The Buyer

** This novel is, in essence, a social commentary. In no way do I condone or support the industry this story works with. The content is dark, and contains mature subject matter. Trigger warnings are applicable throughout the novel for themes following non-consensual sex, physical, emotional and sexual abuse. Themes involving mental illness may also apply.

Chapter 1

I've lived through a grand total of two days that I will never, ever forget. Amnesia itself couldn't rip them away, so firmly had they engrained themselves in my memory. Both of them were the result of my subconscious conversing with my consciousness, which in turn encouraged my physical being to do a year and half's worth of research on a gritty topic no one liked to talk about.

The first day was my eighteenth birthday, which I spent figuratively hugging my not-so-figurative doom to my scrawny teenage chest. The stroke of midnight, ultimately, marked my final decision.

I'd been sitting in my bedroom, tucked away in my father's east-side New York City home, covered from head to toe in bruises that were a direct result of a drunken rage. I'd earned the beating for staying out well past two in the morning, 'partying' with a few miserable asswipes I could barely call friends. My DD got himself so high off meth I wouldn't be surprised if he'd died, and everyone else was drunk off their collective ass. I'd bused home on the last running route, which very few were still brave enough to take. Drug use was on the rise, especially over the past quarter of the decade, and crime, both related and unrelated, had escalated as a result. Going out after dark was risky in and of itself; taking the late bus home may as well have been a death wish. But I made it, and I swear, if I hadn't ducked away and clambered up the stairs when I had, my father would've beaten me to death.

The first thing I did after sprawling myself out on the floor was pull out the disposable cell phone I'd been harbouring all day for that exact purpose. I had the number for a human trafficking ring, gained through means I didn't fully understand myself (I'd just done it), and one deep breath and a bout of courage later, I'd dialled it.

My sales pitch wasn't exactly professional, but I rattled off something entirely different from what I'd rehearsed. A strained, "I've got an inexperienced, eighteen year old Korean male for any twisted fuck who might be interested," tied the knot. There was a lot of badgering, but one intense interrogation later, I was in.

The cover for the ring was a pen-to-computer factory in downtown Detroit. They marketed tablets to high-end businesses with too much money to bother with paper, but still required hand-written documents for legal purposes. They'd started making them in the early Second Decade, but hadn't skyrocketed for a few years after; now, they were everybody's favourite thing. I didn't know why I'd assumed I'd be sent to their HQ - it was in Chicago, and I had no way to transport myself there - but I was surprised when they gave me a local address, one for an office supplies warehouse they delivered to, and a very specific set of instructions 'to be followed perfectly.'

It didn't occur to me that I had enough information to turn them in until I'd hung up and started packing. I had their location. Their cover. A way to contact someone who was, evidently, high up in the ring. I had everything, and they had FBI sweeping the entire country for these guys. There was a road, narrow and easily accessible, that'd lead me to heroism. It distracted me for all of ten minutes before I realized, with a twitch of my jaw and a small shake of my young-anarchist head, that it didn't matter. If I could dig up what I'd dug up through a little determination and out-of-the-box thinking, the FBI could've nabbed them ages ago. The last thing the government gave was a fuck; they just wanted us to think they did.

Hero, my ass. I wasn't turning them in. I was turning me in, at exactly two o' three in the morning, July thirteenth, 2035. I'd meet a delivery truck driver at two pm sharp, stationed behind a local office supplies warehouse with minimal belongings, no electronics. He'd take me where I needed to go.

All I packed was a sleeping bag, a jacket, and a few articles of clothing I thought were sexy. No personal belongings. They hadn't said anything about not being allowed to bring them, but I didn't want to drag any of my attachments with me. What I did bring, I shoved into a backpack I'd bought with cash a few weeks before. It wasn't anything special, but it was something nobody who knew me would recognize on security cameras. The half-assed disguise was completed with a douche-bag scarf the weather was way too warm for, a beanie, and a women's jacket, all brand-new. I laid it out on my bedroom floor, ready to hop into as soon as I woke up.

Or, I would have woken up. I didn't get a wink of sleep that night. Which was understandable in my opinion, considering I spent most of it wanting to throw up. What I was doing terrified me. The fact that I had so much willpower to go through with it terrified me. I wanted to disappear. I didn't want any of this anymore; not even the parts I was attached to. But I craved companionship, even if it landed me in the hands of some twisted fuck with a racial fetish. The companionship part meant that all other methods of vanishing were out of the question. My father'd track me down the second I picked up a phone and called an old friend, or decided to trust and befriend a stranger. Willingly handing myself over to expert kidnappers was obviously the best option. If I got lucky, whoever they'd said might be interested would've paid too much money to keep me chained to a wall in a basement for weeks on end.

I drifted through the downtown crowd that afternoon, hands trembling in pockets that barely fit my fingers, they clung to my legs so tightly. The skinny jean fad was something that seemed to come around again every couple decades, and from the photos I'd seen, they were only getting skinnier.

I could barely see straight through the rising anxiety, let alone think straight. My stomahc was rolling, the bruise on my jaw was still throbbing, already faded into an ugly green. All I could think about was that I was potentially walking myself into a situation where bruises remained a normality, except the person who gave them to me would be infatuated with me. For some reason, it made me feel better about it.

My steps seemed to slow as I neared the place I was aiming for. I'd never felt more sick than I did taking that last turn. The warehouse was on a quieter street, between business and residential areas. It took up a good two or three home lots, the parking lot disproportionately small to the brick building. The sign hanging above the front door confirmed my destination - Downtown Office Supply Wholesaler - and the first garage door was open halfway. My signal that things were set.

I took a slow, shaky breath, refusing to so much as look over my shoulder before darting around the side of the building. The side door was open, as promised. I ducked into it as nonchalantly as possible, almost jumping out of my skin when I found a woman sitting in an office chair, eyes glued to a computer screen. The thing wasn't high end; it was a touch-screen that could easily have been a decade old. I suppose something newer in this area would've looked pretty out of place during an inspection.

The woman didn't even look up. "Gabriel, I presume?"

I thought of lying, but for fuck sakes, I'd made it that far. "Yes ma'am," I managed, voice already raw.

She pushed her chair away from the desk and stood, dressed in tight jeans and a floral blouse that showed off plenty of cleavage. The less clothes a person wore, the closer they were associated with being well-off. Evidently, she wasn't doing too bad in regards to personal finances. She didn't look like the type of woman you'd expect to be part of a human trafficking ring, though. There was something artistic about her, when I'd expected to be drilled by a sexy business woman with a professionally skimpy outfit - such was accomplished by way of tight shirts and blouses with Vs lower than the ones this woman was wearing.

I heard a door open and close, my view blocked by ceiling-high metal shelving and stacks of boxes. A man stepped out from behind one of the aisles, giving me a one-over that made the hair on the back of my neck stand on end.

"We're gonna have to strip-search you, son. If you're bugged, or spying, we'll kill you without a second thought."

All I could do was nod and shed my clothes when they demanded it of me, after a thorough pat-down from the man while the woman rummaged though my bag; I watched her move everything in it to a plain, black duffel after a thorough inspection, just to give me something to keep my mind on while her partner... inspected me. Thoroughly. I didn't know how long the whole process took - only that it involved far too much of the man's fingers and an old-fashioned metal detector - but I was proud of myself for lasting the entire procedure without vomiting all over the inspector's shoes.

They must have known how close I was to swooning when I heard a set of very, very heavy tires crunching on the gravel delivery lot outside, because the woman, at least, gave my back a sympathetic pat.

"You'll be fine. We've already found a buyer. I've spoken with him on the phone a few times earlier this morning." She smiled at me, and maybe it was just paranoia, but I thought I saw something malicious under it. "He seemed like quite the gentleman."

The man who'd searched me disappeared, returning with a simple pair of jeans and a hoodie slung over his arm at the same time the delivery truck driver walked in with a dolly full of boxes. I can't remember ever being so embarrassed in my life, but the driver didn't seem to take note; it hadn't occurred to me yet that he was probably used to seeing nude bodies in this room.

I took the clothes when they were offered to me, relieved to have my briefs kicked back to me by the lady. I dressed, choosing not to ask about the outfit I'd arrived in. I couldn't see it anywhere, so I assumed they'd slipped it into my bag with everything else.

"The change of clothes makes your identification harder, should anyone have seen you walking in," she said, tone professional.

I nodded meekly, taking the black duffel when the driver handed it to me. "You'll be sitting with the cargo," he muttered, seemingly none too impressed. I didn't bother to wonder about why. He reached into his pocket and passed me a disappointingly small flashlight. "It's a long drive. If you need to piss, there's a bucket strapped to the floor in the back of the trailer. The water bottles are for your consumption, as well as the girls', so share."

I blanched when he mentioned girls. It hadn't occurred to me that he'd be smuggling anyone else at the same time.

"Most of them are kidnappees," the woman explained. "They're all pretty subdued by now. Don't talk to them. Don't think about them. You worry about you."

I knew how sick that was, I swear to God, but I took her advice. Don't think about it. There was nothing I could do for them at this point, and I wasn't going to think about how much I could have done for them just a day prior. I worried about me, in the present moment. Or, tried to. The future was pretty hard not to worry over.

I followed the driver out to the semi, stomach tying itself in knots as he opened the back door. There were four girls that I could see, all of them squinting against the light. Only one of them was bruised up, but all of them looked scared shitless. I just couldn't get over the fact that none of them tried to make a run for it. Knew that they wouldn't be able to outrun a tackle and a beating, I guess. I dropped my gaze, swinging my duffel over my shoulder, and climbed into the trailer, face twisting at the sharp stench of piss. There was fecal matter too, but evidently not much of it. The smell was dull. In the background.

I sat myself down on a metal crate and slumped against the wall of the truck, preparing myself for what would be the longest, most emotionally and mentally taxing drive in the dark I'd ever had.