A few seconds passed between us in that excruciating, suspended silence—the kind of silence that felt like the universe itself was weighing whether to mock us or simply give up on the situation entirely.

And then Elvina erupted into chaos.

She didn't acknowledge my naked form—didn't even seem to register that I was standing there completely bare and covered in the evidence of my recent activities—there was only pure, undiluted hatred burning in her emerald eyes, so intense it practically manifested as physical heat across the gap between our balconies.

Her mouth moved rapidly, words tumbling out in a torrent that the distance and her emotional state rendered mostly incomprehensible, but I caught fragments—curses, broken cries, accusations that would have been devastating if I could actually make them out properly.

I remained silent, at a total loss for words because what exactly was I supposed to say? "Sorry for destroying your entire life and reputation, but in my defense you were kind of asking for it"? That seemed unlikely to improve the situation. So I just stood there—naked, sticky, and deeply uncomfortable—while Elvina continued her verbal assault with increasing volume.

Then I heard pounding footsteps from inside the brothel next door—heavy, purposeful, the kind of footfalls that suggested someone was very angry and heading directly toward a problem they intended to solve with violence.

A woman appeared in the doorway behind Elvina, and even from this distance I could tell she was tall—easily six feet, maybe more. She carried the kind of presence that subtly compressed the world around her, not by force, but by inevitability, as though the space itself had quietly made room in anticipation of her arrival.

Her hair was cut short in dark, tight curls that framed a face that might've been beautiful if it weren't being twisted in such obvious fury.

She wore an intricate dress of green and black that hugged her curves before flaring out at the hips, the fabric embroidered with silver thread in patterns that caught the dim light and threw it back in serpentine flashes.

Jewels glittered at her throat and wrists—emeralds and onyx that matched her color scheme—and her fingers were adorned with rings that looked expensive enough to buy a small building.

She advanced on Elvina with measured steps, each one laden with a restraint so tight it felt ready to snap, the kind of fury that didn't need volume to be devastating. Then her hand shot out to grip Elvina's mess of hair, yanking her back from the railing with such force that Elvina's head went jerking sharply and a pained cry tore from her throat, sudden and helpless against that iron grip.

The woman leaned in close, her lips brushing against Elvina's ear as she whispered something sharp and venomous. Whatever poison she spoke made Elvina's entire body go rigid with terror.

Then the woman began yelling—not loud enough for me to make out every word, but the tone carried across the gap perfectly, each syllable dripping with contempt so thick it felt physical. She let go of Elvina's hair, allowing her breathe for just a moment, before her free hand came up and struck Elvina across the face with an open palm, the sound of the slap echoing like a gunshot. Elvina's head whipped to the side so violently I swear I heard her neck crack.

Fresh blood bloomed from her split lip, running down her chin in a thin stream that dripped onto her torn dress. She tried to raise her hands defensively, tried to curl into herself for protection, but the woman wasn't finished—wasn't even close to finished.

Another strike landed on Elvina's temple, making her stagger. Another caught her cheekbone with enough force to split the skin. The woman's rings cut into flesh with each impact, leaving bright red welts that would bruise purple by morning.

Elvina was crying now—full, wracking sobs that made her entire frame shake like she was coming apart at the seams. She'd stopped trying to defend herself entirely, just accepting the punishment with the resigned, broken posture of someone who'd learned that resistance only made things worse.

The woman forced Elvina down to her knees with brutal efficiency, and then—oh gods, then she raised one elegant foot and brought it down on Elvina's face.

The point of the heel dug into Elvina's cheek, grinding and twisting, and I watched with growing horror as the skin split open under the pressure, blood welling up and running down to pool on the wooden planks beneath her.

The woman spat then, a thick glob of saliva that landed directly on Elvina's forehead before slowly dripping down over her eyes.

"Worthless cunt," the woman hissed, loud enough now that I could hear her clearly across the gap. "Absolutely fucking worthless! Screaming like a common whore getting fucked raw. The entire building can hear you wailing like you're being split in half. Gods, it's fucking pathetic. A disgrace to every working girl in this city." She ground her heel harder into Elvina's face, making fresh blood spurt from the wound as Elvina choked on a gasp that turned into a wet, gurgling sound. "You'll never be a proper lady, will you? You think you're too good for this work? Too noble? You're nothing but a broke little slut who can't even suck cock well enough to keep herself fed! If I ever catch you making such noise again, I'll cut out your tongue and make you service clients without it. Understand?"

Elvina whimpered—a sound so broken, small, and utterly defeated it made something in my chest constrict despite everything she'd done, despite every reason I had to hate her—and managed a tiny, trembling nod.

The woman seemed satisfied with this response, because she finally removed her foot from Elvina's bleeding face and grabbed her hair again, dragging her by it back toward the doorway leading inside.

Elvina's hands scrabbled at the wooden planks of the balcony, fingernails catching and breaking as she tried desperately to find purchase, to slow the inevitable, but the woman was stronger and infinitely more determined, hauling her across the rough wood like she weighed nothing at all.

Before the woman crossed the threshold however, she paused, glanced back over her shoulder directly at me, and gave me the softest, sweetest smile I'd ever seen—warm, inviting, and utterly at odds with what I'd just watched her do—before disappearing into the shadows with Elvina in tow.

By the time it was over, I found myself clenching the wooden railing of the balcony so hard my knuckles had gone white, splinters digging into my palms, my mind churning through emotions I didn't have names for.

The satisfaction I'd felt at destroying Elvina, at orchestrating her complete humiliation in the arena, suddenly felt hollow and poisonous in my stomach.

I'd wanted her to suffer, yes—had actively, deliberately engineered that suffering with malice, planning, and theatrical flair—but watching the aftermath of it play out in front of me like this, seeing the visceral consequences of what I'd done, made me feel... what? Guilty? Vindicated? Both? Neither? Gods, I couldn't tell.

"Who was that?"

I jumped so violently I nearly toppled over the railing, my heart launching itself somewhere in the vicinity of my throat, before I spun around to see Julius standing a few feet behind me with his hands clasped behind his back in an expression of mild curiosity.

"Saints above, Julius!" I gasped, pressing one hand to my chest. "How long have you been standing there? And gods, how come I couldn't sense your presence?"

He grinned, unrepentant. "I'm very quiet when I want to be. It's a skill I've developed from years of sneaking into places I wasn't supposed to. But seriously—who was that girl? You seem to have a... history."

I brushed off his question with a wave of my hand, still trying to get my heart rate under control. "Long story. Very long, very complicated, involves arena matches, public humiliation, and choices I'm currently re-evaluating the morality of." I turned to look back at the brothel next door, at the now-empty balcony. "Who was she, though? The woman in the green dress?"

Julius sighed, his theatrical energy dimming slightly as he moved to stand beside me at the railing. "That would be Madame Seraphine," he said, and something in his tone suggested layers of history I didn't have context for. "She used to be a slave herself, actually, in the city of Lacona—one of the larger sub-cities of Prismillya. Worked her way up through sheer ruthlessness and strategic manipulation until she managed to buy herself freedom, then continued climbing until she achieved minor noble status. Nothing high-ranking, mind you—about where I am currently, maybe slightly lower—but enough to command respect and run her own establishment."

I absorbed this information, piecing together the implications. "And she absolutely despises you despite putting on a pleasant front," I guessed, reading between the lines of Julius's careful phrasing.

"Correct," he confirmed with a humorless smile. "She despises all current nobility, actually. Has a particular hatred for anyone who inherited their status rather than earned it through suffering like she did."

"Or anyone who'd been a former noble," I added quietly, the realization clicking into place with horrifying clarity.

Julius nodded along, and we both stood there in contemplative silence, the weight of what that meant for Elvina settling over me like a shroud.

A former noble, stripped of everything, now under the control of someone who hated what she represented and had both the power and the personal trauma to make that hatred manifest in deeply unpleasant ways. It was poetic, in a horrifying sort of way. Exactly the kind of punishment that would appeal to someone seeking cosmic justice.

Yet still, Elvina wasn't my problem now. I'd set events in motion, but I couldn't control where they led, couldn't take responsibility for every consequence that rippled out from my choices.

I made a mental note to keep both her and Madame Seraphine in mind—filed under "people who might become relevant later" and "situations that could potentially blow up in my face"—then forced myself to set it aside for now.

Julius seemed to sense my inner turmoil because, just then, he clapped his hands together with renewed enthusiasm and gestured toward the interior of the building.

"Come on! You wanted to see what's behind the mysterious door, and I promised to show you. Let's focus on something that won't make us question the fundamental nature of revenge and morality, shall we?"

From then, I followed Julius back inside and down into the basement, our footsteps echoing on the stone, before we walked past the rows of suspicious devices I'd noticed earlier—chains, leather restraints, things that looked like they belonged in either a dungeon or a very specific type of party.

The thick metal door at the end of the basement loomed before us, and the closer we got, the louder the muffled sounds became. I could hear the distinct rattling of chains now, rhythmic and insistent, mixed with what sounded like crying.

Julius planted himself in front of the door and flung his arms wide, not so much blocking the way as presenting it—like a lunatic ringmaster about to unveil his most dangerous act.

"Behind this door," he announced, "lies a secret we've been keeping since our days in the prison. A treasure, if you will. A prisoner of the highest order, reduced to his most base nature through the application of creative justice." He paused for effect, his grin widening. "Behold!"

He swung the door open with a flourish, and I had to shield my eyes against the sudden flood of light pouring out from inside, the room beyond surprisingly well-lit compared to the rest of the basement, lanterns hanging from hooks and bathing everything in a warm orange glow.

When my vision adjusted, I gazed upon the figure on the floor.

Then I burst out laughing.

It was Lord Verrin. Of course it was Lord Verrin. Of course Julius would be the one to keep him alive even after we'd captured him in the prison, instead of doing the sensible thing and killing him off somewhere secluded.

His fat figure knelt on the stone floor, still dressed in those same expensive robes from back then—though they were considerably more stained and tattered now—and attached to his head were a set of pig ears—pink, floppy, and absolutely ridiculous.

He was chained to a large metal pole in the middle of the room, his hands bound behind his back with thick iron shackles. A white cloth gag had been tied around his mouth, muffling whatever he'd been trying to shout.

Julius crouched down with practiced ease and began undoing the gag, his fingers working the knot with efficient precision while Verrin's wild eyes tracked around the room, landing on me and widening with recognition and fresh terror.

The gag came undone with a wet sound—it had apparently been in his mouth long enough to get thoroughly soaked with drool—and the second it was removed, Verrin erupted into manic rage.

"You fucking piece of shit!" he screamed, his voice hoarse and cracking. "You disgusting little whore! You demon! You absolute filth! I'll have you killed for this! I'll have you flayed alive! I'll—I'll—when my family finds out what you've done, they'll burn this entire building to the ground with you inside it! They'll make you watch while they—"

"Wow," I interrupted, leaning against the doorframe with exaggerated casualness, "you're really committed to this whole 'impotent threats while chained up and wearing pig ears' aesthetic. I respect the dedication, truly. Though I have to say, the pig ears truly are a nice touch—really brings out the natural swine-like quality of your personality." I tapped my chin thoughtfully. "Tell me, Verrin, how does it feel knowing that you ended up in chains? Does it sting? The irony of it all? Because from where I'm standing, it's absolutely delicious."

Verrin's face went from red to purple, spittle flying from his lips as he lunged forward against his chains—or tried to, anyway, because the restraints held firm and all he accomplished was nearly choking himself.

"I'll fucking kill you, you cock-teasing faggot! I'll crack your jaw open and shove my fat cock so deep down your throat you'll choke on it till you pass out! I'll make you my cum-dump bitch, chain you up and fuck every hole till you're nothing but a broken, dripping cum-rag! You'll suffer, pretty boy, I'll ruin you in ways you can't even fucking imagine! I'll—"

Julius stepped in front of him then and slapped Verrin hard across the face with the back of his hand, the sound echoing sharply in the enclosed space.

"That's enough," Julius said, his voice dropping into something cold and authoritative. "You know the rules, piggy. When you speak to us, you do it properly. Act like the pig you are, or the gag goes back on. Your choice."

Verrin whimpered—actually whimpered, tears streaming down his fat cheeks. Then his whole demeanor shifted from rage to pathetic compliance in the span of a heartbeat. "O-oink," he said quietly, the sound barely audible.

Julius beamed. "Better! Now give it the confidence it deserves."

Verrin tried again, louder this time, voice cracking. "Oink, oink!"

I snickered despite myself, because the sheer absurdity of watching a highblood noble reduced to choking out pig noises was too good not to appreciate, but then I paused, my attention drawn away from Verrin to examine the rest of the room.

To the right stood a massive printing press—not the small, portable kind, but an industrial machine that looked like it could produce hundreds of pages in an hour.

In front of us sat a large desk covered in papers, ink bottles, and various writing implements. And finally, to the left was a bookshelf packed with volumes that looked old, valuable, and possibly illegal.

"What is this place?" I asked, genuine curiosity coloring my voice as I stepped further into the room, my eyes tracking across its details.

Julius's expression shifted into something fond and nostalgic, before he gestured around the space with obvious pride. "This room has quite the history, actually. According to rumors—and in this city, rumors are often more reliable than official records—this basement used to belong to a underground printing operation run by a group of rebels who wanted to spread information the nobility tried to suppress. They'd print pamphlets and news sheets, distributing them throughout the slums and giving people access to truths that the powerful wanted buried."

He ran his fingers along the desk's surface. "They were eventually caught and executed, of course, but the equipment remained. When I acquired this building, I found it all still here, just gathering dust and waiting for someone to use it again."

That's when something caught my eye—sitting on the desk, partially hidden behind a stack of paper, was a large and bulky radio device.

It looked ancient, all brass fittings, vacuum tubes, and dials that probably required an engineering degree to operate properly, but there was something about it that made my heart skip with sudden, wild possibility.

I dashed over to it, my hands hovering above the controls without quite touching them yet, and turned to Julius with barely contained excitement. "Does this thing still work? Please tell me it still works."

Julius blinked, clearly surprised by my sudden intensity. "It does, actually. Tested it myself a few weeks ago out of curiosity. Gets surprisingly good range, too—can broadcast to most of the underground network if you tune it right. Why?"

I turned back to face him with a wicked smirk spreading across my face. "Julius," I said slowly, savoring the moment, "I have an idea."

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