The K Club stood out in the surrounding neighbourhood—not for anything else, but for how lit and noisy it was inside. There was no need to explain how bubbling it felt within.
Eleanor's bike roared into the compound, having everything but life. With a quick turn, she switched off the engine and climbed down.
She ran straight into the club, her heels almost touching her head. Once inside, she darted straight for the dressing room.
The way she walked through the route suggested how well-accustomed she was to the place.
She dropped her backpack and pulled out a piece of clothing. She began to undress, her eyes darting around and her heart racing.
She quickly put on the clothes from her backpack—a white shirt and a short black skirt. A waitress uniform. Her hands trembled as she buttoned the shirt.
Once she was done, she started sneaking toward the public club room. As she pushed open the door, she breathed a sigh of relief.
But before she could take a step, she felt a palm on her shoulder.
Eleanor froze. As she turned her head, her gaze met a burly man. It was Mr. Praise, the manager—a man with no mercy.
"I caught you," the man said, his voice thick. "You are late."
Eleanor took a deep breath and nodded.
"You know the punishment. Go serve the private room." He lifted his palm from her shoulder and left, not bothering to wait for any complaint.
Eleanor stamped her feet on the floor. She hated serving the private room. It was filled with rich old perverts or spoiled second-generation brats.
"What are you waiting for?" Mr. Praise's voice rang out.
Reluctantly, Eleanor made her way to the private room.
She stood by the door.
As long as she could survive this night, she would be able to settle her house rent.
She took a deep breath and straightened her back. With a sweet smile, she pushed the door open.
The room was filled with loud chatter. Inside were rich second-generation men—only males.
All of them looked at her at once. The light in their eyes was immediately replaced with lust.
Eleanor felt uncomfortable under their gaze, but she maintained her smile.
"Good evening, sirs. I am the waitress in charge of this room."
They remained silent for a moment until one of them whispered, "What a beauty."
"Her legs are well-tanned."
"She has a good face card."
"Her lips look kissable."
They made open comments about her.
"Why don't you serve us drinks?" another suggested.
Eleanor immediately complied. She bent over to pour the drinks.
As she did, their eyes travelled from her legs to her bare thighs.
She handed a drink to the last person—a man with a thick golden chain dangling from his neck.
"Drink with me," he said.
Eleanor rejected politely. "I'm sorry, sir. I don't drink."
He grabbed her hand. "Just one."
Eleanor tried to pull away, causing the drink to spill onto his clothes.
She gasped. "Oh my—"
"You soiled my shirt," he said cunningly.
"I'm sorry," Eleanor apologized quickly. "I'll go wash it."
The others didn't interfere; they only watched the scene with interest.
"You don't have to," he whispered seductively. "Just kiss me, and I'll let it go."
"I'm sorry, I can't," Eleanor said, shaking her head.
"Then—" he squinted and picked up his phone. "Mr. Praise, one of your waitresses has soiled my shirt."
Late at night, Eleanor walked out of the bar.
The issue had been resolved—with Eleanor paying for the shirt, which the man claimed was luxurious. It cost her her salary for the month and all her savings.
Now she was left with only thirty dollars from the bar and was unable to pay her house rent.
She took a deep breath. She was frustrated, but she wasn't breaking. She had been through worse and survived.
She got on her bike, but as she tried to start it, the key snapped inside the lock.
She took another deep breath and began walking home, dragging the bike behind her.
The night wind didn't ease her stress. Instead, it weighed her heart down with unpaid bills.
Her parents had died in an accident while she was in high school, leaving no property behind. She couldn't afford to continue school and couldn't get a decent job.
When she reached home, a notice was pasted on her door:
PAY YOUR RENT — DEBTOR
She pushed the door open and lay down immediately, utterly exhausted.
As she closed her eyes, she drifted into dreamland.
A vast, hollow chamber stretched endlessly in all directions, carved from black stone veined with dull silver runes. The ceiling arched so high it disappeared into shadow, as though the sky itself had been buried alive.
No torches burned. The only light came from the chains.
They radiated a cold, pale glow—threads of written fate made solid—each link etched with words that crawled when stared at too long. Prophecies. Prayers. Condemnations.
At the center stood the throne.
It was not built, but grown—a mass of obsidian and bone fused together, shaped like something that had once been alive and had chosen to remain seated even after death. The seat curved inward, forcing its occupant to sit upright, never granted the mercy of collapse.
Death was bound to it.
Chains stretched from his wrists, throat, ribs, and spine, pinning him to the throne. Silence ruled the space. Time stood still.
Beside the throne, on a stone pedestal worn smooth by waiting, rested the diary.
Eleanor wandered around. As she moved, she floated—her body passing through a pillar.