The morning light never reached the windowless waiting room. Only the oil lamp on the wall barely traced the room's outline. Still in the same position as the night before, Aria leaned against the cold stone wall. The magic stone in her collar pulsed with a steady, pale blue light. *(Morning came.)* Japanese whispered in her mind. But the sound felt distant, like it belonged to someone else. The women in the waiting room remained silent as ever, each passing their own hollow hours. "[cold]Number Seventeen." The door opened, and a gaunt man appeared. The oil lamp's glow caught his nervous, angular features. A thick ledger rested in his hand. Aria slowly lifted her head. Curtis, the manager, glanced at her once and turned his back. "[cold]Come." A curt command. Aria rose and followed him. The adjacent room — an office piled high with ledgers. Curtis settled into a chair and opened the book. He picked up a quill and dipped it in the inkwell. Leaving Aria standing, he threw out a question without even looking up. "[cold]Age." "[whispers]...Eighteen." The quill raced. A dry sound, carving numbers and symbols into the page. "[cold]Date of your last menstruation." His tone was no different from checking the quality of produce at the market. Aria bit her lip and answered. The quill raced again. "[cold]Scope of sexual services. Standard or extended." Aria's breath caught. It took her a few seconds to grasp the meaning of the words. Standard. Extended. Terms that categorized the use of a human body like line items in a ledger. "[whispers]...I don't know." "[cold]I didn't ask if you know. I asked which you are capable of." A cold gaze fixed on Aria's face for the first time. Appraising eyes. The eyes of a shopkeeper calculating the value of his merchandise. "[cold]Zahal's report notes your oral technique as passing. No mention of other orifices. That will be confirmed in a practical examination at a later date. For now, you will be registered as standard." The quill scratched its dry sound across the ledger again. Behind him — deep in the hallway. A stone staircase descended into the dim darkness. Chains hung on the walls, and the faint scent of iron drifted in the air. Aria knew instinctively. That was the entrance to the rumored dungeon. The answer to where rule-breakers disappeared — it was right there. Curtis closed the ledger. "[cold]Inventory Number Seventeen will be operational starting tonight. Service time is one hour per session. Overtime incurs an additional charge. Any damage to room furnishings will be deducted from your pay." He stood and moved to leave the room without another glance at Aria. "[whispers]...Um, my name is—" Curtis's feet stopped. He didn't turn around. "[cold]There are no names here. Numbers suffice." The door closed. Aria stood frozen. *(...Number Seventeen.)* The Japanese murmur sank like a stone deep in her chest. At the Greive estate, she had at least had a name. A faint trace of humanity, called out alongside insults. But here — even that was stripped away. — The door opened again soon after. The woman who entered had long, dark crimson curls swaying behind her. Her eyes were a pale, grayish violet. Beneath her sullen expression, the color of exhaustion seeped through. A thin frame. She looked about Aria's age, but her eyes already held a stillness — the color of emotion scraped away. "[cold]Lisetta." Leaning against the wall, she spoke without directing her gaze at Aria. "[cold]I've been assigned as your handler. I'm going to tell you the brothel's rules now. I'll only say this once, so listen carefully." Aria nodded. Lisetta recited numbers and regulations in a flat tone. Service was one hour per session. If it ran over, the client was charged extra and the prostitute received a penalty. If any room furnishings — oil lamp, sheets, pillow — were damaged, the cost was deducted from her share. Revenue split was ten percent. No room for negotiation; any complaint voiced was grounds for punishment. "[cold]And one more thing." Lisetta's voice dropped just slightly lower. "[cold]There's an informant system here. If another prostitute breaks the rules, you report it to the manager. The one who reports gets a reward. Conversely, anyone who doesn't report shares collective responsibility and gets sent to the dungeon." Aria's throat made a small, sharp sound. "[whispers]...You're telling me to sell out my comrades?" "[cold]There are no comrades. Everyone here is an inventory number." There was no anger or sorrow in Lisetta's voice. Only the dry resignation of someone who had accepted that this was simply how things were. "[cold]Get used to it. Don't think. Don't expect anything." Leaving those words behind, she walked out of the room. Aria was left alone in the office. *(I can't even trust my comrades.)* Japanese whispered in her heart. This place turned even human connection into merchandise. Trust, friendship, kindness — all of it became material for informing. Lisetta's coldness wasn't rejection. The very act of exchanging emotions was dangerous here. Aria leaned against the wall and let out a slow breath. — Night came. The private room on the second floor was a cramped space lit by a single oil lamp. The walls were thin; from the next room, moans of pleasure and ragged breathing leaked through without pause. The sheets on the bed faintly retained the smell of sweat and bodily fluids. Aria stood in the corner of the room, clenching her trembling hands. The door opened. The man who entered was a mercenary with a rugged build. His leather armor bore countless scars, and a shallow blade wound ran across his stubble-covered face. The moment he saw Aria, his gaze crawled over her, appraising. "[cold]You the new one? Scrawny, aren't you." Aria looked down. "[whispers]...Yes." Without waiting for a reply, the mercenary grabbed Aria's arm and pushed her down onto the bed. Her delicate body bounced on the springs. His hands roughly tore open the front of her shabby dress. *(I mustn't think.)* Aria closed her eyes. She counted the stains on the ceiling. One. Two. Three. She traced the cracks in the wall with her eyes. Four. Five. She tried to summon the ginkgo-lined path of her university campus from the depths of her memory. But— *(It's no use.)* The memory of Zahal's violation blocked the image from forming. The wagon bed. The inn's sleeping platform. Thick fingers. Mockery. Lukewarm bodily fluids. They flashed through her mind like a barrage, refusing to let her consciousness detach from reality. The bed creaked with every thrust of the mercenary's hips. Through the wall, the moans from another room overlapped. *(I want to disappear.)* The Japanese murmur surfaced and vanished like bubbles deep in her heart. But there was no longer any heat of anger there. Only an utterly exhausted sound echoed quietly. The mercenary continued thrusting in silence, and once satisfied, he placed silver coins on the bed and left the room. On the bed, Aria sat clutching her knees. Her disheveled short black hair clung to her cheeks with sweat. Her deep brown eyes stared vacantly at the stains on the wall. "[whispers]...If only I could disappear somewhere." The Japanese words slipped from her lips. But there was nowhere to disappear to. Tomorrow, and the day after, the clients would come. With different faces, different bodies, they would come to expel the same desires. This was different from the one-on-one domination at the Greive estate, different from Zahal's violation during the transport. Inside this apparatus called a brothel, she alone was being steadily consumed. The clients rotated in and out; only Aria remained here. Still unable to find a way to shut down her heart — morning came. — Several days passed. Night. The first-floor hall was thick with the smell of alcohol, sweat, and cheap perfume. The oil lamps flickered; the laughter of men and the coquettish voices of women mingled together. Aria stood by the wall, waiting for a client to call on her. That was when— "[excited]Now this one's a find!" A familiar voice. Aria's entire body went rigid. Standing at the entrance was her former master, Ashton Greive. Short dark brown hair, stubble, cold gray eyes. The hedonistic noble in his mid-thirties wore the same self-assured smile as always. And on his arm was a slave girl younger than Aria. Stroking the girl's buttocks casually, Greive laughed to the men in the hall. "[excited]I finally found her. This one's good. Obedient, and skilled with her mouth too." The girl looked down bashfully and pressed close to Greive. At that moment, Greive's gaze caught Aria. One second. His gray eyes looked at Aria's face. But — there was no reaction there. Not recognition, not forgetting. His expression was tinged with complete indifference, as if she had never been an existence worth remembering in the first place. "[cold]Ah, Number Seventeen. Perfect. I'll use this one today." Handing silver coins to Curtis, Greive selected Aria. The slave girl with him stayed in the hall, drinking alone. Ushered into a private room, Aria knelt before Greive. A hand reached out and roughly grabbed her black hair. Forcefully, her face was pressed against his crotch. "[cold]Use your mouth. You're good at it, aren't you." With trembling hands, Aria loosened his trousers. His half-erect penis was exposed. A familiar smell. A familiar sensation. A service she had performed nearly every morning in the past. She parted her lips and took it into her mouth. She ran her tongue over it, wet it with saliva, opened her throat. Gripping Aria's head, Greive continued his monologue in good spirits. "[gentle]No, she really is a find. Much better than the one I had before. She's young, and more importantly, she shows no sign of breaking. Doesn't get that gloomy look on her face right away, like you did." The penis in Aria's mouth grew harder. "[cold]I got tired of you. The same face every day, those same eyes that always looked about to cry. It was exhausting for me." She moved her tongue. She took it deep into her throat. Her jaw ached. Saliva dripped from the corner of her mouth, staining the floor. *(I was—)* In her heart, Japanese echoed in fragments. "[cold]Well, your oral technique wasn't bad, I'll give you that. But that's all." Greive pressed his hips forward and ejaculated into Aria's mouth. Lukewarm semen flowed into the back of her throat. Choking, Aria swallowed it all. A trail of cloudy white dripped from the corner of her mouth and fell to the floor. Greive exhaled with satisfaction and stood. A few silver coins were tossed onto the bed. "[cold]Later." Without a second glance, he left the room. The sound of the door closing. Sitting on the floor, Aria couldn't move. *(From the very beginning—)* The voice in her heart trembled. *(I was just a replaceable, expendable item.)* The days at the Greive estate. The days she had desperately clung, served, tried to be praised. She had honed her oral skills, tried to be needed for as long as possible, tried to become the one irreplaceable presence in that mansion. Something she had tried to protect, as a fragment of pride. It had — from the very start — held no value whatsoever. Aria's shoulders trembled. No tears came. Even the shape of the emotion needed to shed tears was crumbling now. She could hear the sound of her very reason for existing quietly, silently, falling apart. How much time passed? Aria remained on her knees on the floor, unable to move. Only the bitterness of the semen lingering in her mouth told her, just one single thing — that her body was still alive. But even that was nothing more than a faint omen. The true limits of her body and heart — were still yet to come.