Chapter 1

A Trap Named Sally Bristol

The moment she opened the kitchen door, the smell of various ingredients and a

blast of hot steam rushed out. The maids were too busy preparing lunch to even

turn around and see who had opened the door.

There was no need to look, anyway.

The person stepping into the loud kitchen, filled with the sounds of chopping

and sizzling oil, was just an ordinary maid.

A black maid's dress brushing the tops of her knees, a spotless white apron, and

plain, mousy brown hair. In the Winston mansion, it was an appearance as common

as the crystal chandeliers.

The maid grabbed a wooden tray, a soup bowl, and a spoon from the cupboard. She

walked over to the pantry where colorful jars of preserves were lined up and

picked up a white roll and two boiled eggs from a basket. Only then did someone

speak to her.

"Is that guest in the annex still here?"

Mrs. Appleby, the head cook, clicked her tongue as she pulled a freshly baked

meat pie out of the oven. The young maid, as she always did, feigned a sullen

look and stuck her lower lip out slightly.

"Tell me about it. Still, I think he might be leaving today."

"Tsk, tsk. You really suffer, Sally."

As soon as Mrs. Appleby placed the meat pie on the large table in the center of

the kitchen, she held out her empty hand to the maid named Sally.

"Give it here."

Taking the empty soup bowl, the cook opened a large pot simmering next to the

stove and filled it to the brim with a lukewarm, watery soup, placing it on

Sally's tray. The only things floating in the bowl were crumbled vegetable

scraps.

"Doing that gruesome work all by yourself without a single word of complaint,

and without Ethel, too."

Up until a month ago, Ethel was a middle-aged maid who managed the "special

room" in the annex basement alongside Sally. Now, she was likely on a ship bound

for the New Continent, dreaming of striking it rich with her gambling husband.

All the servants in the Winston household pitied Sally for having to take on

such a disgusting and creepy job alone. However, they never offered to help.

Sally was actually relieved by that.

"You should speak nicely to Mrs. Belmore. Ask her to hire someone else, or at

least raise your weekly wages."

"I suppose I should try."

But Sally would never go to the head maid with such a request.

Carrying the tray, Sally exited through the side door facing the west side of

the mansion. A gravel path cut through the neatly trimmed green lawn.

Soon, the annex, which had looked small from a distance, loomed so close she

could clearly see the sharp barbed wire atop its walls.

Amidst the perfect spring weather with cherry blossom petals fluttering in the

wind, the annex alone exuded the grim aura of winter. And rightly so. It was

practically a haunted house, a place where screams echoed endlessly from the

basement.

Seeing the soldiers standing guard at the main entrance of the annex, Sally

moistened her dry lips and pulled the corners of her mouth up tightly.

"Hello, Martin."

"Hello, Sally."

The soldier, whom she saw every day, opened the iron gate immediately without

asking any questions. Thus, he wasn't the one making her so nervous her lips

went dry.

As she slowly walked toward the annex entrance, Sally cast sidelong glances into

every corner of the front courtyard. The car belonging to Captain Winston, the

master of this estate, was not there. It meant he hadn't returned from the base

yet.

Good.

She walked straight into the cool building, headed down to the basement, and

walked down the left corridor just as her body had memorized. The soldier

guarding the iron door in the middle of the hallway opened it as soon as he saw

her.

The heavy security was set up in three layers. It meant there was one more group

to shake off.

As she turned the corner to the right, two soldiers were sitting on chairs,

chatting.

"Hello."

"Hello, Sally."

Opposite the soldiers was a black, crude iron door, locked tight. It gave off an

aura completely detached from the luxurious mansion annex.

"Have you two eaten yet?"

Sally smiled, her eyes crinkling as she approached the soldiers.

"No, rations haven't arrived yet..."

A private with a nametag reading 'Fred Smith' answered, carefully glancing at

the corporal sitting next to him.

"They'll be bringing it from the main building soon."

It was the time of day when everyone was starving. With the mention of food and

the smell of soup wafting over, no one could resist taking the bait.

"What's on the menu today, Sally?"

"Meat pie. The savory smell was so strong the second I opened the kitchen door.

My mouth was watering."

The corporal’s dull eyes suddenly flashed.

"Ah... If we go late this time, won't it all be gone?"

The private, who still hadn't shed his boyish looks, threw the comment out

cautiously while watching the corporal. Then, he shot Sally a sly look. He

looked like a puppy begging for praise, but she pretended not to notice and only

looked at the corporal's face.

"Damn it... I'm so sick of consommé soup..."

Those who didn't know better might say a man who grew tired of fine dining

didn't know his place or how to be grateful.

But if you gave healthy young men a soup with only a few chicken meatballs and

vegetable scraps for lunch, complaints were inevitable. The practice of lavishly

providing expensive meals to ordinary soldiers, rather than officers, actually

stemmed from Mrs. Winston's vanity and coldness, so there was no reason for them

to be thankful anyway.

"It looked like they didn't bake very many... You'd better hurry to the dining

hall before it's too late. I'll lock the door."

As Sally shifted the tray to one hand and pulled a black key from her pocket,

the corporal made a troubled face.

"The Captain said we shouldn't let you go in there alone, Sally..."

From his trailing off, she could sense he was on the verge of tipping over if

given just a little push. Sally smiled, raising her eyebrows as if it were no

big deal.

"It's fine. That guest doesn't seem violent, does he? I'll just drop off the

tray, grab the laundry, and come right back out. Greg is right outside, too."

She gestured toward the soldier guarding the iron door around the corner. Only

then did the corporal reluctantly stand up.

"Let's go, Smith."

Once the two men disappeared around the corner, Sally unlocked the heavy iron

door with her key. Creaaak. The door let out a sharp shriek as it yielded

inward. The metallic stench of blood seeped through the gap, barely two

hand-spans wide.

Sally moistened her dry lips again and reached her hand into the pitch-black

room. She found the switch immediately.

With a click, four wall lamps flickered on simultaneously, but the room didn't

get much brighter. The walls, floor, and even the ceiling were painted black.

As the lights came on, a middle-aged man huddled on a narrow bed against one

wall flinched and trembled. Sally quickly stepped into the "special room" and

closed the door.

"Uncle, it's me."

The "guest of the special room," who had frozen stiff, let out a long sigh and

relaxed. He couldn't see Sally's face yet due to the glare of the lights, but he

heard her voice clearly.

The man looked awful. She had seen countless people's vibrant faces wither into

corpses the moment they stepped foot in this room. But it hurt her heart even

more when that face belonged to a man she had known since childhood from her

village.

"I brought your food."

Sally walked over to a small table at the foot of the bed. In the meantime, the

man tried to sit up but couldn't even make it halfway before letting out a

pained groan.

She placed the tray on the table and quickly went to him. As she supported him

and helped him into the chair in front of the table, she didn't bother asking

empty questions like "Are you okay?"

Having experienced this many times, she knew better now.

To a person enduring horrific torture with only a thread of sanity and stamina

left, a cheap comfort like "Are you okay?" could be a trigger to break them.

Silently, she placed the spoon in his hand and began peeling the boiled eggs.

All of the man's fingernails had been pulled out, rendering him unable to do

even a simple task like peeling an egg.

"Did anything happen last night? There was a party at the main building last

night, so I got called away..."

"Nothing hap— cough, cough."

As the man began to cough, Sally poured water from a pitcher on the table into a

cup and offered it to him.

He was relatively lucky. He was allowed one meal and water a day. Sometimes,

they were given no food, let alone water.

His coughing subsided after wetting his dry throat. Before he could pick up his

spoon again, Sally pulled a small vial from her pocket.

"Take this first."

It was a liquid painkiller containing morphine. The man opened his mouth as if

he'd been waiting for it, and Sally dropped a dropperful of the painkiller into

his mouth.

She hid the vial back in her pocket and finished peeling the eggs. While the man

was busy frantically wolfing down the soup, she kept talking to him. She had to

finish their conversation and get out before anyone came, so she had no time to

wait for him to finish his meal.

"You haven't told them anything, even a little bit, right?"

"..."

The man stopped his spoon and looked up. His eyes were filled with fierce

contempt.

This, too, happened every time.

A comrade who had suffered torture for days wouldn't welcome Sally's questions.

Is she interrogating me? Spying on me? Such misunderstandings were natural.

But she had no choice. If any information had leaked, she had to know as quickly

as possible to prepare countermeasures. A single misstep could put not only this

man's life but the lives of many others in danger.

"You know you have to be honest with me, right?"

"...I said nothing."

The man glared at Sally for a long time before lowering his head back to his

soup bowl and spitting out his answer. He spoke as if he were spitting in her

face.

"I think they'll move you sometime today. As soon as I find out where, I'll send

people. So, please, hold on just a little longer and never open your mouth. You

know, right? The rescue team never fails..."

She was pouring out her final pleas.

Heavy footsteps echoed from behind the torture room door. It was far too early

for the two soldiers to have finished their meal and returned.

Sally stopped talking and darted to the bed. Just as she peeled back a corner of

the blood-stained bedsheet, the door burst open.

"...Sally Bristol. What are you doing in here?"

A voice, slow and soft like falling feathers, pierced sharply into her spine.

Why did Captain Winston have to return now, of all times?

Sally hugged the half-stripped bedsheet to her chest and slowly turned around. A

young private stood frozen stiff, holding the wide-open door.

Through the doorway, a man with a light gray trench coat draped over his

shoulders strode in without hesitation. Beneath the fluttering coat, colorful

medals were pinned in perfectly straight lines across his black officer's

uniform.

Every time a new medal was added to that chest, Sally felt nauseous. To her, the

medals practically reeked of blood.

"Hello, Captain. I was giving the guest his lunch and gathering the laundry."

She put on an innocent face, as if she knew nothing, mixing in a hint of

puzzlement as if to ask why he was questioning her about her daily routine.

"By yourself."

"Yes. Mrs. Ethel quit a month ago..."

"Hah..."

Winston curled his lips into a soft smile and let out a low chuckle. But his

eyes, as cold as ice, weren't smiling at all.

An urge to wet her dry lips rose again, but Sally held it back. If she showed

she was nervous, that man might catch on.

Surely he hasn't caught on already, right? If he asks what we talked about, I

have plenty of excuses...

While frantically devising all sorts of strategies in her head, she merely

blinked in feigned confusion and tilted her head.

Winston stood between the man sitting at the table and Sally. His tall height

and broad build made her feel as though she were facing an impenetrable wall.

He briefly looked down with icy eyes at the man, who was already starting to

shake, and then took off his angular officer's cap. His sharp fingers swept back

his blond hair, which was as cold as his gaze.

"I know that, Sally. You know very well that's not what I mean."

Having lightly chided her with a tone akin to a lover coaxing his partner, he

suddenly turned around. The tip of the riding crop held in his black

leather-gloved hand pointed at the Second Lieutenant, who was essentially his

adjutant.

"Campbell. Bring the bastards who were supposed to be guarding the door right

now."

His voice was terrifyingly low. In that instant, Sally's mind conjured an

auditory hallucination of that crop whipping through the air and tearing into

flesh.

Sally stood against the wall like a sinner, clutching the bedsheet to her chest.

While waiting for the soldiers, Winston slowly looked around the torture chamber

as if seeing it for the first time. When he playfully lifted an iron chain

hanging next to Sally and held it near her throat, a chill ran down her spine.

Hurry up and bring them. But please, don't bring them.

"Captain, I've brought them."

Sally sighed inwardly. She couldn't tell if it was from relief or despair.

The two soldiers must have been dragged away mid-meal; their lips were still

shiny with grease. The corporal, his face fraught with tension, snapped into a

salute. The edge of his hand, pressed against his forehead, trembled minutely.

"Captain, you called for us."

"That's right. Why do you think I called? Take a guess."

His tone was light, as if speaking to a friend, but no one present took the

situation lightly.

The corporal looked nervously around the torture room. The answer to what he had

done wrong was undoubtedly in this room.

The moment his eyes landed on the maid standing against the wall, a step away

from the Captain, he found his answer.

I thought that wench said she was going in and coming right out. Why is she

still in here?

He chewed on curses internally before answering his superior in a terrified

voice.

"You told us... not to let the maid in alone, sir."

"Correct."

The corners of Winston's eyes crinkled loosely, but the tension in the torture

room only pulled tighter.

Whip. Whip.

The crop in his right hand sliced sharply through the cold air and lightly

slapped his left palm. Every time it did, the two soldiers flinched as if they

were the ones being hit.

"It seems you have ears and heard my order, but you don't have a brain to

comprehend it?"

"N-no, sir."

"Then tell me why I said not to let my Miss Sally Bristol go in there alone."

Sally's stomach churned. "My Miss Sally Bristol." It wasn't just the overly

gentlemanly yet excessively rude title that made her nauseous.

Winston stepped in close and actually wrapped his arm around her shoulder.

Goosebumps erupted from where his hand touched her, spreading down her back.

How would another maid act in this situation? Thinking quickly, Sally bit her

lower lip slightly and placed the cold back of her hand against her cheek.

Please let playing shy work.

She pretended not to notice Private Fred Smith's wavering eyes.

"That rat-like bastard over there..."

The corporal glanced at the man frozen like a block of wood across the room,

then respectfully met his Captain's eyes again.

"You said he might go into heat and assault Sally, sir."

Go into heat over Sally? The man barely had the strength to lift a spoon; there

was no way he had the energy to get anything up.

Besides, while Sally was pretty enough, she was a plain woman with nothing about

her that would spark a man's lewd curiosity.

Thus, the reason didn't resonate with the corporal, but if his superior said so,

that was that.

"Sally, did you hear that?"

Winston finally removed his arm from Sally's shoulder. But just as she was about

to relax, his fingertips lifted her chin.

"This place is dangerous for a fragile lady."

"Yes, I'll be careful."

She immediately gave him the answer he wanted, but he didn't let go of her chin.

He merely looked down at her, his head tilted slightly as if he were about to

kiss her.

You're much more dangerous to me.

This time, she couldn't help but wet her dry lips. The moment the tip of her

tongue brushed her lower lip, Winston furrowed his brow minutely and removed his

hand from her chin.

"Did you two hear that clearly?"

He approached the soldiers who had broken regulations.

"This place. Is dangerous. For fragile. Sally."

Every time he paused, the triangular leather tip of the thin, flexible riding

crop poked the soldiers hard in the solar plexus. His voice gradually grew as

fierce as an angry lion's roar.

Cold sweat ran down Sally's spine. She was best friends with Fred's third oldest

sister. Furthermore, she had known Fred since he was a baby and treated him like

a little brother. She grew terrified that he was about to receive a brutal

punishment.

Sally bowed her head deeply. Soon, her shoulders, hunched like a frightened

rabbit, began to tremble violently, and tears fell drop by drop from her large

eyes.

"Hic, I'm sorry. It's my fault for going in on my own. So, I will take the

punishment, hic, Captain."

Sobbing, she gently grabbed the hem of his trench coat and tugged it.

"Men become idiots the moment a woman cries."

Her mother had told her that. But don't use it too often, or it won't work, she

had added.

Was this man just another helpless male? Winston stopped jabbing Fred's chest

with the crop and walked over to Sally.

"Sally, just don't do this again. Hmm? Understood?"

"Hic, yes..."

She tried to wipe her fake tears with her sleeve, but he stopped her. Winston's

hand cupped her chin, lifting it. Soon, a neatly folded handkerchief lightly

pressed against her tear streaks, wiping them away one by one.

Everyone's eyes widened at this uncharacteristically warm behavior from the

cold-blooded man. When he stared at the handkerchief damp with the maid's tears

for a moment before tucking it into his jacket's inner pocket, their eyes looked

ready to pop out of their sockets.

He was the type to throw a handkerchief on the floor after using it once. Yet,

he had pocketed a handkerchief soiled with the bodily fluids of a lowly maid.

"From now on, leave the meals outside."

"Yes, I will do that."

Just as she was letting her guard down at his gentle tone, as if he were coaxing

a child...

The hand releasing her chin stopped in midair, then pinched her left thumb. His

soft eyes sharpened in an instant.

Following his gaze, Sally's blood ran cold. A tiny piece of eggshell was stuck

under her fingernail.

Winston looked at the neat pile of eggshells in front of the spy and smirked.

His eyes weren't smiling at all.

Winston's closely trimmed thumbnail dug under Sally's nail. Digging deep as if

to gouge out her flesh, the nail twisted cruelly.

Sally suppressed the urge to groan from the pain of her tender flesh being

mashed. It was a bad habit—enduring the agony of torture had become so ingrained

in her body that she held back even when there was no need to.

Winston silently stared at the white fragment clinging to his nail before

flicking it away. A chilling remark flew at Sally's head along with the shell.

"Sally, you're so kind, it's annoying."

Throughout her time cleaning the annex office, a persistent gaze scoured Sally's

body. It felt as if a cheap nylon brush were sweeping thoroughly down her flesh.

Sometimes the gaze felt ticklish, and then it would suddenly sting. She couldn't

help but shudder.

"Captain, if I'm disturbing you, should I do the cleaning later?"

She turned around and asked politely. Winston had already returned his gaze to

the documents on his desk.

The end of the cigar held between his fingers was chewed to a pulp. He held a

gold lighter in his other hand, having apparently forgotten to light it.

"No, keep going. I'll do my work, and you do yours."

He spat out the scripted reply in Sally's head while keeping his eyes lowered

toward the paperwork. Unable to leave anyway, she turned her back again and kept

scrubbing. The image of the chewed cigar end kept circling in her mind.

What was he imagining chewing on while looking at me?

Suddenly, the tips of her breasts hidden inside her thin bra stung with an ache.

Filthy royalist pig.

She wanted to leave immediately, but she couldn't. She had an important mission

left. The only comfort was that two soldiers stood like statues right outside

the door.

She stepped onto a low stool to slowly wipe down the bookshelf. Her calves, now

closer to his eye level, kept feeling ticklish.

Should I just crawl behind the sofa and scrub at phantom carpet stains instead?

Just as she was deliberating, someone knocked on the door. At Winston's

permission, the door opened and Second Lieutenant Campbell strode in and

saluted.

"Captain, the transport heading to Guvan will arrive at 3 o'clock."

Hearing that the transport to the prison camp was coming, Sally let out an

inward sigh of relief. The Uncle hadn't defected. Determining whether there was

a double agent in advance was also part of Sally's mission.

"We still have time, then. We shouldn't let our guest get bored."

Blood-crazed demon. May you fall into a hell fitting for you.

Hearing there would be another interrogation, Sally silently cursed him.

"Yes, I will prepare immediately."

Once Campbell left, Sally approached Winston's desk. It was under the pretext of

emptying his ashtray, but that damn son of a bitch still hadn't lit his cigar.

He lifted only his gaze while keeping his head angled toward the documents.

Sally smiled brightly and picked up the tray holding an empty sparkling water

bottle. As she nonchalantly walked toward the door carrying her bucket of

cleaning supplies and the tray, the tips of her breasts stung once again.

The screams leaking through the crack of the torture room door ceased.

Presently, Fred emerged, his face pale blue. He was clenching his jaw, trying to

hold back his nausea. He took the prison uniform from Sally's hands and went

back inside.

Sally pulled the cotton she had stuffed in her ears out and put it in her

pocket. The letter inside her pocket rustled.

The moment the door opened again, she conspicuously held the bucket full of

cleaning supplies with both hands. A group of soldiers poured out, nodding to

Sally as they passed.

In the center of them was Uncle, looking much more emaciated than he had at

lunch. Dressed in a prison uniform, he was being dragged away like livestock,

shackles binding his limp wrists and ankles.

Reading the terror in his trembling eyes, Sally sent him a firm look with a

smile-less face.

The rescue team will definitely come.

As soon as she saw the hem of the gray coat, she quickly averted her gaze.

Winston, walking out of the torture room, exuded the aura of a man stepping out

of a brothel or cabaret.

It was the refreshing face of someone who had just relieved pent-up urges.

"Take good care of it today, too."

He patted Sally lightly on the shoulder and disappeared down the hallway. She

immediately began cleaning the torture room.

The mattress had to be replaced every time a "guest" left. She dragged the

mattress, ruined by blood and filth, out into the hallway, then hauled a new one

from the storage room, groaning with effort as she placed it on the bed.

Managing the torture room was the most grueling and disgusting job in the

mansion. Because everyone avoided it, the weekly pay was correspondingly high.

That was why Ethel, a middle-aged maid with a gambling husband, had been

handling it for years.

When Sally first infiltrated this mansion as a maid, she was assigned to wait on

Mrs. Winston. Dress shopping, afternoon teas with noblewomen, dealing with Mrs.

Winston's whims and gossip. It was work entirely devoid of any nutritional value

for a spy.

So, by the time she had built up trust among the servants as a hard-working

girl, she pretended to be desperate for money due to a sick mother.

Sure enough. Head maid Mrs. Belmore quickly reassigned her to the annex. A

hard-working maid is valuable, but a maid desperate for money is dangerous. Mrs.

Winston's dressing room was full of expensive items, after all.

Sally amicably shared the torture room duties with Ethel for a while, but Ethel

began to grow suspicious of Sally frequently snooping around that area.

"If you're trying to win the Captain's favor that way, stop. Do you know how

many girls have been kicked out for hovering around the Captain?"

Fortunately, Ethel was completely oblivious to Sally's true intentions, but she

was a hindrance to the mission. So, Sally used her head to get rid of her.

"A distant uncle of mine struck it rich with that. I'm so jealous. Sometimes

when he visits our hometown, he gives me a hefty sum for my mom's hospital

bills. It makes me wonder where the old miser went. He’s all decked out from

head to toe, completely flashy..."

Ethel, living under an endless mountain of debt due to her gambling husband,

went wide-eyed at the story of the gold mines in the New Continent.

It wasn't entirely a fabricated story. Sally's aunt's family really had become

overnight millionaires from a gold mine development in the New Continent. They

now lived lavishly in a skyscraper in a metropolis across the ocean.

Her aunt occasionally sent letters asking Sally to come live with them, but she

refused every time.

Stepping on the weak to climb higher, ever higher. Accumulating wealth stained

with blood to dress flashily and eat richly. Those in a hierarchy built on money

looked no different to her than the royalist pigs.

That was not the world Sally's late parents, or her comrades whom she considered

family, dreamed of.

That utopia will grow and bear fruit by feeding on the blood of the

Revolutionary Army.

Sally recalled the slogan she had often shouted since childhood.

Literally, the blood of the revolutionary army was coagulated between the black

stone floorboards. As she scrubbed it away with a brush, the letter in her

pocket rustled.

"I wish Sally were my daughter."

Mrs. Appleby would often lament to Sally, who waited for five o'clock every

afternoon.

"My daughter only sends letters on Easter and Christmas."

Whenever the mail carriage arrived at the Winston estate, Sally never failed to

run out and hand over a letter. Everyone thought it was a letter to her mother

in the hospital. Only she and the postman, Peter, knew that the gentle, ordinary

words actually contained a hidden cipher meant for their comrades.

Today's letter contained a hidden message that Uncle Bobby was being moved to

the Guvan prison camp.

The transport had already left. She felt like she should call the branch

immediately, but the mansion's phones might be tapped. Peter would make the call

as soon as he returned to the city.

It was a five-hour drive from here to the Guvan camp. That was plenty of time

for the rescue team near Guvan to plan an operation and lie in wait. Uncle would

probably return to the arms of his comrades before he even reached the city

limits of Guvan.

Sally stepped out of the torture room, which reeked of disinfectant and bleach.

Down the corridor and around the corner was a laundry chute that connected all

the way to the top floor of the annex.

She opened the chute and filled her basket with the blood-soaked laundry. She

was just about to carry the full basket to the main building's laundry room.

"Miss Bristol."

At the voice dropping suddenly from above her head, Sally dropped the basket.

The willow basket hit the floor with a heavy thud.

"...Captain?"

When did he get here? She hadn't heard his footsteps at all.

Hot breath brushed against the nape of her neck, exposed by her pinned-up hair.

Goosebumps prickled up Sally's forearms.

The tip of a nose burrowed beneath the sparse baby hairs. As Winston buried his

nose against her skin and inhaled, her legs trembled. She wanted to escape, but

she was trapped by cold walls on all sides—and a hot wall made of flesh and

blood right behind her.

"Sally, you smell good."

The only things she smelled of were blood and disinfectant.

He took a step closer. Trapped between the wall of the chute and Winston's

chest, Sally's heart began to hammer wildly, almost convulsively.

This is dangerous. This is dangerous.

As she pushed against the wall with both hands, something hard prodded between

her buttocks. She easily realized it wasn't a pistol. Heat that multiple layers

of fabric couldn't block willfully seared Sally's tender flesh.

Please, come this way.

The sound of military boots echoed from around the corner. Please, come this

way. If there were eyes watching, Winston wouldn't be able to continue his

filthy act.

But the footsteps stopped just before the corner.

What excuse should I use to get away now? Sally frantically racked her brain.

She had a pistol hidden under her skirt, but she couldn't shoot Winston. A

year's worth of mission progress would go up in smoke.

And the moment he discovered she was hiding a gun, she feared he might

confiscate her letter, too.

As she gritted her teeth and endured, the nose buried in the nape of her neck

trailed up through her hair and traced the shell of her ear. Rubbing between her

earlobe and cheek while exhaling hot breath, he whispered languidly.

"Why are you trembling so much?"

You sex maniac, you're asking because you don't know?

While she racked her brain, holding back tears, he suddenly took off his black

gloves. As long, extended fingers traced up the seam of her waist, Sally stopped

breathing.

His fingers moved to her front and toyed with the buttons on her peaked breast.

Not a single hair on her breast was touched, yet Sally's face flushed hot. It

was because the way he rolled his fingertips was no different from rolling a

woman's nipple.

Filthy pervert.

"...Captain?"

"Mhmm?"

Hot breath tickled her ear again. Sally sniffled loudly enough for him to hear.

"I need money. I have to pay my mom's hospital bills soon. If you want, Captain,

I can do anything for you."

Winston detached himself instantly, as if he had been doused with cold water.

He was a man with severe germophobia. When it came to sex, it was even worse.

More than anyone, Winston despised women who spread their legs and threw

themselves at him trying to score a big payday.

Sally erased her relieved smile and threw on a tearful face. When she turned

around, Winston was leaning diagonally against the opposite wall, opening his

wallet. Displeasure was evident on his face.

"Sally, you're a good girl. Don't ever let such dirty words leave your mouth in

front of any man."

"...Didn't you say I was so kind it was annoying?"

Sally fumbled to accept the wad of bills he offered, her eyes welling with

tears. Winston looked caught off guard. He opened his mouth as if to say

something, but only a faint sigh emerged.

"Thank you, Captain."

She had to run while the hungry predator was showing a vulnerability. She bowed

politely and tried to run, but her arm was suddenly grabbed.

"Don't misunderstand my saying you're annoying. I like you."

Is this a confession?

Sally froze in place.

"I like your nerve, not batting an eye even when you see blood."

Oh, so it wasn't. Only then did she relax and face Winston. His straight lips

bore a generous smile.

"Any other woman would have fainted by now. The boys, too, of course. You're

more reliable than those green recruits who do nothing but retch."

The green recruit he mentioned was definitely Fred.

"I didn't mean anything else by scolding you today. Don't show kindness to those

rats. They're a cunning bunch."

You know what? I'm one of those cunning rats, too.

Sally didn't hide the smile seeping onto her lips. That greedy royalist pig

wouldn't know the true meaning of her smile anyway.

"I want you to stay a long time..."

Winston let go of her arm. His fingertips trailed up her shoulder, and his

neatly prominent knuckles caressed her cheek.

"...and become a part of the torture room."

All her nerves focused on the tips of her hairs, which stood on end at the

terrifying words.

He meant he wanted her to stay on as the torture room maid for a long time. She

had to. However, this cruel man had a way of dressing up a potentially kind

sentiment into something horrifying.

It sounded as if he wanted her to become a living organ inside the monster that

sucked the vitality out of people.

Or what if?

Does it mean he wants to shove me into that torture room, wrap chains around my

neck, and pull my fingernails out? If there was no one being tortured, the

torture room was just an ordinary room, nothing more, nothing less.

Seeing as he didn't notice Sally's agitation, it was clearly just a simple

request for her to work as a maid for a long time. But she couldn't easily shake

off the horrifying imagination.

"If you ever get hurt and shed even a single drop of blood..."

Winston suddenly stopped speaking. The knuckles gently stroking her cheek also

paused.

As if caught off guard by his own words, his normally clear eyes went blank. His

eyes, always so cold, seemed to quietly burn with intense heat.

His paused hand moved again. Because her lips were cold, his fingertips felt

exceptionally hot.

Winston pressed down hard on her soft flesh, sweeping from one end to the other.

All the while, he bit his own flushed lip with his stark white teeth. It looked

as if blood might seep out.

The Vampire of Camden.

Sally's face paled as she recalled the nickname that followed Captain Leon

Winston around like the hem of his coat. What on earth was this blood-starved

man imagining doing to her right now? He might be wanting to bite her lips and

suck her blood.

Dangerous. This is lethally dangerous.

Sally smiled brightly and clasped her two hands together as if in prayer—making

sure the bills in her hand were perfectly visible.

Look closely. In my blood flows the dirty, materialistic nature of a snob, no

different from other women.

"Thank you for worrying about me. You're truly generous and kind, Captain. I

also want to work under you for a long, long time."

The moment she showered him with empty praises, the light returned to Winston's

eyes. Beneath his gaze, which grew as cold and sharp as a blade, Sally actually

felt relieved.

She immediately turned her back and escaped from him. He didn't try to grab her

again, even as she reached the corner.

Walking at a somewhat hurried pace, she rounded the corner and let out a sigh of

relief as she passed the soldiers guarding the torture room door. But soon, she

found herself chewing on her lip, just as Winston had done.

What a rotten world. Sadly, it was quite common for a maid to be violated by the

dirty hands of the master of the house.

However, she had never heard of such a thing happening in the Winston household.

The Winston brothers were famous for not giving women a second glance.

The eldest son, Captain Leon Winston, was famous for being a sadistic figure—so

much so that even the royal family who trusted him was sickened by him—yet he

was known for maintaining a polite and gentle demeanor only toward women. He

never even dragged a woman into the torture room, even if she was from the

Revolutionary Army.

The second son, Jerome, unlike his soldier brother, was more of a quiet scholar.

Though, as if a family trait, his arrogant nature was no different.

If women showed personal curiosity in him, he would ensnare them in pedantic

debates and drive them away. More than anyone, he despised women who were like

empty-headed porcelain dolls.

So, when she infiltrated this mansion as a maid, could she ever have imagined

it? That one of the brothers would get turned on and hit on her.

A spy shouldn't catch the target's eye, whether by offending them or pleasing

them. She tried hard to be treated like a piece of furniture like the other

maids, yet this man was always excessively fond of her, and also excessively

hateful toward her.

Where did I take a wrong turn?

Surprisingly, she found out the answer right away.

I'm late.

Because of that damn sex maniac, she missed the time the mail carriage arrived.

Sally ran frantically toward the mansion's main gate.

By the time she was out of breath, the main gate came into view. Peter the

postman, who had been waiting for her while chatting with the gatekeeper, peeked

through the thin iron bars and smiled.

"You're a bit late today, Miss Bristol."

At first glance, it looked like a forgiving smile, but she knew full well it was

a reprimand laden with anxiety. Time was of the essence.

"Yes, huff, the Captain, huff, was looking for me, so..."

I wasn't out playing around, you jerk.

At the mention of 'the Captain,' Peter's eyes visibly froze. Sally smiled to

show nothing was wrong and held out the letter she was clutching.

"Please take good care of it today—"

"Sally."

At the sudden voice, Sally froze too. Behind her back, the smooth engine of a

luxury sedan purred low.

"Well, I'll be off."

Peter snatched the letter from Sally's hand and ran to his carriage. While he

made his getaway, the sound of tires crunching on small gravel drew closer

behind her. She casually turned around and flashed a picture-perfect smile.

"Are you heading out, Captain? It's almost dinner time."

"I have a prior engagement."

He was still wearing his officer's uniform.

Is it not a personal engagement?

What kind of heinous act was he going off to commit now? There was no enemy more

dangerous than one who was not only smart but diligent.

"I see. Mrs. Winston will be lonely. I hope you have an enjoyable..."

"Cut the empty flattery."

He took a large stride toward her. Once again, the distance between them

narrowed dangerously.

"Sally, there's something I've wanted to ask you every time I see you."

"...Yes?"

This was a man who considered servants mere cogs in the mansion's machinery. No

human feels the need to ask questions every time they look at a machine part.

What on earth was he curious about? The background and family of a maid named

Sally Bristol? If it was that, she could just recite her meticulously crafted

fake background.

However, recalling his behavior from earlier, it might be a very vulgar and

personal curiosity.

Nausea and curses threatened to burst out simultaneously from within her. Sally

kept her mouth shut tight.

"By any chance..."

Winston, who was staring at her eyes tenaciously for some reason, opened his

mouth in a gentle tone. The question was neither vulgar nor overly personal, yet

Sally found herself wishing it had been a vulgar curiosity instead.

"Have you ever been to Abington Beach when you were young?"

Abington Beach. The moment she heard those words, her heart dropped into her

stomach.

You filthy pig!

The mistake of her youth, when she was incredibly immature, replayed in her mind

like a faded movie. A single day from that summer was threatening to steal away

all her time over a decade later.

No. Seeing as he's explicitly asking, he only has suspicions, not proof.

At least she was glad he hadn't craftily fished for information like an

interrogation.

Stay as calm as possible. That's the only way to survive.

"Pardon?"

Sally tilted her head as if it were a ridiculous question.

"No... my parents were poor, so we couldn't afford to go to a luxury resort like

that..."

This time, she dragged out the end of her sentence pitifully. Using the sorrow

of the impoverished Sally Bristol—the daughter of poor rural farmers whose only

family was a mother suffering from tuberculosis—as a counterweight, she let the

corners of her eyes and mouth droop as well.

"..."

Winston closed his mouth again. Just like before he threw the bomb disguised as

a question, he stared tenaciously into her eyes. Was he trying to find evidence

of lies in those pupils that held the teal-blue sea of Abington Beach, or

evidence of truth?

She wanted to close her eyes. But doing so now wouldn't change anything.

Only after Sally's maid blouse began to stick to her skin, soaked in sweat, did

Winston withdraw his gaze.

"I suppose you wouldn't."

He let out a scoff, as if he believed he had made a preposterous assumption

himself, and returned to his car.

Soon, the iron gates opened, and with the fierce roar of the engine, Winston

brushed past Sally. Watching the car grow smaller, she muttered quietly.

My damn eyes.

The wheels rolling over the meticulously laid square bricks of the driveway

gradually lost speed and came to a halt. The iron gates at the end of the path

were firmly shut.

Even though they had informed the butler of their arrival time in advance.

The chauffeur, sneaking a glance at Leon's expression through the rearview

mirror, immediately honked the horn loudly. Only after he honked twice did a

middle-aged man come rushing out from behind the bars to open the gate.

As the car began moving again, the gatekeeper threw an unexpected salute at him

as they passed, but Leon just scoffed and turned his gaze forward.

There was nothing new about this. The subtle neglect from the Grand Duke

Aldrich's family wasn't a recent development.

It made sense.

In this transaction called an engagement, the side gaining an immediate,

concrete advantage was the Winston family. The Grand Duke's family was merely

making an investment in the future. So, the scale was naturally tipped to one

side.

Leon found the slight merely amusing. To have his pride wounded, wouldn't he

have to have some expectations—or at least a shred of interest—in this

transaction?