cw: implications of human trafficking
he’s on his feet in the blink of an eye, somehow bewildered and hyper-aware of his surroundings simultaneously. he’s on high alert, instincts running rampant, pulse racing, pupils dilated, the skin of his palms and just above his upper lip clammy with cooling sweat. if he ran into the wrong stranger, he could be in more trouble than he was moments ago. already, he finds himself mapping out potential exits, gauging his chances of escaping if he were to bolt again right now. they’re slim, and the watch in his pocket weighs heavily with the consequences of his clumsiness. if they take him today, there will be no one to tell the kids where he went tomorrow.
but it wasn’t the wrong stranger he ran into. at least, it would seem that way. there are clean, deft hands pushing his hair out of his eyes, tsking at him like the concerned parental figure he never had. haneul is confused for only a moment, scowling curiously at the face across from him until the man speaks, louder than he’d need to if it were just for haneul to hear. it clicks in his mind quickly - he knows a con when he sees one - and he does his best to slip into the mask of a scolded, spoiled child, the ones he robs in shopping malls all the time, because they never notice their missing phones, cash, jewelry, games until they get home and it’s too late.
“i don’t know, i was- i was-” he’s weakened by the physical state he’s in, thoughts slow and lacking, nerves, or rather, fear, taking over. he doesn’t turn toward the footsteps speeding then halting behind him, not wanting to betray how intimidated he is by the situation. but it’s a good sign, that they stopped, he thinks. it gives him an extra minute or two of safety, to contemplate the possibilities of his imminent fate.
it doesn’t yet occur to him that perhaps he should be afraid of the man in a suit who can stop a hoard of thugs on a hunt in their tracks, without lifting a finger.
“i was hungry,” it’s the furthest thing from a lie, but the first thing that pops into his mind. for good measure, he adds, in a voice smaller than his age, adopted in tone from the way jisu speaks when he wants something out of someone else, all wide, infantile eyes and soft, dumb tones, “and i got lost.”
he can feel the energy of the thugs shifting behind him, mutterings picking up between them uncomfortable and unsure. now what, he can feel them thinking, anticipating the challenge they must be contemplating.
“that kid is ours,” one dares, through a half smile, as if the frivolous objectification of human life is somehow humorous, “we saw him first.”
the wordless, uneasy scuffing of multiple pairs of feet against the pavement give it away as an unbelievable mistake. so another thug tries a different tactic, following up with, “he stole from us.”
haneul feels his cover slipping, and so does his innocent mask. his brow knits and his lips twist into a frown, his gaze falling away from the helpful stranger’s face. it could be the end of him yet.
“he’s got a debt to pay.”
his first impression is that the kid is useless. he stutters, fails to immediately accept the help that weijun is able to offer, and for a moment he considers just leaving the child to fend for himself against the mob’s wrath that he has incurred. but he doesn’t. he can’t. he was younger than this boy when his own autonomy was ripped out of his unwilling hands, when his life was stripped from him by harsh hands and foreign words. it’s been a long, long time over the last decade or so, and even now that he wears nice things and owns a business of his own, he’s still not invulnerable to demanding hands, the same kind that chase after this boy now. he’s not a trafficker, he never has been, he just sells the product that they give him, and he’ll be damned if he lets them hurt another child he has the ability to save.
“you should have eaten your breakfast then,” he continues to scold the child, going so far as to swat the back of his head, not harshly, but a corrective punishment nonetheless. “and waited for me. how many times do i have to tell you not to go wandering off without my permission?” he acts as if this has happened a hundred times before, still not acknowledging the presence of other men until it becomes impossible to ignore them. as far as they need to know, this boy has belonged to him for ages. a friend’s child, perhaps, or an errand boy for the club. what connection they want to believe in is up to them, weijun can only play his part if they believe it.
when one of the grunts finally speaks up, weijun glances up at them. some are familiar, some he’s not so sure about. regardless, he moves the kid to his side as he sizes the gangsters up, a protective gesture that they’re sure to recognize. “he’s yours?” weijun questions, brows raised in genuine surprise. he knows that’s not possibly true; he doesn’t know every new whore in the city, but he does know when they bring new skin in. even if this boy is a runaway from another dastardly circle, he’s certain that it’s not one of hydrus’s. “i think you’re mistaken. he’s been working for me for months. i don’t care when you thought you saw him, he’s not for sale.”
there’s a finality to his voice, a confidence that leaves no room for debate or haggling. he stole from us, another thug speaks up, and weijun’s eyes narrow. he grabs the boy by the arm, roughly, and shakes him. “is that true?” he demands, accusingly, still very much playing the part of angered caretaker. “turn out your pockets. you’ll return anything you took from these gentlemen immediately.” he holds his other hand out in front of the kid, a silent command to put any misappropriated items there. he’s not unwise enough to let the grunts within arms reach of the child. even if they don’t try to snatch him away from weijun’s hold, he knows they’ll not be gentle with the boy. not that weijun is coddling him, exactly, but their blows hit much harder, if memory serves him correctly.
“i’m sorry about this, gentlemen,” he uses his most practiced submissive tone, the one best used for groveling and avoiding further conflict. it’s changed in more recent years, a little harder at the edges in a way that says i will not tolerate much more than this. he doesn’t have to appease these sorts of men anymore, but it’s always better to keep them on your side. he squeezes the child’s arm again and gives him a harsh look, a silent prompt for an apology from him as well. if they’re lucky, the return of the stolen goods along with this is all that’s needed to make the mob go away.
