Chapter 15: The City of Sin

Having changed the diaper, the now-comfortable infant girl once again slipped into peaceful slumber. The little beggar cradled her in his arms, a faint expression of relief flitting across his face. Beside him, the young girl watched the scene unfold, her heart filled with disbelief.

The beggar boy turned his head. When his eyes met the girl's, she quickly averted her gaze. The baby's needs were now addressed. That could only mean—it was her turn next. Was this villain finally going to deal with her?

The girl tried to imagine what the boy might do. Though she didn't fully understand such things, a hazy instinct warned her that something terrible was coming. Her hands clutched even tighter over her vulnerable body…

But then, a bundle was thrown at her feet.

"Put it on."

She looked up and saw the beggar boy had approached once again, though she hadn't noticed when. Oddly, cradling the baby in his arms, he didn't appear particularly cruel. And yet, whenever he turned to her, his gaze was filled with ruthless coldness.

Still, in the presence of that dagger, she dared not defy him. She freed one hand, careful not to expose herself, and cautiously opened the bundle. Inside was a complete outfit—from headpiece to shoes. Upon closer inspection… it appeared to be… a lace-trimmed maid uniform?

"What is this? What are you planning to do to me?!"

The girl cried out, alarmed.

To her question, the beggar gave only a two-word answer:

"My interest."

…

There was no doubt—today was nothing short of a nightmare for the young girl. Humiliated and subdued under the threat of a blade, she had no choice. The winter cold gave her no room for pride. At this point, wearing clothes—no matter how humiliating—was better than remaining exposed before this vile creature.

"T-Turn around!"

The boy, of course, didn't heed her command. He simply stood there, dagger in hand, waiting in silence. Tears welled in her eyes as she realized her order held no power. Sobbing softly, she pulled out the undergarments, dressing herself as best she could while covering her body.

The beggar watched her with unwavering attention until she had donned every piece of the outfit—from the short lace-trimmed skirt to the black stockings, the delicate headpiece, and the shoes that matched her hair in color. She loathed the way the clothes clung to her, but before she could dwell on it, the door shut again with a dull thud.

The dim room was now empty—the beggar and the baby were gone. Left behind, the girl felt a sudden jolt of fear. She ran to the door and tugged at the handle, only to find it had been locked from the outside. She was now trapped.

…

A narrow, dim corridor stretched ahead, exuding an atmosphere of dread. The worn wooden floor creaked underfoot, and the plaques on the doors to either side were caked in rust.

The beggar walked forward, the infant snug in his arms and the key tucked in his clothes. From the far end of the hallway, people began to appear—all of them in pairs, men and women.

He stepped aside to let them pass. The women were garishly dressed, their voices dripping with seduction and vice. The men wasted no time; even before entering their rooms, hands roamed over breasts and between thighs. Once the doors closed, the thin walls echoed with lewd moans and gasping breaths.

The deeper he walked, the more pungent the air became—saturated with lust and filth. Cigarette smoke swirled in the low ceiling, casting a fog over the corridor. Lowering his head, the boy adjusted the baby's swaddling, covering her nose slightly, shielding her as he made his way out of the hallway.

Clashing beer mugs, chaotic laughter, and loud music welcomed him into the heart of the Pink Lady. This bar was larger than most, its women more provocative, and its sins more profound. Robberies and murders plotted in its corners gave the place an air of infamous grandeur. This was the Pink Lady—a sanctuary of depravity, devoid of law or conscience.

The beggar crouched low, worming his way between swaying hips and spitting men like a bug crawling across a diseased floor. Though the air pulsed with heat and madness, his eyes remained cold as ice, silently scanning the room for his target.

On stage, a nude dancer performed her seductive routine. Her debauched movements captivated countless lustful eyes below. Suddenly, a man was pushed onto the stage by the raucous crowd, visibly flustered in front of the naked woman.

"Go on! Take her down!"

"C'mon, buddy! Forget your stone-faced wife back home! Go for it!"

The dancer tiptoed closer, her serpentine arms looping around the man's neck. Her long, alluring legs brushed provocatively against his groin, stoking his desire. At last, surrendering to temptation, the man grabbed her and pinned her to the stage's metal pole. Without preamble, he dropped his pants and took her right there, shamelessly, before the cheering crowd.

The audience erupted in wild applause, treating the spectacle as routine entertainment. The beggar glanced briefly at the dancer, then turned his gaze to the infant in his arms.

"Fifteen years… or twelve… and she'll be the one dancing up there. Won't she?"

A voice—cold and mocking—sneered in his mind. The beggar glanced at his right arm. The blood-red eye blinked open, glowing with scorn. He stared at it for a moment, then looked up again. At last, he had found his target.

Fox sat in a shadowy corner, sipping his drink while enjoying the show. Though he'd seen countless acts like this, he never tired of watching new bodies writhe under the spotlight.

The beggar ducked low and melted into the darkness. He didn't approach Fox to claim his reward. The room key was hidden safely in his clothes. He knew exactly what kind of man he was dealing with. In truth, there were no good men in this world. To walk up now and demand payment would only place him at a disadvantage—perhaps even see his body dumped in a garbage bin before the hour was out, food for rats and roaches.

Patience was one of his few survival skills.

With the infant held close, he crept to the side of the bar. After spotting a man finish a glass of soda, he stole the glass, dumped the ice, and filled it with warm water from a nearby tank. Once the temperature cooled, he gently fed the infant small sips.

The moment her lips touched the warm liquid, she eagerly drank, her tiny mouth gulping down the water with desperation. She was truly thirsty, and undoubtedly hungry. Though the water couldn't cure her fever or hunger, it offered her fleeting relief.

Gulp… gulp… gulp…

Her lips smacked softly. She stopped drinking, excess droplets trailing down her cheeks. The beggar set the glass aside and reached out, wiping the water from her pale skin.

His rough fingertips brushed her delicate face. The baby stirred, opening her eyes. Bright green and clear, they stared up at the boy holding her—and at the chain-bound hand reaching toward her.

"Waa—ahhh…"

She wriggled from her swaddling and reached for his hand. Her tiny fingers were barely the size of his fingernail. With weak sobs, she clung tightly to his fingers, gazing up at him with jewel-bright eyes—the very person who had planned to sell her.

He remained silent. Thirst burned his throat, and the water in the glass was tempting. Yet he didn't move, his fingers caught in the grip of a creature so small, so fragile.

Then, the blood-red eye opened once more.

It stared intently at the infant, its demonic glow intensifying.

"Heh… amusing."

The crimson light enveloped the child, but it could not extinguish the green brilliance of her gaze. The voice sneered again.

"Too young to know fear. A creature like this, who only knows sleep and hunger, is no different from a pig. There are plenty of wild dogs out on the streets. If no one buys her, just toss her to them. Let's see if she still wears that serene expression when they rip off her arm or leg."

The beggar's expression didn't change. His eyes remained indifferent. Gently, he pulled his hand away, picked up the glass, and drained its contents.

And at that moment, the opportunity he had been waiting for finally arrived.

A man in his forties entered the Pink Lady, each arm wrapped around a heavily made-up woman. His elegant attire immediately set him apart from the usual patrons. Whispers stirred in the corners. He was clearly wealthy—and not alone. Four cloaked bodyguards followed behind him. Judging from the shape of the blades beneath their cloaks, they were all master swordsmen.