Money is a privilege. Everyone craves wealth, but it's not accessible to the average commoner. Those who spend their time looking for money topside are wasting time. That wretched place favors those born with riches and privilege, being fed wealth with a silver spoon. Commoners, driven into grief, take to the underground—the below-ground counterpart of the topside.

Given the name alone, you might assume with little thought that it's not the most lawful or safe place to wander around, or even live in. At the very least, this is how those who live topside describe it. In newspapers and radio broadcasts, the underground is depicted as a filthy place for those who have abandoned all hope. Azusa finds beauty in this fact.

A place where those who no longer have a place to call home find one. Azusa finds the sentiment beautiful. As a once-topsider who has spent years here—he's lost count of how many—there's no other word he'd rather use to describe it. A cave system with fabricated lighting, a place where anonymity thrives above all else. The moment you enter, you're no longer who you once were. From aliases to full-face masks—it's nothing like topside. Currency means little; what matters more is reputation and your connections.

Wandering down here as a child with little hope, he's grown—matured, even. Walking into it, knowing all the rumors and being bombarded with the same propaganda every topsider is, he was lost and unsure. He found stability in a place whose very principle is instability. Some take trips here, only to vow never to return. The underground isn't kind to tourists or sightseers—after all, this is their home.

His typical routine in such a place is simple: wander around, lamp in hand—unsure of the time, or even the date. Principles like time or dates are not known or discussed here. Walking by the familiar gate, the very entrance to the underground, he stills, pauses, and listens to the familiar voice of the guard who once granted him entry. Viktor, his name was. Through muffled voices, he makes out his.

"I'm denying your access."

That piques his interest. He instinctively walks toward the gate, stepping beside the man. In front of him stands a boy—or perhaps an adult man, though clearly a childish one. "Why?" asks the man, paying him no mind before Azusa intervenes.

"Is there a problem?" Azusa questions, calm as he turns to face Viktor. The man he described as childish huffs, his gaze meeting Azusa's mask.

"I'm not being allowed in."

"I don't think you've done your research," Viktor retorts before Azusa can get a word in. Azusa doesn't mind—this has been Viktor's job for the past 20 years: allowing or denying access. Viktor sighs, annoyance dripping from his tone.

"Are you selling, buying, or staying?" Ah, yes. The average question Viktor asks everyone. The other man looks confused for a moment, a brief pause, silence hanging between the three of them.

"Staying," he replies after what feels like an eternity. That's a mistake, Azusa thinks to himself. Viktor leans back against the gate, rubbing a coin between his fingers.

"Duration?" The purpose of this question is simple: Are you a tourist, or are you a new resident? This one question determines how people will see and treat you.

"Uncertain." So he's a tourist. Azusa hums, letting Viktor take the liberty to unlock the drawer beside him.

"Pick out a mask and register a name." A name—or rather, an alias. No one here will know your real name or face. No one besides Viktor. And now Azusa, who has the liberty of seeing the face of this... strange man. He's dressed well; Azusa can easily assume he comes from a wealthy family. What makes his arrival here strange is simple: if he's wealthy topside, he has no place here.

The childish man sighs, seemingly picking a name at random. "Xander." With that, he quickly selects a mask. He seems to be in a rush, eager to get somewhere or meet with someone. Azusa remains silent, his gaze fixed firmly on the man as if analyzing him. Something's off. With haste, the man walks past the two of them and rushes inside. Azusa's gaze meets Viktor's almost immediately.

"Keep an eye on him," Viktor says with a nod, understanding the unspoken message by now. This is no ordinary underground visitor.

Before Azusa leaves, Viktor hands him a photo—one taken by the security cameras, the only existing camera in the underground, positioned at the entrance gate. It's a photo of Xander.

"Thanks, Viktor." Azusa slips the photo into his pocket and changes his route. He heads toward the trade association instead—the organization that manages trade between the topside and the underground, a flimsy business that pulls in a decent amount of revenue. It's perhaps the only establishment that maintains contact with the topside.

Walking inside, he ignores the receptionist and the rest of the staff. They know him well and understand not to speak unless necessary. He treads down the longest hallway, reaching the single door at the end, and enters without knocking. Inside, a woman sits behind a desk, her gaze lifting to meet his.

"Azusa," she greets, not bothering to stand. She doesn't need to—he knows her well enough. Fleur, the owner of the trade association, is a dark-skinned woman with long braids, nearing platinum blonde.

"What brings you here?" she asks, not quite interested as of now. He hasn't visited much lately.

Without a word, Azusa pulls the photo from his pocket and tosses it onto the papers she'd been reviewing. She takes it leisurely, looking it over.

"This boy. I want whatever information you can get on him." Fleur pauses, glancing back up at him, then down at the picture again. She lets it fall onto the desk, humming as if in thought.

"With just this picture, it's going to cost you."

Azusa crosses his arms over his chest, leaning back against the nearby bookshelf. "Money's not a problem." Fleur knows that much. She takes the photo and sets it aside in a drawer.

"Why this boy, then?" she asks, shutting the drawer as she does. "I have my reasons." If she's paid, Fleur will do as he asks. Azusa knows that. He needs not give her a proper reason. She snickers. "Cryptic as ever. Tell you what, I'll give you a discount." So she's playing games—Azusa isn't stupid by any means.

"What's the catch?" he retorts, leisurely pushing himself off the wall he was once leaned against, instead, leaning forward to meet her gaze. He can feel it, even beneath that mask of hers. Unlike his, it's white, well-decorated with pearls and feathers. Just her style, extravagant—Fleur talks money & business.

"Tomorrow, bring me another set of pictures." She pauses, and Azusa doesn't interrupt. "Oh, and I want to meet this boy myself." Azusa knows what she wants. She wants to know why this boy has piqued his attention enough to visit her after all this time. Given he's alerted Viktor, everyone in the area's heard of this boy by now. Getting pictures won't be an issue.

He uncrosses his arms, bringing his hand out to hold hers. She takes it—and he presses her hand against his mask. The closest you could get to a kiss in a place like this. "Good doing business with you." She pulls her hand away in mock disgust.

"Don't be coy. I expect you on time tomorrow."

No matter—Fleur knows Azusa will be on time, and he'll bring her whatever she's asked for.