In the heart of Harlot's Paradise, inside a sprawling mansion draped in crimson silks and gold-threaded curtains, a woman lounged on a velvet sofa. Her beauty was the kind that could unmake kingdoms, long black hair spilling like ink down her shoulders, pale skin gleaming against the dim, sultry glow of the pleasure house.
But there were no men there to admire her. Only hulking figures filled the chamber, brutes as tall as the ceiling, their muscles twitching under blackened flesh. These were not the grey abominations that had clashed with the guards outside; these were darker, heavier, and symmetrical, their frames unnervingly human yet utterly monstrous.
For a while, the woman sat motionless, eyes closed as if lost in thought. Then, slowly, her lids lifted. Crimson irises gleamed in the half-light, and in them was no allure, no warmth, only simmering rage.
