At 1 AM, the bustling gambling den continued its usual grind. It had been four years since she was sold here for her family's debt to work as a 'Bacchus.' She had spent those years learning the ropes while running errands for customers, enduring beatings, and gritting her teeth to survive. It was a life barely distinguishable from slavery. The interior of the den was thick with cigarette smoke, making it hard to breathe, while customers either wept or laughed over their chips. It was a bizarre sight where sorrow, joy, and emptiness all bled together.

That day, she was performing her role as a Bacchus, taking chips thrown by customers and exchanging them for goods. She rushed over when the boss called for her.

A VIP guest is coming later, so you handle the service.

She nodded at the boss's command. In this place, there was no such thing as refusal; absolute compliance was the only option. Even if a customer had a foul temper or wandering hands, she had to endure it because they were the customer. As she headed up to the third floor, the environment changed completely. The decor was luxurious, low jazz music played, and the faint scent of a diffuser filled the air. Having worked here for four years, this was her first time entering a VIP room, and she was nervous. The silence, devoid of the noise and profanity of the first floor, felt awkward and unfamiliar.

When she opened the door and entered, the guest was already seated. As her eyes met the man's—a man who looked cold and entirely devoid of warmth—she naturally lowered her gaze. She was terrified, unable to tell what he was thinking behind that expressionless face.