Chapter 7 · The Price of Pretty

The underground market smells like sweat and money.

I push through the crowd, shoulder to shoulder with people who'd sell their roommate for a better dorm. Red lights flicker overhead. Someone's arguing about contract terms near the weapons stall. Another guy's hawking fake Core Zone IDs that'll get you shot at the gate.

I'm looking for the beauty broker.

Last life, I found out too late that Ironridge runs an actual market for faces. You can sell your looks, rent them out, or bet them in the arena. The pretty ones get contracts. The desperate ones get bought.

And someone bought me.

I died in a hunting game called Pretty Prey, but the game had to be registered first. Someone paid to put my name on the list. Someone signed off on my death rights before the first horn even blew.

I need to know who.

"Lost, sweetheart?"

I turn. The guy's older, maybe mid-twenties, with the kind of smile that makes you check where the exits are.

"I'm looking for the contract office," I say.

"Which kind?" He leans in. "Death, beauty, or pleasure?"

My stomach twists, but I keep my face blank. "Beauty."

He laughs.