That morning was a bright one.

Yoongi took it as a good omen when he looked out at the blue sky, pulling back the curtains just enough to get a glimpse of the outside world. The sunlight was gleaming off all of the tall glassy buildings, and the people down on the ground below the apartment building were going about their business with smiles on their faces.

Though Yoongi wasn't normally a morning person (okay, to be honest, he hated mornings), he was in a good mood this one time. That day was an important day, and it was starting out beautifully.

After staring at his closet for a prolonged period of time trying to figure out what to wear, Yoongi opted for a nice pair of jeans and a white, long-sleeved button-up shirt. Something classy yet casual, perfect for the day. He pulled his clothes on and combed his hair before eating a quick breakfast.

"Yoongi?" He heard his mother's voice coming from behind him as he was gulping down a glass of orange juice. He turned to face her and his father, who were standing together and smiling at their son.

"We're very proud of how far you've come, dear, and we both know that you have nothing to worry about today," his mother began.

Yoongi's father cleared his throat. "We'll be pleased with the result, no matter what. Of course we would love it if you got an 8 and we could see each other more often, but a 9 is nothing to be sad about."

Yoongi noted that his parents weren't even considering the possibility of their son getting less than an 8. It was out of the question.

"Thanks," he responded. "But really, I'm not all that worried. This isn't a game of luck," he said with a smile. And it was true. He had been monitored and evaluated his whole life, and this was just the culmination of that. All of his flaws and merits alike would be taken into consideration, and the number he received would merely be a reflection of his character. There was no use worrying over it; the number would be chosen accurately and fairly. That was how the society worked.

Plus, there was the fact that it was rare to change numbers from the one you had grown up surrounded by. Yoongi's parents were 8's; thus he had grown up in Area 8 and would likely continue on living there for the rest of his days. Which of course, he couldn't complain about. Area 8 was huge, beautiful, clean, and safe. Its residents lived good lives - any health issues were taken care of by highly trained medics, the food was delicious and plentiful, and its people were in want of nothing.

 It was comfortable. Familiar. Home.

**

After he had said his goodbyes to his parents, Yoongi had boarded the light-rail and headed to the Area Center in the downtown district. It was a huge white building with a domed roof, where all the government officials worked and where important business was taken care of.

He had to ask one of the receptionists in the lobby where to go. "It's my 20th birthday today," he informed her proudly.

She smiled and immediately understood what he was saying. "So that means it's Numbering Day for you, isn't it? I'll call someone to show you the way." She pushed a small button on her desk, which lit up and summoned a man dressed vaguely like a security guard to saunter over.

"Come with me," the man intoned, leading Yoongi across the flawlessly polished floor of the lobby and over to the elevator doors. They rode the elevator up to floor 3, where they disembarked. Yoongi trailed down the hallway behind the man until he stopped in front of one of the many identical-looking doors that had lined the corridor. The man pulled an electronic tablet device out of his pocket.

"Name, please?" He asked the boy.

"Min Yoongi."

"Mm," the man hummed slightly as he typed Yoongi's name in and pulled up his profile. "This is you, correct?" He held the tablet out. Yoongi peered at it for a moment. It showed his general information and a picture of him - the same one on his ID card. He had never really liked that picture. He was smiling in it, but it didn't really reach his eyes. Something about it had always saddened him a bit, but he didn't know why.

"Yes," he responded, and the man pulled the tablet back and pressed a confirmation button. He then pressed the tablet against a monitor next to the door. It made a beeping noise and the light turned green, so the man pushed the door to the room open and waved Yoongi inside.

The room was almost entirely empty, except for a machine standing directly in the center of it. It was a rather large and strange-looking machine, and for the first time that day Yoongi felt a strange twinge of nervousness in his stomach. That was ridiculous, though. He would be an 8. He would surely be an 8.

But what if he ended up with a different number? The thought edged its way into his brain, and he allowed himself to imagine for a moment what life in Area 9 might look like. He had heard that life there was of the utmost luxury, practically paradise. Either way, as either an 8 or a 9 he would be allowed a job of his choice and a pleasant life. There was nothing wrong in either scenario. Being a 10 was practically an impossibility - Yoongi had never even seen a 10. They were near mythical beings - supposedly only those found to be flawless were 10's. They were perfect; they were divine. So receiving a 10 was out of the question.

Yoongi felt that it was quite unlikely that he would be judged anything less than an 8, considering the life he'd led. A 7, perhaps, if he'd made more mistakes than he'd realized. It would be unfortunate, but liveable. A 6 would be extremely disappointing. Anything from 1 to 5 would be unbearable.

Stopping when he reached the center of the room and stood next to the forbidding machine, Yoongi was snapped out of his thoughts by the sound of the door falling shut. He was completely alone in the large room, with the exception of the large device that was now beginning to whir and hum, as if it was a beast awakening from a deep slumber.

He watched, fascinated, as the large device began to glow. It looked like a large, crouched creature - it was made up of glossy jet black panels and formed no recognizable shape. The panels overlapped and twisted around each other in strange ways. Glowing light was shining out from gaps in the panels, coming from somewhere within the machine. Suddenly the panels began to move, sliding and twisting and writhing at an increasingly frenzied pace. They were separating from each other, the device coming apart. The light was nearly blinding now, and Yoongi had to hold up his arm in an attempt to block it out.

Min Yoongi, a disembodied voice said from somewhere in the room. The boy standing in its center was too overwhelmed to even wonder where it came from exactly. Please remove the articles of clothing from your arms and torso, and step into the light in front of you.

Dazedly, Yoongi followed through with the instructions, ing and removing his shirt. He dropped it somewhere on the floor and moved forward into the blinding glare.

He shut his eyes against the light, yet he could still see its brightness through his eyelids. It wasn't a harsh feeling, however - he felt utterly calm there. He could sense the pieces of the machine closing in around him again, swirling around him, wrapping him up, caressing his skin. He lost himself in the moment - the warmth, the bliss of it all.

And then it was over. The pieces of the machine spun away and he stumbled forward, tripping over his own feet and throwing out his hands to steady himself as his knees impacted with the ground. Cursing, Yoongi picked himself off the ground just in time to watch the pieces of the elaborate contraption fall back into place, curling themselves together and settling back into dead stillness. He breathed in and out slowly, steeling himself for what came next. Though Yoongi couldn't physically feel the number that was now branded onto his skin, marking him for life, he could sense its presence there just the same. Now all he had to do was look at what it was.

Another deep breath in. A turn of the head.

A sudden stillness.

The world stopped spinning.

**

Yoongi's head was reeling. His heart was stuttering, unsure of whether or not it wanted to keep beating. Was he even breathing? He didn't know. He didn't care. His mind and body were disconnected. His legs were lurching forward, carrying him to the now opened doorway. The guard standing there looked confused and concerned, staring worriedly at Yoongi's dazed face and stumbling walk.

"Um," the guard managed, pointing at a forgotten heap lying in the room near the now-still machine. "You forgot your shirt."

But that didn't matter. Only one thing really mattered here; there was only one problem. One thing that desperately needed to be resolved.

"This has to be a mistake," Yoongi croaked out when he was near enough to the guard for the man to decipher the number on his side. The other man's eyes widened in shock. He seemed to be grasping for words. "I - you - um, this has never happened to me before. This is - this is - beyond me."

Wave after wave of desperation crashed into Yoongi, and he could feel a strange sort of sob building in his throat. He wanted suddenly to cry out, to scream, to throw a fit until somebody came along who could fix this for him. But he also wanted to melt to the floor, to collapse and never have to get up again. Plus, it wasn't as if he would ever throw such a tantrum. He was a good kid. He had always been a good kid.

That was why the number branded onto his skin made no sense. Well, it shouldn't have even been a number. It shouldn't even have been possible.

Yoongi had known his entire life that the society he lived in was divided into ten areas, that he would one day be marked a number 1 through 10 that would decide his fate.

So how could his number be a zero?