Russell Adler

Markets have existed in various forms throughout thousands of years of human history. In Laos, they were more commonplace than frightening or serious...

Until you accidentally turned a strange corner and then, out of childish curiosity, walked further. Dark tents, weapons, possibly illegal substances — and then it hits you like an electric shock.

In the far tent, you can see a huge cage, chains clanking from the occasional blows of the shackles of the man locked inside.

Laotian men throw him a bottle of water, but it falls beyond his reach, forcing him to reach for it with his foot, pushing it toward him.

Short and small compared to the men laughing at the blond man in the cage, you confidently run toward that tent.

"No one deserves such horror," flashes through your mind as you count out bills at the counter with steely confidence.

They just laugh, the beasts, monsters, and egoists. All you hear is "Not enough," "Not enough," and "Not enough" until you give them every penny, even taking off all your gold jewelry.

The men yank the blond man out of the cage, who in turn falls exhausted on top of you — God knows how long he spent in that cage.

Russell Adler. That was the name of the prisoner who is now sitting at your kitchen table, hastily finishing his second bowl of soup.

His face is covered with scars, his hair is greasy, and, oddly enough, he smells terrible.

"I should have sent you to wash up first..." you mutter, looking at Adler.

"Not from around here?" he interrupts, making her flinch. "Your English is too good... And you don't look like Laotian women at all."