Bathed in soft moonlight, the third-floor balcony is a haven of serenity. Elegantly carved pillars stand tall, their shadows weaving intricate patterns on the floor. Sheer cloth, like gossamer wings, hangs from the rafters and flutters in the night breeze, whispering secrets to the stars.
The sliding door bursts open, shattering the peaceful moment. Quinming stumbles through, slamming it shut behind him. He leans heavily against the door, chest heaving, clutching two stolen bottles of liquor, eyes scanning the quiet space.
Only the whispering cloth and dancing shadows remain. ‘A temporary refuge,’ he thinks, letting out a shuddering breath. The cold night air is a stark contrast to the oppressive heat he fled. Silence embraces him, offering a brief respite from the fevered insanity within.
Just then, he hears a faint rustling sound from the corner of the balcony. He turns his head, expecting to see another courtesan or servant, but sees only the fluttering of the sheer cloth.
He frowns, unable to tell if his nerves are shot from what happened in the brothel or if he really saw something. But for a moment, he could have sworn he saw a figure in the shadows, watching him with a strange intensity. When he blinked, the figure was gone, leaving him to question his own senses.
‘Paranoia, or reality?’
As he stands there frazzled, his disheveled outfit slips slightly, revealing a flash of pale shoulder. Quinming puts the bottles down and yanks his clothes back into place, muttering, "Perverted old men."
The clients, reeking of alcohol, pawed at him with clumsy hands, their slurred voices mistaking him for a girl. When one of them did not care about the truth, Quinming's heart raced in terror. ‘Lian's intervention saved me, but this is a wake-up call.’
Quinming's shoulders tremble, each uncontrollable shiver dragging him back to the night's horrors—the rough hands, the lecherous eyes, the overwhelming sense of powerlessness. The cool breeze felt like icy fingers brushing against his skin.
Even in his panic, his mind races to find a solution, a way to turn the situation to his advantage. ‘Adaptability has always been my strength. This is no different,’ he thinks, though the enormity of his situation weighs heavily. It is hard. He had no frame of reference to ground himself. The closest were the times he ran out of qi on the battlefield field, forced to fight and endure, squeezing out the last bit of strength in his body.
At least then he had the body of an adult. One frozen in its prime, honed over decades. He thought, even qi-less, he could survive. He could have fought back, but with so many eyes on him, he could not use his knowledge. The choice was either revealing everything or acting his part, a weak slave boy.
‘Tonight has made me painfully aware of how flawed my thinking has been,’ he realizes.
It happened so quickly.
‘Never. I have never been in a situation like this before.’
The phantom touch of rough hands groping him lingered on his skin, and he could still feel the yank of his clothes being pulled aside. The men's glazed eyes, empty and hollow, had seen him as nothing more than an object. His skin crawls at the memory, a shiver running down his spine as he recalls their heavy breaths and muttered words.
At that moment, he was not a person to them.
‘Yeah... like him...’
He remembered Cheonma’s cold, empty gaze, scanning over him like he was nothing. Rage had surged through Quinming, his fists clenching, nails digging into his palms. The way he screamed, ‘Look at me, you brat. Fight me.’ But Cheonma turned away, leaving a void in Quinming’s chest.
These men? Their disregard was similar but more dehumanizing.
He had fought back, weakly, like the slave boy he was, but his resistance was as futile as throwing a pebble at a charging bull. His too-thin, too-frail body had been utterly powerless against their drunken strength.
His grip tightens on the railing, knuckles turning white. A bitter taste fills his mouth as his body trembles with a mix of anger, shame, and fear. His breath shallow gasps, eyes darting around as if expecting another assault.
This vulnerability is unacceptable. ‘Me, trembling because of a bunch of drunken fools. A sword, a knife—anything pointy and I'll gut them.’
His vision blurs with rage at the memory. He slams his fist against the railing, splitting his bruised knuckles open. Blood drips down, splattering the wood below.
His breaths quicken, each one shallow and ragged. His jaw tightens, teeth grinding together with such force that it sends a sharp pain through his skull. He slams his fist against the railing, the wood creaking under the impact. A scream builds in his throat, desperate to break free, but he swallows it down, the taste of blood from his split knuckles fusing with his rage.
‘I will not let this break me.’
With his other hand, he grips the railing tighter, muscles straining. The storm inside him rages, a torrent of anger and helplessness. He has never felt so out of control, so powerless.
But he cannot afford to lose it. Not here. Not now.
Closing his eyes, he draws in a deep breath. The cold night air stings his lungs, a welcome chill against his heated skin. The sharp pain from his bleeding knuckles grounds him. The metallic tang of blood fills his nostrils. Slowly, the red haze of rage receded, replaced by a hollow ache that settled deep in his chest.
A shuddering laugh escapes him, echoing hollowly in the moonlit silence. His shoulders shake.
"Well, at least if I bleed out here, I won't have to worry about those perverts anymore.”
Quinming's eyes flick over the intricate carvings on the balcony pillars, noting the shadows they cast on the floor. The rough wood of the railing bites into his palms, grounding him in the present.
“Now about this...” Quinming flexes his bleeding hand, eyeing the bottles of alcohol on the floor. He considers using the liquor to disinfect the wound but dismisses the idea with a shake of his head.
“A waste,” he mutters, instead running his tongue over his knuckles and sticking the worst of it in his mouth. Practicality always won out over dramatics.
He tilts his head and looks up at the rafters.
“If I'm gonna run and hide, I gotta do it right. But that's a bit high.”
Quinming's gaze darts around the balcony, assessing the immediate options. Spotting a small table and delicate chairs, he drags the table over with a determined sigh, not bothering to worry about the loud scrape it made. One way or another he would be in trouble later. With quick, fluid movements, he wedges a chair between the rails, adjusting it until it feels secure.
“This has to hold. If I fall, at least it’ll be quick,” he mutters, tying the bottles to his belt and starting his climb. The rough wood scrapes his hands, sending sharp jolts of pain through his side. Halfway up, a bottle slips, swinging wildly.
“Damn it,” he hisses, adjusting the bottle. Finally, he reaches the top, sprawling on the narrow beam, panting heavily.
Quinming’s heart pounds as he lies in the rafters. Here, hidden and unnoticed, he can pretend to escape.
His breath is shallow. He grips the bottle tighter, the cool glass a small anchor in the madness.
Moonlight casts an eerie glow through the fluttering sheer cloth, highlighting his haunted eyes. ‘For now, I can pretend. Sometimes, pretending is all that keeps the darkness at bay.’
He takes a long swig, welcoming the burn. ‘A Distraction. Anything to distract me.’
Resting the bottle’s butt on his forehead, he stared up at the moon, its cold gaze mocking him. His cheeks flush with a heat unrelated to the liquor. The drink dulls his thoughts, offering a brief respite. He focuses on the distant music, the soft murmur of conversations.
“Damn it,” he mutters, clicking his tongue in irritation.
From a distant gazebo, the erhu’s music flows, a haunting wail that bends and sways with an almost human-like quality. Each stroke of the bow against the strings seems to cry out in sorrow. Quinming closes his eyes, letting the melancholic notes wash over him, amplifying his sense of isolation.
The meticulously designed gardens below seem to mock him. ‘Look at those perfect trees, all neatly lined up. Who knew trees could be so judgmental?’ Each tree and flower is placed with intent, just like his position in the brothel—a pawn in someone else’s game. ‘Controlled. Manipulated.’
He thinks of the woman behind all this. 'Youthful old hag,' he grumbles, taking a drink. Like her damn garden, she is always adorned with various jewels, each precisely chosen and filled with meaning and nuance. ‘A mask. Just like everything here.’
Oddly, she always wore that one necklace, even if the orange and crimson hues of the jade pendant clashed with her outfit. For a meticulous woman, it was more than strange. ‘Why that necklace?’
He mutters, “How did I end up here, wasting my thoughts on woman’s necklaces and dresses?” as the plum trees sway, whispering secrets he cannot hear. Did they mock him too, standing tall and free while he remains trapped?
Desperate for a distraction, he recalls the sect. Perched in the rafters, sipping bootlegged alcohol, he watched the younger disciples train. Their flawed skills grated on his nerves, prompting him to throw nuts, rocks, or splinters to correct their forms.
“Did you see that?” a younger disciple whispered. “It’s like the rafters are haunted.”
“Ghosts don’t throw nuts,” another by the name of Mu Jianshou replied, trying to sound brave but failing. “It’s probably just a test.”
Quinming smiles at the memory. A deep rooted longing burning in his chest. Those were simpler times, moments of frustration and amusement mixed together.
Quinming's thoughts are interrupted as Rong slides the balcony door open. She is the only courtesan he did not see naked tonight, a disturbing thought—he is not sure he can ever look at Lan's mother the same way.
Through the rafters, he watches her, stoic and elegant as usual. Her gray and blue robes flutter in the breeze, embroidered with intricate silver patterns catching the moonlight. Her distant expression reflects a world of sorrow and lost grandeur.
‘She hides her pain well.’
Her usually composed face now shows faint lines of worry and regret. Her graceful hands clutch the balcony railing with a kind of desperate elegance.
Quinming thought it little wonder she gazed forlornly into the night. ‘Well... We all have our burdens.’
He has heard she came from a fallen aristocratic family, a lineage of scholars brought down by court intrigue. Once on top of the world, she is now reduced to this—just one more sorrowful tale in this place.
‘We're all stars in Madam Li’s grand theater of misery. What a show.’
The sliding door opened with a sharp thud. Minling stormed in, her movements quick and agitated. Her red gown shimmered in the moonlight, each step a flurry of angry fabric. She huffed, crossing her arms tightly over her chest.
He silently took a drink. ‘Trouble incoming.’
“Rong, you left me alone with those vultures!” Minling's voice is a harsh whisper, sharp with accusation.
Rong remains calm. “They are your clients now, Minling. You wanted to step into this world, remember?”
Minling’s eyes narrow, her lips curling into a sardonic smile. “I wanted to step up, not become their entertainment for the night.”
“These men are not wolves, Minling.” Rong’s voice is steady and carries an edge of the aristocratic pride she once held. “They’re but men. Learn to handle them with the same grace you’d wield a fan.”
“These men are not wolves, Minling.” Rong’s voice is steady and carries an edge of the aristocratic pride she once held. “They’re but men. Learn to handle them with the same grace you’d wield a fan.”
Minling’s frustration peaks, her face flushed with anger. But instead of exploding, she tilts her head slightly, her voice dropping into something more measured and cutting. “Grace? You mean the kind that brought you here, to this gilded cage? No, I’ll negotiate my own terms. I’ve learned that grace alone doesn’t close a deal.”
Rong’s expression tightens, but she does not rise to the bait. “No,” she replies softly, almost to herself. “You didn’t have my advantages. And maybe that’s why you’ll succeed where I failed.”
The words hang in the air, heavy with unspoken meaning. Minling’s eyes flash, but instead of storming off, she gives Rong a long, piercing look, as if weighing her words. Then, with a small, calculated smirk, she turns on her heel and strides back inside, the final rustle of her gown the only sound left in her wake.
Quinming watches as Rong's shoulders slump, her fingers loosening their grip on the railing. She gazes out into the night, a solitary figure against the backdrop of the lavish gardens below.
‘She’s still clinging to the past, while Minling’s already planning her future. The question is, who will survive the present? But who am I to judge?’
Quinming scoffs, but the sound is louder than he intended. He glances down to find Rong looking up at him with those calm, discerning eyes.
‘Damn it, now I’m the uninvited guest at this pity party. Might as well share the booze and make it a real celebration.'
Feeling awkward, he shifts on the eave and offers Rong the bottle of liquor. “She demanded to share those guys and now gets angry she can't handle them. She's got a big stick up her ass if you ask me,” he mumbles, blushing under her calm gaze.
Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.
Rong smiles slightly. “Madam Li will be upset with you again.”
“I’m gonna get punished for leaving my post anyway. Might as well drink the fancy stuff too.”
With graceful precision, Rong pulls a small drinking cup from her sleeve, pours herself some liquor, and hands the bottle back to Quinming. He stares, baffled at where she stored the cup. ‘Always prepared, aren't you girl?’
She sips elegantly. “You have changed.”
“Have I?”
She nods, her eyes staring into the faint pink liquid. “You were always quiet but diligent. You took care of the girls. Dreamed of being a guard and protecting us. Now, I can see it. You want to leave. It’s not wrong.”
Quinming watched Rong’s graceful movements as she poured herself some liquor. His mind worked quickly, analyzing her calm demeanor and the situation with Minling. ‘She’s perceptive, as always. Doesn’t miss a damn thing.’
“Dreams change. Maybe I want to be a liquor connoisseur now,” he says lightly, shaking the bottle with a wry smile. Less stress, more booze—a logical decision, given his circumstances.
She does not push, taking another sip.
Quinming clumsily slides down the pillar and sits down on the railing next to her. “Can I ask you something?”
She tilted her head slightly, her eyes softening as she gave a small, encouraging nod.
“What happened to Huashun? What exactly went down?”
Rong’s eyes study him carefully but she chooses not to press him.
Instead, she reveals gently, “From my understanding, an influential old man, driven by greed and power, manipulated the merchants into loaning money to the sect. By indebting them, he forced the sect members out of the mountain, stripping them of their home and sanctuary.”
She pauses, assessing his reaction. Seeing the subtle sadness in Quinming’s eyes, Rong’ expression softens.
“But they haven’t given up,” she continues, her tone a mix of admiration and hope. “They opened an orphanage in the town below the mountain, providing shelter and care for those in need. And they work as mercenaries to gather enough money to pay off their debts and reclaim what was taken from them.”
Quinming’s chest tightens. “So they’re still fighting, in their own way.” ‘Unlike me, stuck playing a drinking game with my regrets.’
Rong nods. “Yes. They’re resilient. Just like you.”
Quinming falls silent, reflecting on her words. The wind rustles the leaves of the plum trees. He takes another swig from the bottle, savoring the burn. It grounds him, offering a brief respite from the tumultuous storm within.
Rong studies him, her gaze steady and compassionate. “You know, Quinming, it’s not about where we are, but who we are. You’re still the same person who cared for us, who dreamed of being a protector. That hasn’t changed.”
He snorts, though there’s a hint of warmth in his voice. “A protector, huh? Some protector I’ve turned out to be.”
Rong places a hand on Quinming’s shoulder, the touch light yet reassuring. “You’ve faced challenges that would break most people, Quinming. You’re still standing, still fighting. That’s more than enough.”
He knows she is not talking about his first life. But still he finds her words reassuring, like a balm to his weary soul. The night feels a little less oppressive, the burden on his shoulders a tad lighter.
“Thanks, Rong,” he murmurs, his voice tinged with genuine gratitude.
She smiles, a soft, knowing smile. “Anytime, Quinming. Anytime.”
They fall into a companionable silence, the music from the erhu weaving through the night air, a lament for lost dreams and a hope for new beginnings. In that moment, amidst the chaos and despair, Quinming finds a flicker of peace.
In the quiet that follows their conversation, Quinming's attention is drawn to the garden below. The shadows shift and, for a moment, he sees Madam Li walking with a cloaked figure. Their conversation is hushed, the words indistinct, but something about the man's posture and movements tugs at a distant memory.
‘Who is that?’
Quinming narrows his eyes, trying to place the familiarity. The way the man stands, the slight tilt of his head, feels eerily familiar, stirring a sense of unease deep within him.
‘Why does he seem so familiar?’
He turns back to Rong, who has also noticed the pair below. “Do you know who that is?” he asks, trying to keep his voice casual.
Rong shakes her head slightly, her expression thoughtful. “No, but Madam Li often meets with important people. It’s likely business.”
Quinming watches the cloaked figure for a moment longer, a nagging feeling in the back of his mind. The figure's mannerisms, the way he moves—it reminds him of someone from his past. ‘But who?’
He watches as Madam Li, visibly upset, returns to the brothel's main building. The mysterious figure happens to look up, and Quinming stiffens. The horrible disjointed sensation magnifying. ‘I know that man. But how? It should not be possible.’
‘A hundred and fifty years...’ For normal humans at least six or seven generations would have passed. For martial artists, there could be a rare one that has lived. ‘But all the ones I knew or had the potential to become Great Grandmasters or even Saints died in the Demon Wars.’
“Thanks for the drink.” Rong's words jolt him back from his thoughts.
“Hmm... sure. Anytime you need a drinking buddy, hit me up.” He glances at her as she turns to go inside.
When his eyes go back to where the mysterious figure was, they are gone.
‘Whoever that was, he won’t just disappear. He'll be back.’
As Rong reaches the door, it slides open to reveal Auntie Mei, standing there with a look of surprise. Both women freeze for a moment, startled. Auntie Mei’s eyes narrowed, her lips pressing into a thin line of disapproval as she surveyed the scene. Her hands clenched at her sides, a clear sign of her frustration.
“Inside, Rong,” Auntie Mei says, her voice firm but not unkind. Rong nods and slips past her, disappearing into the warmth of the brothel.
Auntie Mei's gaze shifts to Quinming, her disappointment evident. She sighs and shakes her head. “Quin-Quin, what are you doing out there?” she asks, her tone weary.
Before he could respond, Auntie Mei reached out and grabbed him by the ear, dragging him inside. The young aristocrats nearby burst into mocking laughter, their derisive voices echoing in his ears as he winced in pain.
“Ow. Ow. Ow! The ear, watch the ear,” Quinming whines.
Auntie Mei mutters, “You’re going to get yourself into trouble one of these days, boy.”
‘Is this not being in trouble already? Damn hag. My back is going to be rags at this rate. Maybe they should just hang a “kick me” sign on my back. I never got hurt this frequently even back during the war when damn near every battle was a fight for life.’
Quinming flinches, resigned to his fate as he is dragged away like a cattle to slaughter. The fleeting peace he found moments ago slips away, replaced by the harsh reality of his existence.
---
Quinming kneels on the hard floor of Madam Li's quarters, his knees pressing uncomfortably into the polished wood. His head is bowed, and in the reflective surface to the side, he sees a face that feels unfamiliar, a face he still is not used to seeing.
The silence grows oppressive. It is punctuated only by Madam Li’s nails tapping against her desk. The sound is rhythmic. Deliberate. Each and every tap echoing like a drumbeat in the stillness. It is a calculated noise. A reminder of her position. That she is the one in control over the situation.
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
With every tap, the tension in the room ratchets up, winding tighter around Quinming’s chest.
‘Eh, what's this? A drumroll before my grand performance? Just what I needed.’
Madam Li’s eyes bore into him. Her other hand touches her ever present jade pendant around her neck. The sight of it barely registers in Quinming’s mind, focused as he is on the oppressive atmosphere.
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
Auntie Mei’s voice cuts through the silence. “Leaving your post, stealing liquor, distracting Rong. Just how many rules do you plan on breaking, Quinming?”
'Wow, didn't realize being interesting was a crime,' he thinks, biting his tongue to keep from saying it aloud.
Quinming silently thanks the heavens that Hoof Muzzle, Crooked-teeth, and Silk Tongue had not snitch on him. His muscles relax slightly, a small victory in the face of impending punishment.
Quinming’s gaze flickers downward as he carefully tugs his sleeves over his bruised knuckles, hiding the evidence of his earlier fight. His movements are slow and deliberate, each motion a calculated effort to remain unnoticed.
Tap.
Madam Li fixes her gaze on Quinming, as if willing him to break under the pressure.
‘She’s gauging my reaction. Looking for a crack.’
Tap.
“Quinming, lift your head.”
Tap.
He obeys, lifting his head to scan the opulent room. His eyes linger on the rich tapestries lining the walls and the cluttered mahogany desk. The air is thick with the scent of sandalwood, a fragrance that both soothed and suffocated him.
‘Lavish decor, a facade of control. Her need to display power is almost pathetic.’
“Tell me, what is it this time?” Madam Li asks, weary but irritated. “Another rat infestation? Sudden illness? A ghost sighting?”
‘Haha, right... I did say that.’
Her words hang heavily. The chandelier’s light casts shadows on her face, highlighting her narrowed eyes. Quinming bites his tongue to keep from laughing. He drops his gaze to the intricate rug beneath him, pretending to feel the weight of the moment. But in the reflection beside him he is scanning the room.
‘Every detail counts. Has anything changed since the last time? No...’
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
‘This is so damn annoying. Back in the day, I would have just beat her up and been over it.’
Quinming meets Madam Li's gaze head-on, his face a mask of stoic calm, betraying nothing within.
Tap. Tap-
“Whip me and get it over with. I’m tired,” he says flatly.
Auntie Mei’s eyes widen in shock, her breath catching at his bluntness, while Madam Li’s frown deepens.
“You want to be whipped?” she asks incredulously.
“Who the hell wants to be whipped? I just can't be bothered to explain it all,” he replies, frustration seeping into his words.
‘No point in explaining the real reason. The sanguine rooms, the raw, carnal acts, and that... I won’t admit that.’
He finally looks away, his eyes finding a spot on the richly embroidered rug. ‘Never admit that.’
Madam Li’s eyes narrow, studying him with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion. The silence stretches, heavy and suffocating, as if the very air in the room is pressing down on him.
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
Auntie Mei, regaining her composure, steps forward, her voice tight. “You think this is a game, Quin-Quin? You think you can just shrug off your duties and expect no consequences?”
You think your pathetic nagging will get me to fulfill my duties when Brother Zhi's masterful Taoist tongue-lashing never could. Keep dreaming.’
He does not respond, his gaze fixed firmly on the floor. The tension in the room is palpable, a taut string ready to snap.
Madam Li finally breaks the silence, her voice cold and measured. “If you think you can avoid punishment by asking for it, you are sorely mistaken. There are consequences for every action, Quinming. And you will face them.”
‘She thinks she’s in control. Let her think that. It's safer that way.’
The words hang in the air, a chilling promise of the discipline to come. Quinming braces himself, the muscles in his shoulders tensing as he prepares for what lies ahead.
‘Another bust. Endure now, regroup later.’
Her tapping is rapid against the desk.
Madam Li stands, her jade pendant swinging gently as she moves with practiced grace to a wall behind her desk. From a hook, she retrieves a whip.
‘Oh shit.’ His stomach clenched as Madam Li’s eyes bore into him, the whip glinting ominously in her hand. He could almost feel the sting already. ‘This is going to hurt.’
Leather coils gleam menacingly in the dim light. The sight of it sends a shiver down Quinming's spine, but he does not flinch.
Nor does he fight as Auntie Mei forces him out of his top, exposing his skinny, pale back. The skin is marked with the traces of previous punishments, some scars only just healed, others still raw and red.
‘Remember why you’re doing this. Stay focused.’
Madam Li’s face is a mask of steely resolve, while Auntie Mei's lips press into a thin line of disapproval. But duty overrides their emotions. What has to be done must be done.
Quinming endures his punishment silently. Each strike of the whip begins with a long, drawn-out hiss—snap. Pain. It sears. But he refuses to scream. Refuses to give them the satisfaction of hearing his agony. Again, the whip winds up, a sinister pause—crack. Sharp and merciless. His jaw remains clenched, his eyes steely with unyielding determination.
His lack of screams and any sign of pain leaves both women shaken. Auntie Mei’s hand trembles as she holds him down. Madam Li’s strikes lose some of their force, guilt gnawing at her resolve.
The silence in the room grows heavier with each passing moment, broken only by the whip’s impact and Quinming’s labored breathing.
Madam Li drops the whip to her side. Auntie Mei gently releases Quinming. He collapses to the floor, trembling but unbroken.
“You may go,” Madam Li says, her voice hollow. “Remember, Quinming, every action has consequences. Do not forget that.”
Quinming pushes himself to his feet, his muscles screaming in protest. Each movement sends waves of pain coursing through his body, but he forces himself to stand tall, defiance flickering in his eyes. He meets Madam Li’s gaze one last time, defiance flickering in his eyes. ‘Hope you enjoyed the show,' he jokes internally. 'Encore tomorrow?’ He turns and limps out of the room.
The door closes, leaving the women to their troubled thoughts.
He forces himself to walk to his room, every step a fresh agony. Dizzy and weak, he does not bother putting the top of his robes on, letting them drag along the floor.
Blood trails down his back, staining the fabric a dark, accusatory red.
'Oh, don’t mind me, just your daily bloodied spectacle,' he muses with a faint smirk. 'At this rate, I’ll need a new wardrobe every week.' His thoughts war inside. ‘I need to assess the damage. Can't afford to be out of commission for long.’
The hallway stretched endlessly before him, each step an agonizing effort. Servants stared, their eyes wide with shock and pity. Whispers swirled around him, each murmur a dagger to his already battered spirit, dragging him deeper into his suffering.
“Did you hear? He got whipped again.”
“Poor thing, he looks so fragile.”
“He should learn to keep his head down.”
‘Yeah, like that’s ever going to happen.’ A grim smile tugs at his lips. ‘They'll never understand. Keeping my head down isn't an option.’
Quinming's vision blurs as dizziness threatens to pull him under. As he steadies himself against the wall, a small figure bumps into him with surprising force, sending fresh waves of pain through his body.
“Oh, I’m so sorry!” a soft voice exclaims with genuine concern. He blinks, trying to focus. A girl with wide, green eyes and freckled cheeks stands before him. Though he calls her a girl, he can't really tell her age.
‘Who is she? Can't afford to be careless.’
She reaches out to steady him, her touch light but firm. “You look hurt.”
He wants to give a retort asking if she is blind, but finds his mouth uncooperative.
“Let me help you to your room,” she insists, slipping an arm around his waist. The scent of vanilla pokes through the metallic smell of his blood.
Exhaustion and pain dull his resistance as they slowly make their way. Her presence feels oddly out of place, almost ethereal in the brothel's sordid halls.
‘Why is she helping me? What's her angle?’
At his door, she helps him and he stumbles inside, collapsing onto the thin mattress. He sighed, a mix of relief and agony, as he sank into its relative comfort.
Her touch lingers. “Take care of yourself,” she says softly, her green eyes locking onto his with an intensity that sends a shiver down his spine.
‘Something... off about her. Must keep an eye on this one.’
As she leaves, a strange unease settles in his chest. There is something about her, something familiar and out of place. Before he can dwell on it, exhaustion claims him, making his thoughts hazy.
‘Need to figure out who she is. But first, rest.’
The last thing he hears before sleep claims him is the distant sound of laughter, a cruel reminder of the world that continues to turn, indifferent to his suffering. The darkness is a welcome relief, a merciful escape from the relentless grind of his existence.