warm like a gun | ot23 nct; ot5 red velvet

Chapter 2

Ten groans, the buzzing of his alarm harsh in his ears. He hasn't slept well in weeks, and by the time he finally managed to fall into a deep, restful sleep last night, the morning was near, and he was wrenched back into wakefulness. There's no helping it, though—a local bootlegger wanted his sketches in first thing in the morning, and Ten doesn't have the bandwidth to send HD images over the internet, so he has to go deliver them by hand.

It's okay, he thinks to himself as he splashes his face with water. He'll see Taeyong later, and Johnny and Jisung.

He goes through his schedule in his head as he boils some water. His portion of bread is rising in the oven, and he stirs instant coffee into a mug—probably not quite enough, but he has to ration it.

After eating, he tugs on an old sweatshirt and some loose pants, and shoves his feet in his sneakers. He gathers his sketches from his desk and heads out to his porch, locking the door behind him.

He lives in a matchbox apartment. He doesn't even know how many stories high it is. They're not real stories, anyway—all their ceilings are low and cramped. He takes the little pulley elevator down the side, shivering against the early morning chill. He could live with his mom and his sister in the trailer park, but he wanted to protect them a bit from his work, so he moved out.

Ten was supposed to be a dancer. He was good, had trained for years. But then, his knees gave out and he didn't have enough money for real surgery, or for mods to make him better. He's lucky he can still walk, with the minimal treatment he received. So instead he does errands and sketches for bootleggers. It doesn't bring in a lot of revenue, but it's better than nothing. His mother works at one of the factories—luckily, the one for the beauty company, not the one Jungwoo's dad owns—so her job is safe, for now. His little sister, Tern, is trying to find a job as a designer, but she hasn't had any luck. His father had left years and years ago, a little after Tern was born.

He strolls up to the bootlegger's trailer and knocks on his door. He hears shuffling and then the door opens.

"Sketches for you," Ten says, handing a couple over for him to inspect.

The man grunts, scanning them with his eyes. Eventually, he nods. "You have all twelve?" he asks.

"Yes," Ten replies, holding up the rest of the papers. "I want a hundred units each."

"Each?" The man scoffs. "Make it fifty, and I'll take them."

"Eighty," Ten argues.

"Seventy." The man pulls out an old tablet, implying that's the best Ten's gonna get, gesturing for him to do the same. He opens to his banking app, and it chimes a few moments later. Eight hundred and forty units. Ten nods, waiting for the little verification checkmark, and then passes the man the rest of the sketches.

"Thanks," he says. "Let me know if you need more."

The man just grunts and ducks back into his trailer, closing the door with a snap.

It's still early, so Ten heads down the road to the shopping district. He's almost out of food, and he needs more baking soda for his homemade detergents.

He swings by his place to drop things off. It's 08.00 now, late enough that his mom is probably up and getting ready for work. He brings a can of sausages with him and goes back to the trailer park, walking up to his old home and knocking on the door.

His mom greets him, and he presses the can into her hands, and then goes to give Tern a hug where she's sitting, sleepily hunched over some dry cereal. "How are you guys?"

"Fine," Tern says softly, shaking him off. "You're up early."

"I had a job to finish," he replies. "Seriously, you're okay? Don't need anything?"