The old market district was located at the edge of the city, far from the clean stone roads and bright lanterns of the inner quarters.

The streets were narrow and quite uneven, with cracked stones and patches of dirt showing through.

Many of the shops looked worn down, their wooden signs faded and chipped.

Some stalls had missing planks, while others were held together with rope and nails that barely kept them standing.

The products on display reflected the state of the place.

Most of the clothes hanging on racks were clearly secondhand, some patched so many times that the original fabric was hard to tell.

The vegetables and fruits looked worse.

The leaves were wilted, the skins bruised, and a faint sour smell hung in the air.

Some produce had dark spots already forming, showing they were close to spoiling.

And yet, people still bought them.

To the ones that paid attention, they'd notice that most of the buyers wore rugged clothes, many torn at the edges or stained beyond cleaning.

Their faces looked tired, their eyes dull, but their hands still reached out for food.

They did not argue much about the prices as they all knew these were the bare minimum. They simply paid what little they had and moved on...

To them, food that would be thrown away elsewhere was still worth buying here.

Of course, there were still a few stubborn ones that attempted to haggle despite the already lowered prices.

A woman with gray sideburns walked slowly down the street, holding a basket of overripe bananas against her chest.

Some were already blackened, soft enough that the peels bent under their own weight.

Her clothes were old but clean, mended carefully, as if she took pride in keeping them presentable despite her situation.

She had barely taken a few steps when two men stepped from a shadowed doorway, blocking her path.

They were lean, with a watchful stillness that felt out of place.

"Easy..."

The taller one said, his voice low.

"We're just going for a walk into that alley... Don't make a sound."

One of them asked, his tone light but sharp.

The woman stopped.

Her grip on the basket tightened.

"Please..." she said quickly, lowering her head.

"I'm just selling fruit. I don't have much."

One of the men glanced around before jerking his chin toward a nearby alley.

"Then come with us. We'll talk there."

Her eyes widened. "I really can't—"

"Move," the second man said, stepping closer.

She took a step back, panic flashing across her face.

Her mouth opened, ready to scream.

Before any sound could escape, something cold pressed against her back.

It was the barrel of a gun.

A woman stood behind her, close enough that the old woman could feel her breath.

Her voice was calm and quiet.

"Old hag," the woman said.

"Follow quietly. Why don't you?"

Hearing the threat and knowing a gun was being pressed behind her, the woman froze, then slowly nodded.

She followed them into the alley.

The moment they were out of sight, the woman dropped her basket.

The bananas spilled onto the dirty ground, rolling into the shadows.

She fell to her knees and hurriedly pulled out the coins from her pockets, placing them in a shaking pile in front of the men.

"This is everything..."

She said, her voice breaking.

"You can take it all. Please."

Her hands trembled as she reached for her clothes, fingers clumsy with fear.

"I can do anything you want..." she said desperately.

"Anything. Just… just let me live."

The woman with the gun stared at her for a moment, then clicked her tongue.

"What are you doing?"

She said, sounding annoyed rather than interested.

Before the kneeling woman could process the words, the armed woman drew her foot back and kicked her squarely in the stomach.

She gagged, her body folding forward as bile spilled onto the ground.

Her hands clawed at the dirt as she coughed and retched, tears streaming down her face.

"Disgusting," the gunwoman muttered.

She reached into her coat and dropped a single piece of paper in front of the kneeling woman.

"Read the poem," she said.

"Then write your name below it."

The woman looked down at the paper, confused.

Her vision blurred as she struggled to focus.

"A… poem?" she whispered.

The gun was pressed to her head.

"I said do it."

Her breathing became uneven.

Slowly, she picked up the paper with shaking fingers and read aloud.

"F-from filth we are shaped... in first and final breath,

To filth we return, in life and in death.

Let corruption be my covenant, m-my... skin and my bone,

I yield this vessel, this flesh I have known..."

She read silently but enough for the trio to hear.

"To the power that walks in sickness and blight,

To the sovereign of rot that thrives in the night,

Who rules the swelling sore, the fever's cruel burn,

To whom all spoiled and festering things return."

"I s-sell what I am..., I renounce the light's claim,

Let my form bear your mark, let my blood bear your name.

From this moment bound, by this spoken decree,

My body is yours, through all eternity..."

Her voice cracked near the end.

Hearing the woman read the poem, the gunwoman was visibly pleased.

"Good," she said, a strange perversion in her eyes.

"Now, the final step to prove your devotion."

One of the men behind her moved, his boots scraping against the grimy alley floor.

He grabbed the rusted dumpster against the wall and, with a grunt, dragged it right beside the terrified woman.

"Write your name on the paper."

The gunwoman instructed before pointing to the dumpster's side with her free hand.

"Then climb inside. Only then will the Lord truly accept your offering and grant you mercy."

Her voice was fervent, almost zealous.

The kneeling woman's mind raced.

'These people are insane. Completely insane.'

But the raw, animal urge to survive was stronger.

She didn't care about their reasons... she just wanted to live.

She gave a frantic, jerky nod.

The other man, the one not holding the dumpster, pulled a cheap plastic pen from his jacket pocket and reached his hand out to give it to her

"Hurry up," he grunted.

Her fingers trembled as she reached for it.

Just then—

From her point of view, two pale hands shot out from the darkness behind the man.

They wrapped around his head.

Twist.

Crack.

The body of the man with the broken neck collapsed onto the ground, landing heavily beside the dumpster.

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