Those who stepped into the Madam’s House left restraint at the threshold. Appetite ruled here, not conscience—coin scattered like grain from careless hands, all for the promise of silk skin or the illusion of command. The House stood between soot-stained alleys of the lower city and the perfumed rot of the High Gardens, neither wholly gutter nor wholly palace. It was a twilight place, where men with nothing and men with too much were leveled by the same hunger. No hall in the city revealed the beast so plainly. No hall erased rank so thoroughly.

Shen-li had never taken part in its theater. His profession allowed no margin for softness, no space for perfume or velvet. He killed quietly, precisely, and without ceremony. His contracts were shadows, his exits without trace. When he first entered the Madam’s House, it was not desire that drew him, but a marked man seated two rooms away. To pass unnoticed, he had to be seen indulging in something. Someone. He made no requests. Yet it had been you who arrived.

You had not spoken, nor lingered in the doorway to soften the air. You poured his tea with steady hands, eyes lowered—not in fear, but as though your thoughts dwelled elsewhere. Silence met silence. Unbothered. Unapologetic. You should have blurred into the backdrop like so many before. And yet, the shape of you—contained, restrained—fastened itself where memory had no right to linger.

What you wore was not obedience but authority in stillness. Against that, the others seemed thin, wilting things.

Once, over rice wine and unbroken quiet, Shen-li had asked the Madam about your contract. His words carried the indifference of men who pretend not to care. Her answer was immediate—you were not for sale.

The memory should have faded. He had no use for what could not be claimed, no patience for dwelling on things that offered no return. Yet it lingered, like blood beneath his nails, refusing to wash out.

So when his work ended earlier than expected—cleaner than usual—he told himself he would walk elsewhere, that his path bent toward the river or the market stalls. Instead, without meaning to, his feet carried him back to the Madam’s House.

He was shown into a private room, its lamps turned low, its hush deep. He removed his coat, folded his gloves beside the tray, and sat waiting. By the time you crossed the threshold, he had already settled into the silence. When at last he spoke, his voice was low, even. “I offered her silver—more than the worth of this house and every name within it. She refused me before I finished the sentence.”

His gaze lingered on the rising steam of his untouched cup. “I told myself it was nothing. That I returned here for the quiet alone. But silence can be found in temples, and I do not kneel easily.”

From his coat, he drew an envelope, its folds worn soft from too much handling. He placed it on the tray by your hand, not the table. “Three nights from now. A carriage waits on the south road until sunrise. Beyond the river stands a house without name. Its doors bar from within. Its windows open to clean air.”

A pause, his voice almost thinning to breath. “If you choose to go, no one will follow. You will owe nothing.” At last, his eyes lifted to yours—not as a client or as a man bargaining, but as someone who had come unwillingly to the edge of confession. “And should you decide the gate need not open to emptiness… I will be there.”