Trio (1)

Do you know about Zone 452, Lot 32, once hailed as a paradise for real estate investors amidst a redevelopment boom?

Once famous, but now infamous—three sinkholes later, all the investors cut their losses, leaving it as a peculiar place only known to the initiated. Hidden in its dark, damp depths lies an underground market, teeming with things unfit to exist under the sun.

Of course, unlike ordinary markets, there were no fools here openly displaying their wares. Smugglers, dealers of illegal drugs, discontinued products, and banned flora and fauna prowled the streets with their hands in their coat pockets. They would only approach customers who appeared to be searching for something, discreetly offering their goods.

These sellers prided themselves on being able to procure almost anything. But this case was different. When a group of three women approached a broker asking for forged IDs and official documents, he assumed they wanted something mundane like a medical license or an academic diploma.

The broker led them to his workshop and pulled out a drawer filled with all kinds of certificates: medical credentials, admission letters from prestigious academies, and more. As he began explaining prices, the shortest woman of the trio, who had her hair tied into charming pigtails, shook her head. Her voice, like her appearance, was sweet and playful.

"Sorry, but we don't see what we're looking for here."

"I'm the most versatile operator in this area. Fine, tell me what you want."

The broker, holding a notebook and pen, leaned in with a cocky smirk, underestimating the petite woman. This was Logwin, not a country to mess around with fake documents, so he was ready to throw them out if their request was ridiculous. But then he froze at her response.

"A criminal ID and a prison admission order."

"Sure, a cri— Wait, what?!"

Midway through writing, the broker's pen hovered in the air. Thinking he had misheard, he looked up, eyes wide. But the woman, unperturbed, repeated herself,

"A criminal ID and a prison admission order. I'll take a five-year sentence, this one's for five years too, and that person over there…"

The cheerful pigtail woman pointed at the red-haired woman who had sat uninvited in one of the workshop's chairs. Before she could finish, the redhead interjected in a low voice.

"It would be better to add a life sentence and a history of mental illness for the person at the back. That lunatic really needs to be locked away."

Her fiery gaze bore into the broker, emphasizing the seriousness of her words. But the broker, overwhelmed, could only gape at the three women. Their outrageous request felt like someone casually ordering ice cream,

— I'll take two scoops, strawberry and vanilla. She'll have three, chocolate and cheesecake, and please add some almonds on top.

The redhead pressed the broker to quickly add the 'mental illness' detail, while the tall woman who had been silent until now took a step forward. Her sudden movement drew attention. From the moment she entered the workshop, she hadn't uttered a word, but now she approached the broker for the first time.

"Ten months."

Even though it was just two words, the broker felt a chill run down his spine. Maybe it was the workshop's airless environment, but her husky voice carried a commanding weight. Up close, he noticed her face—half-obscured by a hood—was strikingly beautiful. Her long platinum-blonde hair was equally unusual.

"For her, a five-year sentence."

The tall woman added, pointing to the pigtail-haired one. Then she motioned toward the redhead.

"This one gets eleven months."

The peculiar phrasing, calling the redhead 'this one', made it clear to whom she was referring. The redhead gave an awkward smile.

"Wait, isn't that a bit short? And why do I get one extra month?"

As they argued about the length of their fabricated prison terms as if it mattered, the broker stared at them, dumbfounded. The platinum-blonde woman let out a low laugh and placed a firm hand on the redhead's shoulder. The broker saw her shudder. It was the trembling born of fear.

"Because I'll be waiting for you outside."

***

"… Why would you wait for me?"

"So that when you're released, I can go back in as an offender for involuntary manslaughter."

The platinum-blonde woman's casual remark made it clear to everyone—both the broker and the redhead—who would be the victim of that future crime. The redhead forced a smile, asking nervously,

"You're joking, right?"

But the woman's hand remained planted on her shoulder.

The broker's instincts screamed at him to escape this scene. However, as a forger of illegal documents, he was first and foremost a businessman. And that meant fulfilling requests, no matter how insane his clients might be.

Assigning the trio their requested charges—'involuntary manslaughter', 'fraud', and 'armed robbery'—all neatly set for the time requested, the broker watched them leave with a look that said he'd seen it all now.

'Crazy people demanding criminal IDs… what's next?'

Logwin was famous for its strict enforcement of law and order, so forged documents only worked for about five months at most. However, considering there probably hadn't been many lunatics trying to get into a prison rather than out, the forgeries would likely hold up. While the broker diligently worked on the task, the women huddled together, chatting away.

When the broker began searching for Logwin's prison warden's seal and signature, alongside the special ink coating needed for the forgeries, the red-haired woman suddenly shifted in her seat and grabbed at her chest.

"Hey, are you sure you made this right? It jiggles every time I walk. It's really annoying."

*Shk-!*

The broker's precise, meticulous hand slipped for a moment at her blunt comment, but none of the group seemed to care. Instead, the woman's hand, which had been kneading her chest, moved to scratch vigorously. What followed was a string of crude complaints—something about how they didn't match in size, how they felt like iron weights, and how they could probably kill someone if used as a weapon.

"Just think of them as balls."

Someone finally chimed in, irritated by the constant grumbling. The suggestion came from the sharp-jawed beauty among them, though it wasn't particularly helpful.

"What an awful thing to say. Are you implying my head is, what, a dickhead?"

Retorted the red-haired woman, shaking with indignation.

"Don't be stupid. Have you ever seen a d*ck with hair on the tip like your head? You've never had one, have you?"

'Of course, she hadn't. When would a woman ever have a d*ck? It's not like it's detachable.'

The broker glanced at them incredulously, baffled that the red-haired woman was bristling over the question. Then, to everyone's astonishment, she suddenly unbuckled her belt.

"What did you just say? I'll have you know there was a time when I flushed toilets with my own junk!"

The broker hurriedly averted his eyes, unwilling to watch the impromptu display any longer. The women all looked polished enough to pass for nobility—with their lustrous hair and glimmering eyes—but their language was more suited to the back alleys. It was an odd group indeed.

Thankfully, before the broker got a definitive answer about whether a woman could have 'junk', the platinum-blonde woman seated nearby interrupted the spectacle.

"So crude."

The red-haired woman scowled at her, annoyed by the sudden shift to decorum. What made it worse was that the platinum blonde truly did look aristocratic—graceful and commanding, easily the most dignified-looking among them. Anyone could tell she was the leader of the trio.

When the broker finally finished preparing everything they had requested, he nearly cheered aloud. The mental toll of listening to their conversations had been unimaginable.

While waiting, the red-haired woman had flipped through a magazine, mocking a male actor with a pretty face, saying his personality must be worse than a dog's. The twin-braided woman, who seemed the most normal at first glance, giggled and added,

"Then I suppose his parents made love in a five-star hotel but raised him in a kennel."

Even the platinum blonde, though mostly silent, occasionally snorted derisively, making it clear she wasn't exactly normal either. The broker just wanted them gone.

"Where's the medical record for that mental condition?"

The red-haired woman's fixation on the non-existent record was the final straw. As he handed over the envelope containing the forged documents, his last ounce of professionalism vanished. He shot her a disdainful look and spat out his response.

"It's attached."

It was his way of saying, 'Get out of my workshop'.

The red-haired woman, satisfied, left with a smug grin. Once the trio had finally gone, the broker grabbed a broom to clean up the space they had vacated and let loose a string of curses. He felt he'd been remarkably honest today—after all, he had given each of the three women a fitting diagnosis.

***

— A New Era, A New World, A New Nest!

The three leaves of the logo symbolized these three renewals for Augwell Private Prison, which celebrated its 21st anniversary this year.

Augwell was one of the most popular prisons in Logwin. Known for its outstanding facilities, it stood out among the three private prisons in the region. Its pristine condition was worlds apart from the common stereotypes of rundown and overcrowded penitentiaries.

Every window was washed weekly. The building underwent maintenance every six months. In summer, gardeners were even hired to sculpt the shrubs into neat, rounded shapes. Meals were prepared using fresh, high-quality ingredients, and prison labor consisted only of light duties like laundry, cleaning, and assisting in the kitchen.

Unsurprisingly, gaining entry to such a well-maintained prison was no easy feat. It was often reserved for the wealthy who lived extravagantly and could afford top-tier lawyers. Although a prison was still a prison, Augwell had operated smoothly since its inception.

Before its construction, the usual protests against such 'undesirable' facilities had erupted, complete with eggs hurled at the proposal team. However, the wealthy individuals who reserved spots at Augwell had worked together to pacify the residents of Orldon District by funding a hospital, two parks, a large cultural center, and four company branches.

Once the public was appeased, Augwell was built swiftly, and the government offered special accommodations for the wealthy inmates. Though costly, this arrangement served a dual purpose—wealthy criminals not only paid hefty donations to secure a spot but continued to pour money into the system, contributing significantly to society.

Edwin had also spent a considerable sum to secure a place for Shushu at Augwell. For the Isadoc family, known as the former trade emperors, the amount was a mere pittance. Additionally, Edwin had taken 'special measures' to ensure Shushu's comfort.

What Edwin didn't realize, however, was that being sent to Augwell usually meant the inmate was unhinged beyond redemption. This led to Augwell becoming a hub for the utterly deranged, matching the enormous sums of money spent on their incarceration.