Erik had vanished so quickly that it was as if he'd disappeared into thin air.
Polly replayed the last look in his eyes and felt certain—she had convinced him to cooperate.
With the weight on her chest finally lifted, her appetite returned. Even the once-overpowering stench of the meat pudding didn't make her gag.
It was called "meat pudding," but it was more like an over-steamed dumpling. When the skin was cut open, the stuffing of rabbit meat and lamb kidneys spilled out, all drenched in a thick coating of beef tallow. The smell was strong, greasy, and gamey. Maybe if she had some vinegar, soy sauce, or chili oil, it would taste better.
Unfortunately, the only thing on the table was a tub of butter that had clearly been poked by far too many hands.
Toward the end of the party, a man swaggered over to Emily and tried to lift her skirt—wanting to see if she really had two—
They didn't even say the word out loud. They just rolled it on their tongues, snickering like a pack of animals.
Emily sat in her wheelchair, her face as pale and waxy as ever, silent.
The manager sipped his drink. Only when the scene began turning ugly did he offer a half-hearted rebuke.
Polly watched it all unfold and couldn't name the feeling in her chest.
Ever since transmigrating, she'd been dressing as a boy—her hair cropped short, her chest tightly bound. No one had ever looked at her like that: like an object.
But at the party, many men looked at the women around them exactly that way. With eyes that didn't see people—only things.
Right now, her body was still small and underdeveloped enough to pass as a boy. But what about tomorrow?
A girl's body could change overnight. Tomorrow, it might look entirely different.
And when it did, how would they look at her?
A chill ran down her spine. She didn't dare think further.
Even in the modern world, there were few men who truly respected women. And this was over a hundred years ago.
She had thought time was on her side, that she could afford to plan her escape slowly.
But now she knew: she couldn't.
A sudden gust of cold wind blew past. Polly shivered violently and remembered something urgent—her period.
She had no idea how the original Polly handled it. Maybe, due to malnutrition, she hadn't gotten it at all.
But hormonal systems were delicate. What if her presence in this body had triggered something? What if it suddenly came?
The more she thought about it, the faster her heart pounded—loud as a drum in her ears.
She had to get out. Immediately.
...
That night, Polly drifted in and out of sleep, either jolted awake by her own racing heartbeat or the howls of coyotes in the woods.
She woke so many times she began to hallucinate—imagining she was back in her bed at home, that a simple reach would find her charging phone.
But when she reached out, her fingers only touched damp, earthy soil.
Still, she refused to despair.
She shut her eyes and told herself again and again: You're strong. You will survive this.
And right now, all you need to do is sleep.
Because a sleep-deprived person can't think straight, and can't escape either.
With that thought anchoring her, she finally forced herself to rest.
...
Due to the party going until the wee hours, everyone woke up late the next day.
When Polly woke, a dull ache throbbed in her lower abdomen.
She froze, whispering prayers under her breath—please no, please not now.
But it was.
It had come.
Polly's face remained expressionless.
She didn't feel shame—only frustration.
But what had come, had come. There was no flipping upside-down to make it flow back in.
She made do with some gauze from the emergency kit, pulled on her clothes, and stepped out of her tent.
Despite the pain, she planned to find Erik and talk to him about their escape. But all morning, he didn't appear.
He was always like that—coming and going like a ghost. She had no choice but to let it go, trusting he'd show up again when he was ready.
That night, there were two circus shows—but she wasn't part of them.
She, the boy John, and a few other children too young to perform had a different task: to steal.
Wallets, watches, rings, thimbles, necklaces, coats, hats, food—anything they could lay their hands on, as long as they didn't get caught.
Before each show, their handler—the trainer—would gather them to warm up their hands.
Erik was still nowhere to be seen.
Polly finally asked John, "Where's Erik?"
"He's injured," John said, distracted. "The manager gave him a month off."
He made a face. "Even if he weren't, he wouldn't hang out with us. We train for a month, he looks once, and learns everything. The trainer said he doesn't have to attend class anymore."
At the mention of Erik's name, the other kids hissed in distaste.
No wonder Erik, the most talented performer in the troupe, was so isolated.
—Giving special treatment to top students didn't inspire others to rise. It just united everyone else against them.
Polly wanted to ask more, but John suddenly tugged on her sleeve—the trainer had arrived.
She was a sharp-eyed woman with streaks of white in her hair, a tightly coiled bun, and a gray dress with a bustle that flared dramatically behind her. In her hand was a long cane.
The moment she appeared, all noise stopped. No whistling, no chatter, not even breathing.
"Take out your tools," the trainer said coldly, surveying them all. "Let's see if you've made any progress."
Then she began inspecting each child's pickpocketing skills.
Polly's stomach dropped.
Even if she'd never stolen anything before, she knew enough to realize this took practice—like sleight of hand, it wasn't something you could fake in a day.
Sure enough, when it was her turn, her clumsy fumbling with a wallet was riddled with flaws.
She gulped, ready to make some excuse, but the trainer had already raised her cane.
"Hands out," she ordered, eyes like knives.
"I'm sorry, ma'am—" She didn't even get the whole sentence out before her hand was yanked forward and—
Smack.
The cane struck her palm with a brutal crack.
Pain seared through her hand. In moments, angry red welts began to rise.
It was supposed to be five hits, but because she dared to speak, the trainer added five more.
The entire time, Polly focused on just one word: Calm.
Stay calm. Don't scream. Don't curse. Don't grab the cane and hit her back.
Calm.
By the tenth blow, her entire body was soaked in sweat. Her hand throbbed like it had been plunged in boiling water, the skin red, swollen, and nearly bleeding.
The trainer finally put away the cane and tossed her a tiny tin of ointment. "You'll stay in your tent tonight. No dinner. No wandering around. Don't embarrass us again."
Polly accepted it, murmured a polite thank-you, and limped back to her tent.
The moment she returned, she dug through her filthy clothes for the emergency kit, popped a painkiller, and disinfected her wound with iodine.
She didn't trust the trainer's medicine. Lying down, she waited in silence for the medicine to kick in.
…
It was hard to tell how much time had passed when a strange rustling sound woke her.
Someone was dragging something heavy into her tent.
Their gait was uneven—one step light, one step heavy. Whatever they were dragging squirmed and whimpered, muffled and panicked.
Erik?
Polly shot fully awake.
She didn't dare move, afraid she was wrong. Keeping her eyes almost shut, she peeked through her lashes.
It was Erik.
And the thing he was dragging was the trainer.
Her mouth was stuffed with cloth. Her arms were tied behind her back. The trainer was no fragile woman—broad, solid, the kind who could command a gang of rough kids.
But Erik gripped her collar like it was nothing, lifting and hauling her into the tent.
His strength was inhuman. His recovery, superhuman.
It felt like a scene out of a horror film. Erik was the monster.
The air reeked of sweat and urine. The trainer had been so terrified she wet herself.
Erik didn't seem to smell or hear a thing. He ignored her stench, her incoherent pleas. He shoved her onto a chair and bound her tightly.
From Polly's angle, she could only see jerking movements, the chair rocking violently.
Then, he turned and walked toward her.
Polly's thoughts tangled in a storm. Was this revenge on her behalf—or just a convenient excuse to unleash his violent urges?
His footsteps stopped.
He stood by her bed, gazing down at her injured hand.
He looked young. Gaunt. But his frame was tall and broad, fully blocking the light.
His breathing echoed above her—thick, raspy, trapped within the white mask.
That breath—it was the sound every horror movie used to signal the killer's presence. Steady. Bestial.
But he wasn't here to kill her.
He wanted to protect her.
Why?
Polly didn't move, frozen like a statue. His gaze was heavier than his breath—scanning her hand like a surgeon examining a wound, measuring its length, its depth.
Time crawled.
Her heart raced so loudly she couldn't hear anything else. Her skin prickled with electricity.
Finally, Erik seemed satisfied. He turned and grabbed the trainer—chair and all—and dragged her over.
Polly couldn't see clearly, but she could hear.
Breathing. Footsteps. The rasp of fabric. Plead for mercy. And the stench—sweat, piss, and something else.
Then—thud. A thick metallic scent filled the air.
Startled, Bo Li couldn't pretend to sleep anymore. She opened her eyes and sat up.
Reality was more terrifying than her imagination.
Erik was standing in front of her with his back facing her. With one hand, he held the trainer down like she was an animal in a slaughterhouse. With his other hand, he was mercilessly stabbing the dagger into her palm.
When he noticed Polly was awake, he turned slightly. Behind the white mask, his eyes still held a terrifying chill.
The trainer looked at Polly like she was her last hope, writhing wildly in her chair.
The only sounds left were the squeaks of wood joints under strain.
Erik pulled out the blade, flinging the blood off indifferently, ready to leave.
Somehow, he was certain Polly wouldn't thank him for his "eye-for-an-eye" justice.
And she didn't.
This wasn't justice. It was recklessness.
Sure, it felt good in the moment—but what about tomorrow?
Who would clean up the mess?
He'd carved a hole in the trainer's hand. She would need a hundred lies to explain it.
And yet—Polly couldn't deny it.
For the first time since she'd arrived, she felt safe.
A wild, scorching kind of safety.
She had tried so hard to stay composed, stuffing down every emotion: fear, panic, rage.
Even when the cane lashed her skin, her first instinct had been to stay calm. No one would help her. She was alone.
She had to keep her head.
But that didn't mean she hadn't wanted to fight back.
Yes, Erik's actions had caused a mess. A big one.
But today—just for today—she was done repressing everything.
Tomorrow could deal with itself.
Polly looked past the trainer's pleading eyes, tossed back the blanket, and turned to Erik.
Sincerely, she asked:
"…I'm tired. Will you lie down with me for a while?"