The Lustful Oasis, once a beacon of fleeting pleasure and chaotic indulgence, now sat in eerie silence, the air thick with dread. The music had stopped. The laughter was long dead. It felt less like a brothel and more like a crypt.
Urbano stood frozen, staring at the motionless form slumped on the porch—Farrah the Reaper. Her name echoed in his mind like a funeral bell. His missing hand throbbed with phantom pain, but it was the reality of her power that truly hurt. In seconds, she had reduced him from street king to trembling prey.
She didn't even wake up...
He stumbled back a step, voice cracking. "Why the hell aren't you saying something?!" he barked, whipping around to the gathered men. "How did she get here?!"
One of them, pale and drenched in sweat, stammered, "W-We don't know! What were we supposed to do—ask her?"
Another younger guy spoke up, swallowing hard. "I feel bad for Billy… He was drunk and thought he could, y'know, wake her."
Urbano narrowed his eyes. "What happened to Billy?"
They all slowly pointed.
Urbano followed their gaze—to the side of the porch, where Billy lay crumpled in a pool of his own blood, arms wrapped around his shredded gut. His intestines spilled out like grotesque noodles, his eyes locked wide in permanent terror, mouth frozen mid-scream.
The color drained from Urbano's face.
Oh shit.
"Is that motherfucker… dead?" he whispered, already knowing the answer. He shook his head slowly, voice going thin. "That motherfucker is dead as hell."
He staggered back, shock numbing everything—even the stump of his arm. She did that in her sleep?
The click of heels shattered the quiet.
Bella stepped out into the night, eyes bright with curiosity. But when she spotted Urbano's severed hand on the ground, her face paled.
"What the hell happened?" she asked, voice shaking slightly as her gaze shifted from the blood to the bodies.
"Just go back inside!" Urbano snapped. His voice was raw now, broken pride and real fear tangled in every word. "I got this."
But Bella had already seen Billy.
Her brows lifted. "Oh… I see. You've been mean to her, huh?"
There was a strange softness to her voice. Not pity—understanding. And something else.
Predatory calm.
She walked forward, heels tapping with casual defiance, each step sharper than the last.
"Bella! Stop! She's dangerous!" Urbano's bark hit the air like a weak threat. But Bella didn't break stride.
She knelt beside Farrah without hesitation, gently brushing a hand along her shoulder.
A collective gasp rippled through the onlookers.
"She actually touched her—and she's fine?!" one man hissed, elbowing his friend, eyes wide.
Bella leaned closer. "Excuse me, miss," she murmured, her voice like velvet wrapped around steel.
Farrah's eyes fluttered open.
Slowly.
Blinking, unfocused at first—then sharp.
She looked up at Bella, gaze steady, unreadable.
And everyone watching forgot how to breathe.
Farrah's expression twisted, shock bleeding into confusion. How… how did she touch me? her thoughts hissed, sharp and quick like blades. I've trained this body to slice apart anything that dares harm me.
And then, as if a veil lifted, the truth struck. I see… I didn't cut her. Not because I couldn't—because, deep down, I felt no hostility from her at all.
Her mind spun, searching for the trap she'd always found before. Kindness had come her way once or twice, but always with chains hidden behind smiles. Yet Bella's hand… it was unclouded, no greed, no malice. Just contact. Pure, gentle. For one, blinding moment, Farrah didn't feel like a monster.
Slowly, deliberately, she stood. The sudden motion was enough to make every man—including Urbano—instinctively step back. Only Bella remained, seated there with that same innocent little smile.
"Wow… You're pretty tall for a girl. How tall are you?" Bella asked, her tone as casual as if blood hadn't been spilled seconds ago.
Farrah's metal arm stayed wrapped around her sword, but it lowered, just a little. The tension gripping her spine eased.
"Five-eleven," she said at last, her voice low, rough—unpracticed at talking to someone who wasn't wearing a mask of schemes.
"Huh!? That's way above average!" Bella beamed. "Your mom and dad must be really tall."
The contrast in that voice—sweet, unbothered—made a short, reluctant chuckle slip out of Farrah. Like mist in morning sun, her edges softened.
Urbano blinked. "What the hell is even happening, bro…?" he muttered, eyes flicking from Bella to Farrah, to the men edging back, confused.
Bella's voice smoothed over the chaos like silk. "Would you like to come inside and sleep on one of our beds tonight? It's on the house. You've had quite the… adventure."
Leaning in close, Urbano hissed in her ear. "Bella… we're trying to pull the guys into the brothel, not scare them the hell away! What are you doing!?"
She didn't flinch. Her eyes stayed locked on Farrah as she spoke softly, "Isaiah 22:22: 'I will place on his shoulder the key to the house of David; what he opens no one can shut, and what he shuts no one can open.' You hold authority here, Urbano, but with it comes responsibility. This… this is the right thing."
Farrah bowed her head. "Thank you for the offer," she said quietly, a small but genuine smile ghosting across her lips. "But I don't want to impose. I could just—"
"Nonsense!" Bella cut her off, tugging on her arm. "Come on in. You can sleep in my room tonight."
And just like that, with a firm yet gentle pull, Bella guided her toward the door. Still dazed by the surreal kindness, Farrah let herself be led.
Warm light spilled out of the brothel windows, painting the porch gold and casting long shadows of the men still frozen outside. Scents of incense and alcohol drifted out to meet them, mixing with the metallic tang of spilled blood and the faint ozone kiss of Farrah's blade.
Behind them, Urbano stared at the severed hand he had scooped up. "A real fucking saint…" he muttered, already stomping away. "I'm getting a new hand. Bella's in charge till I get back!"
He stopped, glanced back at the men. "Behave yourselves. There's a woman in there who can kill you in her sleep. Don't piss her off. If you do, I swear I'll be mad when I have to clean up guts after."
The warning hung heavy in the air as he left.
Inside, Bella led Farrah to her room—unexpectedly neat and warm, an island of quiet. Paintings lined the walls, stories of passion and longing painted in soft strokes, a cruel contrast to the grit of the streets outside. And there, in the corner, a large bed waited with silk sheets that seemed to whisper promises of rest.
"Are you sure this is a whorehouse? It seems… so normal," Farrah murmured, scanning the room as her fingers brushed over a worn teddy bear on the shelf. Its missing eye stared back at her.
Bella laughed softly. "Yes, it is. We're allowed to customize our rooms. Makes things more personal. A room says a lot about its owner."
Farrah turned the bear over in her hands, something unfamiliar tugging at her chest. Why does something so small feel so heavy?
Bella's eyes lingered on the toy—her favorite, once. Then she smiled. "Oh, and your name? I'm Bella."
Farrah hesitated. Clutching the bear tighter, she felt that strange, unspoken warmth creeping into places she thought were dead.
"…Farrah. Just Farrah." Her voice was softer this time. "Why are you being so nice to me? You don't even know me."
"Hebrews 13:2," Bella replied, her voice like sunlight through a dusty window. 'Do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers, for thereby some have entertained angels unawares.'
Farrah tilted her head, uncomprehending but oddly comforted by the rhythm of the words.
A laugh slipped from her lips as she sank onto the bed, tossing the teddy aside. "You're just gonna keep quoting scripture like I know what any of that means?"
"Maybe." Bella shrugged, sitting beside her. The mattress dipped under their weight. "The Bible's one of the greatest stories ever told. But really?" She tapped Farrah's arm, not seduction, but something closer to a mother's touch. "I think you need a place to stop fighting for a few hours. So I'm giving you one."
Farrah lay back, her sword placed within reach, eyes closing as if pulled by gravity. "Thanks…" The word tasted foreign. The bed cradled her, the scent of lavender and vanilla softening the iron and blood in her lungs. For the first time in years, her guard began to crack.
Bella kissed her forehead, feather-light. "Sweet dreams," she whispered, genuine joy in her tone, before slipping out and closing the door.
Farrah drifted. Her last thought before sleep was a confused one: When did I forget what peace feels like?
Hours later, the sound of shouting ripped through the calm like a blade.
Farrah's eyes snapped open.
Her hand was already on her sword.
Chaos rolled down the hallway—screaming, crashing. She moved silently to the door, staying in the shadow of the hall.
"Where the fuck is Urbano's bitch-made ass!? I want all the smoke!"
The voice was a roar, drunk on fury, shaking the walls of the Lustful Oasis.
Bella stood in the center of it, hands outstretched, her voice a fragile calm in the storm. "Sir, please… whatever the issue is, we can talk. There's no need for violence."
"Shut up!" The intruder's spit flew with each word, his face flushed, reeking of whiskey. "He owes me a refund for last time!"
"With all due respect," Bella said evenly, "you hurt Kitty so badly she couldn't work for two weeks."
The man grinned, a cruel, ugly thing. "Hey, Urbano told me she likes it rough. I just gave her fine ass what she wanted."
"She begged you to stop," Bella shot back, voice steady but laced with steel. "And you didn't. Urbano said he'd kill you if he saw you again, and I don't want either of you hurt."
His fists flexed, knuckles like bricks. "Yeah? Well he left the door open. I'm walking in. And I swear he's a dead man before I am."
The hall seemed to shrink as he stepped closer.
And then Bella did something that froze the air.
She sank to her knees, head bowed, palms pressed to the floor. "Please… just leave. Don't hurt Urba. I'll do anything to make you go before he gets back."
Farrah's metal fingers curled tight around her sword, gears humming with restraint. One step closer and I'll cut you in half…
But she stayed hidden. Timing, she knew, was everything.
"Anything?"
The word came out like a blade dragged over gravel. J'Siah's grin widened, heavy with the stink of liquor and anticipation.
Bella lifted her face, eyes glassy with tears. Farrah's chest tightened. This is it. Move too soon, and she gets hurt. Too late, and…
"Just name it, J'Siah," Bella whispered, her voice trembling like glass about to shatter.
J'Siah's laugh rolled out, low and ugly. "Well, since you're already at cock level, I think you know what I want."
His meaty hand closed around her chin, tilting her face upward.
Don't. Farrah's fingers coiled around her hilt, muscles drawn taut. Don't touch her.
Bella's trembling hands moved toward his belt—
—and then silver split the shadows.
"Back. The fuck. Off."
The voice was ice.
Farrah stepped into the light, blade in hand, her figure cutting the tension like a scythe.
The hallway went silent.
J'Siah froze, still crouched in his filth, eyes narrowing at the stranger now standing between him and his prize.
"What the hell is this?" he spat. "One of Urbano's little toys?"
"You wish." Farrah's voice carved the air, sharp and merciless. "I thought men came here to pay for sex because they wanted to be men. But all I see is an abusive coward who gets angry when he loses money and scares women. Pathetic."
The insult hit, and his hands slid to his hips, fists clenching.
"You think that shiny robot arm and a sword make you tough?" His words hissed between clenched teeth. "I've killed Chimera with my bare hands. You're just a random whore."
Bella grabbed Farrah's arm, desperate. "Farrah, stop! Just let me handle him. He'll leave if I—"
But Farrah's gaze never moved from J'Siah.
He blinked, something dawning on him. "Wait… Farrah? Farrah as in Farrah the Reaper?"
Recognition lit up his face.
Then came the laugh.
"Hah! No way! That's you!? The champion?"
He slapped his thigh and leaned back, drunk on arrogance.
Farrah didn't flinch.
"So you know me," she said flatly, "and still think it's smart to walk in here and disrespect someone under my roof?"
"I paid for something. I want what's mine," he barked. "But now? Now I think I'll just take it out on you instead."
"Why?" Farrah's words sliced through him. "You get turned on beating up girls?"
His grin faltered.
"Oh, so you think you're funny?" he sneered, yanking out a chain from under his shirt—a thick, gaudy necklace stamped with the word Champion. "You think you're the only champ?"
Her fingers tightened around her hilt.
"I heard you were fifty and oh. I went a hundred and oh. While you were gone, I became the champ. People still talk about how awesome you were—blah blah blah," he mocked, looping the chain around his neck. "But me? I run the underground now. And you?"
He patted his waistband, revealing a pistol.
"But I do got this bitch on me tho. Just in case you really are everything they say."
"Coward," Farrah muttered.
Slowly, deliberately, she handed her sword to Bella. The sound of metal against leather echoed like a tolling bell.
"Fine," she said, cracking her cybernetic knuckles against her real palm. Crack. Crack. "We'll do this your way."
"Farrah, please!" Bella begged, clutching her arm. "He's not worth it—"
"I know."
Farrah's voice dropped low, like a promise whispered to the grave.
"But I won't let him disrespect you like this. You deserve better than this filth. And I…" Her eyes locked with J'Siah's, unblinking, merciless. "…I know too well that not everyone in this world is like you."
With that, she stepped forward.
Her stance lowered, weight balanced, the faint hum of her cybernetic arm buzzing like a predator's growl. The very air in the hallway tightened, anticipation coiling in every watching chest.
"Let's take this outside," Farrah said evenly, voice cold and unshaken. "Bella doesn't need to mop up what's about to happen."
She shifted aside, gesturing with a slight tilt of her chin.
J'Siah sneered, eyes cutting to Bella still clutching the sword. He couldn't resist the bait.
"Seeing is believing, hoe—show me somethin'!"
They stepped out into the alley, the Lustful Oasis door swinging shut behind them like a drumbeat.
J'Siah charged first, bull-strong, arm cocked back for a haymaker.
Farrah moved first.
She slid under the wild swing, spinning low, then vaulted up, her leg arcing like a whip.
CRACK!
Her heel connected square with his jaw, snapping his head sideways. Blood sprayed.
Before he could even stumble, she closed the gap.
Her robotic arm fired forward—a piston—burying itself into his gut.
Thwack.
The impact threw him backwards like a ragdoll, his back slamming into the brick wall so hard the mortar coughed dust.
He sucked air through his teeth, staggering—but didn't drop.
"Get—off—me!" he snarled, grabbing the nearest door and tearing it from its hinges.
He swung the whole thing like a massive club.
Farrah ducked the first arc, her braid snapping like a whip as the door whooshed past.
The second swing came faster, catching her mid-turn. She blocked with her flesh arm, teeth gritted, the shock rattling up her shoulder.
Enough of that.
Her robotic arm lashed out, smashing straight through the door, splinters flying.
Then she became motion.
Punches rained down—a storm of blows. Each strike a drumbeat, each step a funeral march.
Boom. Boom. Boom.
J'Siah tried to swing back, but his fists were sluggish. His arms met metal. He couldn't keep up.
A final hook was coming. She wound back—
—and missed.
J'Siah twisted, surprising fast, and locked his forearm around her neck from behind.
Her feet left the ground.
Pressure. Darkness.
She clawed at his arm. He drove a knee into her spine, then shoved her forward and, with a grunt, booted her hard into the ground.
WHAM!
The impact tore the breath from her lungs, blood flecking her lips.
Before she could rise, he seized her ankle, bellowing with rage, and swung her into the wall like a hammer.
CRASH!
Brick cracked.
Pain seared.
Then his foot rammed into her ribs, holding her pinned to the wall.
"They weren't lying about you being tough! You're giving me a run for—"
He didn't finish.
Her hand clamped around his ankle.
The air snapped as her elbow came down with all her weight.
POP.
His knee folded wrong.
The scream that ripped out of him was animal.
Before he could collapse, she grabbed his belt, yanked him forward and unloaded—
Fist. Fist. Fist.
Stomach, ribs, chest, face—each strike forcing him further into the pain.
A double spin, then—
WHAM!
Both heels slammed under his chin. His head snapped back, teeth clattering.
She grabbed him by the hair and pulled him down, driving her elbow across his jaw.
CRACK!
Blood and teeth sprayed the alley.
"You run your damn mouth too much," Farrah said coldly, dropping him like trash. "So I fixed it for you."
J'Siah staggered, staring at his own hands now wet with blood, his breathing ragged, his mind reeling.
"You… fuckin' bitch…" he spat through broken teeth.
Desperation lit his eyes. He pulled on blood magic, forging a blade of water in his ruined hand.
Farrah tilted her head.
The blade sliced forward.
The top corner of a building behind her sheared clean off, crashing into the alley.
"Whoa. Didn't see that coming," she said, dripping sarcasm.
He pulled his gun, emptying five shots at her in panic.
Her metal arm flashed, deflecting every bullet in a spray of sparks.
In a single motion, she scooped up the same broken door and smashed it into his face.
WHAM!
His head snapped back.
WHAM!
The second hit spun him.
He was still upright, but barely.
She dropped the door, ran, and dropkicked him in the spine.
CRRRACK!
The sound echoed down the alley like a gunshot.
He went flying—through one window, two, three—until glass and brick finally swallowed him in the street.
Farrah shaded her eyes with her hand.
"…Geez. Eh, maybe I hit him a little too hard," she muttered, shrugging.
From the second-floor windows, every face stared, mouths open.
J'Siah lay sprawled, gasping like a fish on dry land.
She didn't even look tired.
He tried to curse, but only a dry rasp came out.
Farrah's shadow loomed over him.
"You know, J'Siah…" Her voice was calm. Too calm.
"I've had a really shitty day. And you? You just made it worse."
She crouched, meeting his terrified eyes.
"Don't worry. I'm not going to kill you. That'd be too easy. Instead, I'll leave you here. Let everyone see you like this."
She tapped his broken jaw lightly with one metal finger.
"People think I kill men out of spite. That's not true. I respect strong fighters. I kill them so they can die with some honor."
Her gaze cut through him like glass.
"You? You don't even deserve that."
"But you?" Farrah crouched down so that he could see nothing but the chill in her eyes. "You're not one of them. You're just a sad, pathetic excuse for a man—not even worth my sword. However… I'll give you one thing: I'll let you live."
Her fingertip pressed against his sweaty forehead. Slowly, deliberately, she began to rub, smearing blood across his skin.
"See, J'Siah… I want you to live with today. I want it to eat at you. Every morning when you wake up, every time you touch that fake little champion's necklace, I want this day to crawl back into your skull."
Her voice was soft now, almost tender, but each word stabbed.
"And no matter how much trash you talked, no matter how loudly you screamed about being the 'current champ'…"
She dipped her finger into the blood pooling on his shirt and began to draw.
Round cheeks. A wide, twisted grin. Red lines running down from his eyes.
A clown.
"…deep down, you're just a pathetic boy who only feels like a man when he's breaking women because you thought nobody could break you. Well—"
Her finger dragged one last curve across his nose.
"—a woman just did. How does it feel, clown?"
Her voice scraped like nails on stone.
J'Siah's eyes burned, not just from pain but with the unbearable heat of humiliation. His body trembled, wrecked and useless, and hot tears cut clean lines down his filthy face as she stood.
Farrah wiped her bloody hand on her pants like she was brushing off dirt that had stuck too long.
"If you get up and never come back, fine. If you come back looking for revenge, that's fine too. Every single time you try to reclaim this worthless pride of yours, I'll beat you down harder than before."
Her tone hardened, a final nail in his ego's coffin.
"I hope you keep coming back. I'll keep breaking you until you give up. And I don't mean give up showing up—I mean give up living. Pray to whatever god you believe in that I finally kill you. And you know what? It'll never happen. You'll never get that mercy. Death can take you when you go crawling to it yourself."
She turned, walking back toward the neon glow of the Lustful Oasis.
J'Siah's blurry eyes caught something on the cobblestones—a couple of rolled-up healing scrolls. Left behind.
It wasn't mercy. It was an insult.
Clean yourself up, bitch.
The thought made his blood boil hotter than his shattered knee. He lay there, broken, humiliated, sobbing like a beaten animal.
And that's when Urbano finally showed up.
He was muttering, staring at his new hand like it personally insulted him.
"Twenty gold coins for a new damn hand. Twenty! Un-fuckin'-believable. And they tried to justify it too—'Oh, the damage was so bad, we couldn't just reconnect the wires and slap on some liquid metal glue.' That's exactly what they did! That was a fifteen-coin job, tops. But nooo, 'emergency hours,' they said. Highway robbery!"
So wrapped up in his rant, he nearly walked right past the chaos.
He stopped.
Blink.
"…Ain't no way I'm seeing all this, bro…"
The alley looked like a tornado and a wrecking ball had gotten into a bar fight.
Then his gaze found J'Siah, sprawled like a rag doll, face painted in his own blood, legs folded at wrong angles.
"…Oh."
His phone buzzed.
It was his boss.
"…shit."
He hesitated, then answered, trying to keep the fear out of his voice. "Yeah, boss…"
"YEAH, HEY. MIND EXPLAINING WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON!?"
Urbano ripped the phone from his ear, but it didn't matter. Seong-Ho's voice could have cut through steel.
"I WAS SLEEPING, URBANO. SLEEPING! THEN I WAKE UP TO FIFTEEN—FIFTEEN—CALLS SAYING SOME FOOL GOT LAUNCHED THROUGH SIX OF MY BUILDINGS, AND HIS STUPID ASS CAME FROM YOUR WHOREHOUSE!"
Urbano closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose.
"Y-yeah, boss, I—"
"I DON'T WANT TO HEAR IT!"
The tirade was endless. Urbano stood there like a man on death row, murmuring "yes, sir" and "sorry, sir," while his mind screamed, You've gotta be fucking kidding me!
Finally, Seong-Ho's voice cut the air like a guillotine:
"Clean it up. Everything. The street, the buildings, the clown crying in the gutter. And that bitch. You've got twenty-four hours. Or you're next."
The line went dead.
Urbano stood there, staring at the ruined alley, J'Siah's pathetic form, and the warm glow of the Lustful Oasis where Farrah the Reaper was probably already snoring.
"…Yeah," he muttered, pocketing the phone. "I'm so dead."