Camille

Ms. Camille's life has been, to put it mildly, exceptionally fulfilling recently. One could even say it has been a truly educational experience, though perhaps not in the way she'd ever imagined.

Every morning at precisely seven, she would be roused from her fitful sleep under the watchful, unblinking eyes of Mr. Van der Linde's silent gunmen, who materialized as if from the very air. She would then wash up, eat a meager but nourishing breakfast, and promptly head to the 'VDL' clothing factory in Saint Denis, where she'd dutifully sit at a clattering sewing machine, her fingers clumsy at first, making clothes alongside her former best friends – the elegant Dorothea, the vivacious Ann, and the stoic Ms. Alice – all equally disheveled and bewildered.

This, Dutch believed with a grim, pedagogical smile, was the quintessential 'life education' he had so thoughtfully arranged for them. He firmly believed that for young ladies and noblewomen, steeped in privilege and utterly unaware of the gnawing suffering of the common people, having them work side-by-side with the lowest-class laborers for a grueling year or two would finally show them what true Bottom Layer life was like. Only then, Dutch mused, could they realize their past egregious mistakes, as well as the inherent harms and damning drawbacks of their beloved, brutal capitalism.

By six in the evening, Ms. Camille would finish work a bit earlier than the other weary female workers, not due to any special treatment based on her former, elevated status, but because she needed to go to the Red Academy, a repurposed church hall, opened by Mr. Van der Linde. There, under the glow of flickering gaslight, she would diligently study the 'Van der Linde Spirit' and the 'Van der Linde Will,' concepts as foreign to her as quantum physics.

Of course, this involved various, rather blatant, brainwashing contents, meticulously crafted ideological tenets, as well as complex, often contradictory, concepts related to capitalism, state capitalism, and the perplexing tenets of communism.

Perhaps as a true, ingrained capitalist, her very essence steeped in the pursuit of profit, she would not be truly brainwashed by such radical theories. Her mind was too sharp, too deeply set in its ways. But after months of intense, forced study, she would, inevitably, come to understand one undeniable, terrifying thing: Mr. Van der Linde's rise, his relentless march to power, was simply unstoppable! He was a force of nature.

If the American people were living in peace and prosperity, if capitalists were not so oppressively greedy, then no matter how much Dutch promoted his peculiar theories, it would be utterly useless, falling on deaf ears. But unfortunately, the current America was not in a state where the people were rich and the country was strong; rather, it was a land where the people were weak, broken, and the capitalists were obscenely strong, their power unchecked. In this grim state, Mr. Van der Linde's theories, his promises of liberation, would truly become an unstoppable, ever-flowing, destructive force, a river of revolution!

"Click, click, click…" The distinct sound of high heels echoed in the opulent manor, but with peculiar, uneven gaps between each click. This was because Mr. Van der Linde, in his infinite wisdom (and calculated cruelty), hadn't provided Ms. Camille with new daily necessities recently. Her single pair of high heels, once gleaming, had been worn relentlessly since she first arrived, now battered and worn out, causing them to slip off with every painful step, naturally creating a sense of broken intermittence when she walked, a limping rhythm.

This was also entirely intentional on Mr. Van der Linde's part; simply working, toiling in a factory, couldn't truly convey the grim reality of the common people's lives, who often didn't even have proper clothes to wear, let alone shoes. For the truly poor, Ms. Camille still being able to wear her own high-end, if now dilapidated, clothing was an unimaginable luxury, a stark reminder of her former privilege.

Dutch and Hosea, ever the observers of human nature, sat on the plush leather sofa, their faces inscrutable. They slowly put down their wine glasses, the delicate crystal clinking softly, and looked towards the door, their eyes fixed, waiting.

Ms. Camille, dressed in dirty, grease-stained clothes that hung limply on her once-elegant frame, walked in, dragging her dilapidated high heels, her movements stiff, looking utterly disheveled, a shadow of her former self.

Damn it, Hosea thought, a flicker of genuine pity in his eyes, she no longer had that strong, self-assured female aura she once possessed. She used to be impeccably dressed, stylish, and radiant, a truly aloof and powerful woman, emanating an almost untouchable confidence.

Now, her clothes were dirty and torn, even emitting a slight, distinct fishy odor from not being washed for a long time. Her shoes were damaged to a new extreme, barely holding together, her once-rosy cheeks were sunken, hollow, and her beautiful face looked parched, dry, as if she had been smoking opium for weeks, draining her vitality. Her entire spirit was utterly dejected, broken, hanging by a thread.

Damn it, Dutch thought with a grim satisfaction, this former darling of heaven, a true Wall Street elite, when in God's name had she ever endured such terrifying, dehumanizing treatment? Never.

Her gaze was blank, distant, as if she had lost the ability to think for herself, her mind a void. Only when her eyes met Dutch's, cold and analytical, did a faint, almost imperceptible hint of fear and a strange, desperate yearning suddenly flicker within them, a silent plea.

"Mr. Van der Linde." Ms. Camille's voice was barely a whisper, a ghost of her former self, as she was gently led into the room by a silent gunman. The moment her dull eyes met Dutch's, she spoke, her voice hoarse with disuse and despair.

The last time they met, Ms. Camille still possessed some lingering pride, a defiant spark in her eyes. But in this meeting, she seemed to have lost all her former arrogance. She was utterly dejected, broken, and her voice was even hoarse and weak, barely audible.

Listening to Ms. Camille's hoarse and powerless voice, a calculated, almost sympathetic smile appeared on Dutch's face. He gestured kindly.

"Ms. Camille, long time no see, my dear. We're old friends, aren't we? Don't be shy, please, make yourself comfortable and sit down."

Dutch picked up a bottle of exquisite red wine from the table, its dark liquid gleaming, and with a flourish, poured a glass for Ms. Camille, placing it carefully on the opposite side of the table, a silent offering.

"Heh, friend?" It seemed that saying a couple of cutting sentences finally allowed Ms. Camille to regain some of her composure, a spark of her old self returning. She finally sneered, a weak, cynical twist of her lips, then, with a sigh, sat heavily on the sofa as Dutch had requested. "Is this how Mr. Van der Linde treats his 'friends'?" Her voice was raw with sarcasm.

Ms. Camille, her hand trembling slightly, picked up the exquisite wine glass and gently tasted the red wine within, its rich, fruity aroma assaulting her senses. The familiar, comforting scent of high-quality red wine almost brought tears to her eyes, a sharp reminder of a life irrevocably lost.

A wave of profound bitterness and lingering fear surged from her heart together, overwhelming her. The red wine in the glass had just touched Ms. Camille's somewhat parched, cracked red lips when large, uncontrollable tears began to stream down her cheeks, unable to be stopped, blurring her vision.

The warm tears mixed with the rich wine, staining Ms. Camille's red lips. The combined salty taste of her despair and the wine's sweet fruitiness completely shattered all of Ms. Camille's remaining self-esteem, her ingrained arrogance, and her final, stubborn resolve. She was utterly broken.

The past two months, Dutch's 'education,' had been an unmitigated hell for her. The extreme disparity between her former life and her current squalor, coupled with the relentless mental torture and inner grievances, had completely broken down all her internal defenses, leaving her raw and exposed.

"Ahaha…"

Suppressed sobs, like muffled explosions of pain, rose from Ms. Camille's bowed head, her shoulders shaking uncontrollably. Ms. Camille's body trembled continuously, her entire being wracked by silent spasms, as if she was trying her best to suppress her tears, to regain some semblance of control. However, her efforts were futile; the more she tried to suppress them, the more tears and gut-wrenching sobs surged forth, an uncontrollable flood.

Finally, her rationality was completely overwhelmed by grievance and profound fear, and her emotions utterly collapsed, shattering into a million pieces.

She wailed, sobbing uncontrollably, her face buried in her hands, even putting down her wine glass with a clatter. Then, with a sudden, desperate surge, she threw herself tearfully towards Mr. Dutch Van der Linde on the other end of the sofa, desperately punching his chest with weak, ineffectual blows, crying, and howling like a wounded animal.

"Dutch Van der Linde, you're not human! You're a monster! Ahaha… I am, I am Camille, Camille Morgan… Ahaha… How could you do this to me?! How could you inflict such torment!"

"Ahaha… I want to go home, I want my old life back! I never want to see you again, you… you bastard, you animal!" Ms. Camille cried hysterically, her voice raw, clinging to Mr. Van der Linde's sturdy chest, continuously pounding him, sobbing uncontrollably, her body shaking.

The security gunmen standing nearby, silent and watchful, immediately prepared to step forward and restrain her, their hands reaching for their weapons, their faces grim. But Mr. Van der Linde, with a subtle, dismissive flick of his hand, extended a single finger to stop their actions, a silent command.

Damn it, Dutch thought, a flicker of amused contempt in his eyes, he, Old Man Van der Linde, had been shot three times and hadn't died, so why in God's name would he be afraid of this woman's pathetic punches? They were like feathers.

Her spirit had completely collapsed, he knew, a broken thing. So now, as long as Mr. Van der Linde showed even a slight softening of his attitude, a glimmer of compassion, this woman would inevitably develop Stockholm Syndrome, falling victim to a twisted psychological bond.

Torment her, then warm her with kindness, repeat a few times, and she would completely break down, becoming utterly obedient to Mr. Van der Linde, a willing, pliable tool.

Only then would Mr. Van der Linde have the golden chance to borrow another fifty million dollars from Morgan Bank!

No, Dutch's mind corrected itself, a hungry gleam in his eye, this time he would borrow a hundred million! Why stop at fifty?

Mr. Van der Linde's mind was filled with visions of money, vast sums, completely oblivious to Ms. O'Shea's reddened, furious eyes behind him, watching the scene with mounting jealousy and outrage.

"F*ck! Dutch Van der Linde, f*ck! Camille Morgan! F*ck! Why do you always have to hurt me, you bastards!!!" Ms. O'Shea muttered, her voice raw with suppressed fury, her hands clenched into fists at her sides, shaking with frustrated rage.

Camille Morgan's wailing continued for a long, agonizing time, her cries gradually ceasing, her voice hoarse, and her constantly flailing hands slowly stopped their movements, growing weak and still.

She seemed to have cried herself out, utterly exhausted by her emotional outpouring, leaning against Mr. Van der Linde's sturdy chest, her body limp, quietly catching her breath, her face buried against his coat.

Her actions, in that intimate posture, seemed to have a hint of ambiguity, a subtle suggestion of something more, but Dutch Van der Linde, ever the pragmatist, didn't think so. He simply noted her compliance.

Finally, Dutch Van der Linde, his nose wrinkling almost imperceptibly, could no longer stand the pungent, slightly fishy smell emanating from her, a result of not changing her clothes for a long time.

"Oh, sh*t!, Miss Camille Morgan, you smell rather bad, I confess I feel a little nauseous." Dutch said, his voice clipped, pulling away slightly, wrinkling his nose in distaste. "Please don't come so close to me before you change your clothes! You're… contaminating the atmosphere."

As the sun of two great states, a self-proclaimed beacon of civilization, Mr. Van der Linde always needed to maintain his sanctity, his pristine image.

This damned Camille Morgan, with her unwashed clothes, was a bit smelly, a pure contamination to the immaculate Mr. Van der Linde, a blight on his aura.

Miss Camille Morgan, who had just managed to stop her emotional breakdown, her tears finally drying, completely turned red-hot with Dutch Van der Linde's utterly callous words. A fresh wave of indignation, hotter than any tears, swept over her.

Hadn't her life been so utterly miserable all this time precisely because of Dutch Van der Linde? Hadn't he been the cause of all her suffering? And now Dutch Van der Linde was starting to find her disgusting, to complain about her smell; this was simply a beastly act, beyond all human decency!

"F*ck, Dutch Van der Linde, you're a scumbag! A depraved, heartless scoundrel! I've never seen anyone as shameless, as utterly devoid of decency, as you!" Miss Camille Morgan cursed loudly, her voice raw with renewed fury, pushing herself away from Mr. Van der Linde with force, a violent shove. The shattering of her own image, her last shred of nobility, made her unable to maintain her usual aloofness and coldness, and she began scolding him continuously, like a common shrew, her words venomous.

"Enough!"

Dutch Van der Linde roared, his voice a sudden, explosive thunderclap, no longer able to tolerate this somewhat crazed woman after her complete emotional breakdown. His patience had finally snapped.

With Dutch Van der Linde's angry roar, Miss Camille Morgan was actually startled, her body flinching, and she shivered visibly, then immediately, instinctively, stopped her angry words, her voice catching in her throat.

More than two months of tormenting life had made her realize one crucial, painful thing: don't go against Mr. Van der Linde, don't defy his will, or there will be no good outcome, only further suffering.

Her life, among those who were imprisoned, was considered the best, the most lenient; the powerful figures of Saint Denis were completely different, each of them tormented beyond recognition, their bodies and spirits broken!

Mr. Jessica, the former aristocrat, had to be invited by Mr. Van der Linde's grinning gunmen for a cup of scalding hot tea every week, a ritual of torture; his burned esophagus had never healed, and now one could smell a putrid odor emanating from him when close, a stench of decay.

Mr. Henry was a bit better, perhaps less physically maimed; every week, he would be tied by his hands with ropes and hung from a beam, then severely beaten with a stick. Now Mr. Henry had been beaten to the point of utter obsession, kneeling on the ground all day after eating, muttering incoherently about Mr. Van der Linde, like the most devout, deranged believer, his mind shattered.

Although Miss Camille Morgan hadn't actually been physically harmed herself, every time she heard their bloodcurdling screams and saw their miserable, broken state, her heart became more and more terrified and uneasy, a profound, chilling dread, with tension and fear constantly lingering in her mind, a pervasive anxiety, which was also the very reason for her complete emotional breakdown.

Looking at the now obedient, trembling Miss Camille Morgan, a hint of profound satisfaction, a grim triumph, appeared on Dutch Van der Linde's face.

"Very good, Miss Camille Morgan," Dutch said, his voice now calm, almost gentle, his face radiating a chilling benevolence. "Now I'm giving you another chance. A chance to redeem yourself. Do you want to cooperate with our Van der Linde Gang again?"

"Sure! Mr. Van der Linde. Yes, I want to cooperate, I will definitely cooperate well, Mr. Van der Linde, I promise you!" Miss Camille Morgan's face was full of frantic urgency, and she responded hastily, desperately, her voice raw with fear. "From now on, whatever you say goes! I will definitely obey all your instructions, every single one!"

She never wanted to go back to that damned dungeon again, never wanted to wear the same filthy outfit for two months again! She was completely subdued, broken, utterly compliant!

"Very good, Miss Camille Morgan, I hope you can keep your promise, every single word." Dutch's voice was low, laced with a subtle threat. "Compared to Mr. Brown, your vision is undoubtedly more long-term, more strategic, but it is still fundamentally full of the capitalists' inherent flaws, their insatiable greed, their self-serving nature."

He picked up a cigar, its unlit tip glowing faintly, and gestured with it, his eyes narrowing to slits. "I don't want to hear anyone report to me that you have any small thoughts, any lingering defiance, any cunning schemes, because next time, it won't be as simple as it is now! The consequences will be far more severe."

He took a deep, deliberate puff, then exhaled the smoke slowly, deliberately, forming a thick cloud. His gaze, deep and profoundly threatening, was fixed, unblinking, on Miss Camille Morgan's wide, terrified eyes, giving her immense, crushing psychological pressure. "If you want to send out messages, to use the East to fight us, to instigate resistance? Hmph, you can certainly try it, my dear. Perhaps it can bring you an unexpected, truly terrifying surprise."

This made Miss Camille Morgan even more terrified and uneasy, her body trembling subtly. But she could only reply, her voice barely a whisper, following Mr. Van der Linde's words with robotic obedience: "Of course, Mr. Van der Linde. I understand."

Her expression was fearful and uneasy; although she appeared utterly obedient on the surface, what she thought internally, her true feelings, was unknown, a secret locked away in her shattered mind.

However, Dutch Van der Linde didn't care about any of her inner thoughts; her internal rebellion was meaningless. Letting her out now was only because the influential Morgan Group was crucially needed for his plans. As for her sending messages to the East?

Hmph, Dutch Van der Linde scoffed inwardly, a dismissive thought. He no longer cared, not one whit.

Their current strength and scale, their burgeoning empire, were completely fearless of any military encirclement from the East, any paltry challenge, and soon the massive arms trade with Germany would also help him contain all European pressure, deflecting their attention and resources.

If Dutch Van der Linde was pushed too far, if his plans were unduly threatened, he wouldn't mind signing a formidable "Van der Treaty" with the German Emperor to completely reverse the outcome of the looming war, making the entire world experience what it truly meant to be under Mr. Van der Linde's irresistible pressure!

Of course, the above content, Dutch knew, should be avoided as much as possible, a last resort, otherwise even a victory would only be a Pyrrhic one, achieved at immense cost. Dutch Van der Linde preferred to have everything unfold meticulously according to his plan, a symphony of orchestrated triumph.

Dutch Van der Linde looked at Miss Camille Morgan, his gaze piercing, and said, his voice resonating with an almost hypnotic power, "Very good, Miss Camille Morgan. I think your… studies… during this period have made you realize how immense the power of my ideology can be. It is a force that cannot be resisted. If you cooperate honestly, truly, with me, then you will still be Miss Camille Morgan, and the Morgan Group can still be the Morgan Group. Although you will no longer be able to touch the fundamental interests of Americans, you can still remain high above, respected, as entrepreneurs, a privileged class."

Dutch leaned forward, his voice dropping to a low, chilling whisper, filled with a grim, undeniable truth. "Miss Camille Morgan, the tide of the times, the unstoppable march of history, will sweep away anything, anything, that dares to stand in its way! No dam can hold back a tsunami."

He spread his arms wide, encompassing the very air around them. "The civilization of Americans, a true, people-centered civilization, has finally arrived, and I, Dutch Van der Linde, as the living manifestation of true civilization, am unstoppable, unrivaled! All American citizens, awakened and galvanized, will become the all-sweeping tide, clearing away all obstacles on this path for me! They will be my army, my unstoppable force!"

He pointed a finger directly at her, his eyes burning with an almost divine fire. "And you, Miss Camille Morgan, are you willing to become a part of this tide, to ride its crest, or are you willing to become a dam about to be swept away, utterly annihilated? I think you need to seriously consider this, and choose wisely."

Dutch Van der Linde's words were deafening, a powerful oratorical torrent; he always liked to give grand, mesmerizing speeches while talking, weaving his ideology into every phrase, to win over the hearts and minds of those nearby, to assimilate them completely.

Even an elite from the East like Miss Camille Morgan, her mind once impervious, was deeply shaken by his almost brainwashing words, which were seven parts undeniable truth and three parts cunning falsehood, a potent blend.

"Oh my God! I've never seen a man like this!" Miss Camille Morgan covered her mouth with a trembling hand, her eyes wide open, staring at Dutch in stunned disbelief, her face a mixture of terror and awe.

She had never, in all her privileged life, seen a man like this; even the most charismatic elites and cunning politicians in the East simply couldn't possess such raw aggressiveness and profound leadership qualities.

Damn it, she thought, a terrifying realization, Dutch Van der Linde impressed her too much!

She was utterly captivated by Dutch Van der Linde's charisma and his magnetic leadership, and she even had a profound, unsettling feeling now that Mr. Dutch Van der Linde seemed to be born to lead Americans, to guide them into a new, terrifying, yet undeniably powerful, future. He was their destiny.