience.” For the first time, he smiles. The attendant seems to realize too late that this was exactly the wrong answer.