C3 Outside the Prison.

​Three years later。

The gates of S City's women's prison swung open, and after a short while, a woman emerged at a snail's pace. She was alarmingly thin, her body swallowed by the white dress she had worn when she was first thrown in here three years ago—it now hung on her like a shapeless sack.

Her steps were measured and deliberate as she made her way toward the platform over a hundred meters away, clutching a black plastic bag. Inside were 31 bucks and 50 cents, along with her ID card.

The summer heat was oppressive, with the road's sand and stones shimmering under a visible layer of white heat waves. The temperature soared so high, yet the woman walked beneath the blazing sun without a bead of sweat on her parched skin.

Green and purple scars marred her pale complexion, and a prominent three-centimeter scar stretched near her hairline, marring her forehead—an unsightly blemish.

The bus arrived, and the woman boarded, gingerly extracting a coin from her plastic bag to deposit into the fare box. The bus was nearly empty; the driver spared her a disdainful glance before quickly looking away. After all, the passengers from this stop were all ex-convicts—who among them could be considered good?

Unfazed by the driver's scornful look, the woman proceeded to the rear of the bus, settling into a corner seat to avoid drawing attention.

As the bus trundled along, she gazed out the window. So much had changed in three years.

A wry smile tugged at her lips. Indeed, the world had changed immensely—not just outside the prison walls, but she had changed too.

The bus reached a bustling district, jolting her from her thoughts. She was free now, but where was she to go? The stark realization hit her—she had nowhere to go.

She opened the black plastic bag and meticulously counted the remaining thirty yuan and fifty cents three times. What was her next move?

A job advertisement caught her eye not far from the roadside.

"Driver, I need to get off. Could you please open the door?" she requested, her voice devoid of the confidence she once had, eroded by three years behind bars.

The driver muttered complaints but opened the door. She thanked him and stepped off the bus.

She stood before the large job posting, her eyes eventually settling on the words "Cleaner" and "Includes accommodation and one meal."

With no home, no records, no education, and a prison record to her name, who would hire her, even as a cleaner? Clutching the meager sum in her hand, she steeled herself and entered the "Night Emperor International Entertainment Club." The blast of cold air from the central AC sent shivers down her spine.

...

"Name," the man demanded, clearly impatient.

"Clarissa," she responded, her voice rough and slow, startling the glamorous woman taking her information. The woman nearly dropped her pen and asked with evident distaste, "Why is your voice so harsh?"

Having endured three years of hellish prison life, Clarissa had grown accustomed to speaking softly, even in the face of direct criticism. "It's from smoke," she replied calmly.

The woman's eyes widened slightly, her inquisitive gaze fixed on Clarissa. "A fire?"

"Yes, a fire," Clarissa confirmed, her eyes downcast, hinting at a fire that was no accident.

The woman, losing interest in the face of Clarissa's reticence, simply frowned and clicked her tongue. "No, this won't do. The Night Emperor isn't just any club, and our clientele is far from ordinary." She gave Clarissa a once-over, her disdain for the sack-like dress and its faded white fabric clear. The Night Emperor International was a place for the elite, where even the waitstaff were expected to be attractive and curvaceous. Clarissa seemed out of place even thinking of applying here.

Standing up, the woman waved her hand dismissively at Clarissa. "No, this won't work. You can't even be a waitress here," she said, turning to leave.

"I'm applying for the cleaner position," Clarissa interjected, her hoarse voice halting the woman's departure.

The woman paused, turned back with a skeptical arch of her brow, and sized Clarissa up once more. "It's rare to see someone in their twenties willing to stoop to such hard work."

Their youngest cleaner was well into her forties. Here was a girl, scarred and skinny, barely twenty, in a place where the twenty-somethings were models and hostesses—or at the very least, waitresses. A twenty-something cleaner was unheard of.

She half-expected Clarissa to launch into a sob story about the hardships of life, ready to dismiss her at the first whiff of self-pity. But the world was full of hard-luck stories, and the Night Emperor had heard them all—enough to fill a library. Who cared about the struggles of a stranger they'd just met?

Unexpectedly, the voice spoke with a deliberate calm, "If selling oneself were an option, I'd spread my legs and welcome customers with open arms. Before coming here, I took a good look at myself. Lacking the assets for that trade, I chose to sell my labor instead. I'll do what I'm capable of." Clarissa was merely a criminal known by the number "926." Once inside that place, what use was dignity upon leaving?

The stunning woman raised an eyebrow, sizing up Clarissa from head to toe before returning to her desk. She picked up a pen, ready to fill in a form. "Clarissa? Simple as in 'simple,' and child as in 'fairy tale'?"

"Yes."

"That's unusual," the woman remarked, giving Clarissa another once-over. "Parents who name their child such usually have a deep love for them."

Clarissa's eyes were lifeless, like a stagnant pond... Loved, really?

Yes, loved. If only she hadn't harbored a cruel heart that led to Faelyn's death and brought ruin upon the Jenkins family. Yes, perhaps, deeply loved.

"I have no family," Clarissa stated flatly.

The woman's frown deepened as she glanced at Clarissa, then refrained from further questions and stood up. "Alright, make a copy of your ID."

Rising from her chair, she walked towards the door in her towering 15 cm heels, pausing abruptly to turn and address Clarissa with a warning, "Do you know why I'm making an exception for you?"

Without waiting for a response, she continued, "You said something quite true. If you can sell, you sell; if not, you resign yourself to doing what you can. There are those twice your age who still don't grasp this, stubbornly butting heads, scrambling for more, thinking they're challenging the gods when they're really just overestimating themselves, never truly seeing their own worth.

"You're willing to face yourself and understand what you're capable of. I trust that someone who knows what she can do, also knows what she shouldn't do."

With a squint, the glamorous woman added, "Clarissa, the Night Emperor is no ordinary club."

Clarissa replied with her usual measured tone, "I'm aware. My voice isn't pleasant. I won't speak without reason." By not speaking carelessly, she avoided saying the wrong thing.

Pleased, the woman nodded. She didn't usually offer advice to newcomers; anyone who came to the Night Emperor needed to be ready for it.

She hadn't expected to break her rule for a cleaner.

Despite her significant status within the Night Emperor, in this dizzying metropolis of influence and affluence, who could she truly afford to offend? Once inside the Night Emperor, one had to learn the "rules."

What to say and what not to say, what to do and what not to do.

"Manager..." Clarissa hesitated, "I don't have anywhere to live."

"Call me Ms. Amadea from now on," the woman instructed before dialing a number. "Xiao Jiang, come here. I've just brought on a new cleaner. Take her to the staff dormitory." After the call, she tossed a final remark to Clarissa, "Start work tomorrow."

And with that, Clarissa was left alone.

Holding the employment report, she breathed a sigh of relief. Tonight, she wouldn't have to sleep on the streets.

Three months had passed since Clarissa started at the Night Emperor.

As night descended, the city's excesses glowed with the red and green of nightlife.

Clarissa had just finished cleaning up a drunken lady's vomit. Though her movements were sluggish, they were precise. She lit incense and placed it in a corner.

Her mop glided through each private stall, reaching the last one where the cleaning supplies were kept and where she rested during breaks.

Everything was orderly and methodical.

The server who had summoned her had long since disappeared. Clarissa paid it no mind, tidying up before sitting down to lose herself in thought.

Clarissa, this was all Mr. Morgan's doing.

Clarissa, you've lost everything: your prestigious family, your beauty, your impressive education. Now, you're just a convict.

Clarissa, just do as you're told, don't fight back. Mr. Morgan has instructed us to 'take good care' of you.

Clarissa, what does a convict need with two kidneys? Give one up to save a life, to atone for the innocent you've wronged.

Clarissa... let go, stop struggling...

Those voices were like curses, the faces twisted and grotesque, and no matter how hard Clarissa tried, she couldn't shake them.

"Clarissa, come out. VIP room 606 on the sixth floor," the stall door was yanked open, and a frowning face urged her to move faster. "Come on, don't dawdle. Even the top models here don't have your attitude."

Clarissa was known for her silence, always compliant, never talking back even when mistreated. It was an open secret; anyone feeling sour could take it out on her to 'relieve' their mood.

"The private room is Ava's responsibility," Clarissa stated matter-of-factly, but to the waiter, her words seemed to upend the natural order of things. His face turned frosty, arms crossed over his chest. "The guest has thrown up, and you expect Ava to clean up that mess?"

Ava was above such vile tasks, but apparently, Clarissa was not. The waiter's indifference to the sting his words might inflict on Clarissa was palpable.

As expected, Clarissa offered no comeback, just a simple "Oh," her naive expression only deepening the waiter's contempt.

With downcast eyes, Clarissa trailed behind the waiter into the elevator, only to be abruptly shoved out. Confused, she caught the waiter's disdainful look. "What are you doing? Use the emergency stairs. It's just six floors up, not too high for you. Besides, it'll do you good," he sneered, "help you slim down."

The irony was that Clarissa was far from overweight. In fact, she was exceptionally slender, but her layers of clothing for work made her appear bulky and awkward.

It was a clear case of bullying, and anyone else might have snapped back, but Clarissa was not just anyone. The waiter was confident there would be no confrontation.

And true to his expectation, Clarissa meekly started her ascent. As the elevator doors sealed shut, he smirked dismissively. She was so spineless.

In the dimly lit stairwell, Clarissa's solitary footsteps echoed.

This was a safety corridor, an emergency stairwell rarely used except for direct elevator access. The lighting was faint and suggestive, and apart from serving as an escape route, it had another clandestine purpose — for secret rendezvous.

Clarissa climbed slowly, her pace deliberate. By the time she reached the midpoint of the fifth floor, she was winded and paused to catch her breath. Then, a soft moan reached her ears, breathy and intimate. Her heart lurched. Looking up, she saw a man pressing a woman against the stairwell wall in a heated embrace, their movements charged with desire.

From her vantage point, Clarissa could only see the woman's back and a partial view of the man's face.