As Althur and Peter dissected corpses in the cellar, Brahms sat meekly on the culprit's seat. Yet his guileless and pure countenance seemed to illuminate the room. He silently scanned the surroundings. Like the outer wall, the interior filled him with unease.

His idea of the police station stemmed from the short stories he read in the newspaper on the train to Calico. His scanty knowledge of his social system left him unable to appreciate his present surroundings. He had imagined esteemed detectives and noble policemen, ready to fight monsters and evil forces. But nothing of the sort came to pass.

On the wooden wall hung a jumble of things like whistles and rattles, mixed with small lanterns and a few batons. He recognized the baton, that was what the policemen wielded as a weapon to protect themselves from criminals. In another area, clothes were strewn about. They stank, and he avoided thinking about them or even looking at them. The emblems and signs towered high. Among them, neater than the rest, were those Althur had mentioned, including the symbol of the Helioric Kingdom, a crown enveloping the sun. Along with the emblem of the awl, etched with the royal crest.

The boy wanted to be quiet and contemplate his dreams. But the man lounging outside looked eviler than those imprisoned in the other corner of the room. He was always spewing curses and flaunting his power with weighty words. The scoundrel, in the boy's perception, threatened the people in the cell. He always reviled the little boy, who was powerless to resist. Brahms felt sorry for the boy. He pondered what to do next. Althur told him to be careful of strangers. But the argument between the man and the imprisoned boy grew fiercer.

"Stay still and play dead. Look at them." The man sneered at the scoundrels, who scurried into the cell like rats.

"And you, kid, Hehe. You're all alone here." He said this as he eagerly stroked his baton.

"I told you I didn't steal it." The boy shouted, and his voice was raspier than before.

"Save it for the gentleman. It's your fault I'm stuck here." The man remembered how a valued guest had lost a valuable item in the southern area, and most of the people in the police department had rushed there.

"Damn." He thought as he frowned. If it hadn't been for that cursed brat, he would have had a chance to impress those high-ranking people. Some rascals had found the watch. He could have let the boy go, but his pride kept him from doing so. He enjoyed torturing him. No one cared about a stray in this town.

"I didn't steal it."

"Let me out. You filthy swine, you curse."

"You're the one who's cursed. Cursed be your rotten kin." The boy shouted in the dust and dirt, worse off than the drunkards and beggars beside him, who just kept quiet and pretended nothing had happened.

They didn't know what it was like, so they didn't care. At least they knew they would be thrown out soon because they didn't want to waste coal or cots to keep those folks warm.

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The man felt insulted, turning to see the clean boy's scrutiny of him.

"What are you gawking at, kid?"

"Where did your family come from?" He asked the question. But the answer was silence from the boy, as pretty as a porcelain doll. He leaned over and snorted, "You think you're better than me. Just a government stooge."

He imagined himself as a king in this office, the one who roamed in the night with power that made him forget the grime and squalor he used to live in.

The child outside grew quieter and quieter, and the child locked in grew louder and louder. This irritated him immensely. The man abruptly dropped his feet from his desk, sprinted to the cell, and grabbed the child's throat.

The people around were silent, and the child was forced to suffocate. He turned pale, and his saliva ran down the man's hand. He was repulsed but didn't want to let go, while watching the child writhe in his palm gave him satisfaction.

"Kid, scream again. Your life is worth less than a basket of coals. These thieves deserve to be buried. You should be hanged."

"Stop it." A porcelain-doll-like boy said that courageously, despite the fact that he looked small and unharmful.

Brahms had been watching this dreadful scene for a while. He detested that man utterly. And that kid was not a bad fellow at all.

He wished that Althur would stop dissecting the body. He didn't know what to do now, but he detested what was happening. This man was the villain. He knew it, for no good man would utter such vulgar words.

Althur had once told him that a gentleman should always be calm and polite, though the rules might not always have to be strict. A real gentleman would have a sense of what to do.

"You filthy swine, you curse. Stop this filthy swine." The boy fervently repeated the insults of the poor, wretched boy in captivity. He silently apologized to Althur for his coarse words. But he did not stop.

"This brat. Do you think I dare not lock you up?"

"Don't think you can do whatever you want with your brother. Even if I hit you here, he won't be able to do anything."

"I told you to stop, scoundrel."

Brahms began to think that he wanted to use his power. But he hesitated, remembering Althur's warnings.

The man was angry, but he didn't want to be bothered by the young gentleman. However, the man's background didn't seem normal. He still wore a gentleman's demeanor, even though he did not bring any small items of value. He also carried a letter of introduction from the church.

Yet this frustration made him immediately want to flirt with this child. He had many reasons to blame him, and there was nothing he could do about it. People will not side with a child over an adult. He opened the palm of his hand, and the child inside turned pale but slowly came to and began to cough.

The rest of the cell was the same from start to finish. They hope to be here until tomorrow morning.

Brahms leaned forward a little, knowing that this gentleman intended to attack him. He was going to unleash his power.

Suddenly, he heard the door open from the back door with a loud clang, and the man noticed it too. He hesitated until he heard a cold and emotionless voice say solemnly, "Let him dream, Brahms, give him a dream."

As Althur's voice echoed in his ears, Brahms felt a surge of confidence. He didn't think twice about unleashing his power. Brahms bobbed his round head happily and sang the lullaby that was engraved in his mind deeper than any lesson he had learned.

"Good evening, good night. Covered with roses. Adorned with cloves. Slip under the covers. Tomorrow morning, if God wills, you will wake once again."

The boy's voice was pure and gentle, a stark contrast to the man's malice and the dirtiness of the place. His song was so soothing that it lulled people to sleep.

The man felt a strange sensation, and when he glanced at the door, it was empty. He swaggered toward the kid in front of him and swung his fist. The child dodged and whimpered, and then the young gentleman appeared. He scolded the child for his mischief. The gentleman, intimidated by his imposing aura, apologized profusely. He tossed them both out the door with a smug grin and came back to batter the other kid with a baton.

The boy struggled on the dirty cell floor, everything around him felt like a dream. "What is happening?"