The entire alley was surrounded by burly, menacing figures. The ground was in disarray, littered with items shattered by kicks or broken by heavy fists. The two figures huddled on the ground, their faces obscured by the dim light. However, the sight of the thugs standing around them, occasionally landing punches and kicks, made it all too clear how dire their situation was.
Taras stood on the outer circle, having been temporarily called in by the foreman to help. The reason was simple—his tall, muscular build and skill in combat. Even though he was now assigned to the VIP floor to entertain guests, he was occasionally called in to help out. He stood there, not participating in the chaos inside. After all, the people inside were just enforcers, and their job was only to keep watch.
There was no need for anyone to be on lookout; the normal passersby, upon seeing the scene, kept their distance, quickly walking away. Occasionally, one or two brave souls might dare to call the police once they were far enough, but that was rare. However—Taras narrowed his eyes. The fact that no police had arrived by now made it evident just how powerful the forces behind this club were. Those two daring journalists were likely in grave danger.
At first, the alley was filled with a mix of pleading and mocking voices, but now, the sounds of the two journalists grew fainter and fainter. It seemed they were severely injured and on the brink of losing consciousness.
In the dark, Taras clenched his fists tightly. Dealing with these pests was easy for him, but doing so would alert the enemy, making it much harder for him to assume another identity and infiltrate again. Every second of delay meant more victims. As he gritted his teeth in frustration, the sound of a siren suddenly blared, and for a moment, Taras almost doubted its authenticity. But soon, a police car arrived. The crowd around the alley scattered in a panic. The henchmen, however, had their own ways of escaping. After all, with only a handful of officers arriving in one car, evading capture was hardly a problem.
Back at the club, Taras secretly followed the bodyguard captain, staying out of sight. He overheard the captain cursing angrily on the phone, clearly upset about the police presence, as if they were interfering with his plans. Taras also heard him make another call, arranging for someone to meet him at the hospital to finish off those two journalists.
In fact, the two reporters originally had no chance of capturing any sensitive activities at the clubhouse. However, by coincidence, a VIP arrived on the sixth floor today. A group of glamorous female hostesses weren't interested in him, but they set their sights on a female guest in a private room on the third floor, even resorting to using the modified G-11 drug. After drugging her, the woman was secretly taken away. While passing through the VIP parking lot, the reporters' keen senses noticed something unusual, and they stealthily took photos and sent the data. This led to them being caught and interrogated for the information.
In such places of indulgence, the presence of female guests was nothing out of the ordinary. To put it plainly, in bars and clubs around the world, some even openly offer free entry for women. Why? Because the resident promoters often serve as covert matchmakers. When familiar male guests take an interest in a woman visiting the venue, the promoters make the connection. If the man and woman hit it off, she sits at his table, where he's encouraged to order more drinks and spend more. It's a win-win situation. However, this system is based on mutual consent, and most of these establishments do not openly engage in illegal activities. It's rare for them to blatantly risk using drugs; instead, they often secretly slip something like a sedative into a drink. The intimacy between men and women is hard to prove, and the key is to leave no trace, minimizing any potential trouble. The goal is always to avoid leaving behind any incriminating evidence.
But the modified G-11 is no simple matter. Just one dose can lead to addiction, and consuming more can severely damage the body, with long-term adverse effects. This is far more dangerous than the usual pleasures of such venues; it's downright deadly. Such high-end establishments typically go to great lengths to avoid leaving any incriminating evidence. The more exclusive and private the club, the more likely the illicit activities are separated from the other illegal dealings to avoid attracting too much attention. So why is this particular clubhouse doing the opposite? It seems almost as if it's brazenly inviting people to come and catch them in the act.
Taras sensed something was wrong. Before he could think it through, he heard a commotion around him. Without hesitation, he quickly moved away from the bodyguard captain, leapt through the window, and dropped into the room on the next floor. After straightening his appearance, he casually walked out of the room, acting as if nothing had happened. Just as he was about to leave, he was grabbed by a familiar female attendant from the fifth floor. She had always been attentive to him, and it was clear she had something on her mind. She whispered, "I heard something went wrong with the delivery. Don't go over there; they might send you to deal with it yourself."
Taras asked casually, "Baby, it's fine. Our boss is so capable, even if something goes wrong with the delivery, the police will cover for us."
"No! I heard that all the VIPs were killed."
This time, Taras was genuinely surprised. He asked, "Which delivery?"
"It's the girl from the private room on the third floor. After she was drugged and taken away, her classmate called the police. Strangely, the police responded. The delivery crew, afraid the situation would blow up, quickly rushed back to their hotel room to move things. But when they arrived, they found the girl unconscious and all the other guests dead."
"Is she still a student? University student? Which school?" Taras's eyelid twitched. He suddenly remembered the message from earlier that day, where Faceless Ghost had told him that someone from the school had brought up this club. He had been asked to look into the student's identity, but after checking, he found nothing suspicious and hadn't given it further attention. After all, he and Faceless Ghost were investigating along separate lines. Faceless Ghost was highly skilled and had vast experience in handling cases, so Taras didn't feel the need to worry. Could it really be such a coincidence? The girl picked for the third floor was with Faceless Ghost? But there was no way Faceless Ghost would kill someone over a girl, not even a criminal would act so recklessly.
"It seems to be from National University. A lot of students from that school have rather complex backgrounds."
Taras's heart sank. He almost wanted to contact Faceless Ghost immediately to find out what was going on. Had the police been alerted because Faceless Ghost's identity had been exposed at the local police station? Or was it the chain reaction from the deaths of those VIPs that triggered it?
Let's talk about this morning at the school—
The student sitting across from Arabella was the class monitor, named Bruce. He had a refined appearance and came from a well-off family, being the youngest son of a prominent family. It was said that his ancestors had made their fortune through the production of various perfumes and fragrances.
As the class monitor, he took good care of the two new students. A few days later, he approached Arabella and invited her to his birthday party that evening, which he had secretly booked at the country's most famous top-tier club under his mother's name. When Arabella heard the name of the club, she smiled at him and nodded in agreement.
In addition to Arabella, Bruce also invited Faceless Ghost and some other classmates with whom he was close. However, the students from well-off families were somewhat displeased when they learned that Arabella had been invited. After all, the social hierarchy in the school was clear, and someone like Arabella, a special enrollment student, wasn't supposed to interact with them privately. But since the party host had extended the invitation, they reluctantly accepted. None of them were from top-tier conglomerate families, and many had long coveted the club, so they weren't about to give up the opportunity just because of a special student.
After receiving the invitation from Bruce, Faceless Ghost immediately contacted Taras in secret and instructed him to investigate Bruce's background. Whether this was intentional or not, it was the first time in a while that the school and the club had any direct connection.
In the evening, a group of people arrived at the club's entrance, where a line of well-dressed young men and women had gathered. Since Bruce had made a reservation for a private room, a charming and alluring woman emerged from the club to greet them. With a bright smile, she said she would be their dedicated hostess for the night.
Inside the club on the first floor, the dim, flickering lights created a hazy atmosphere. Passionate and restless men and women swayed their bodies to the intense beats, and the scene was alive with energy. The air was filled with the sounds of thumping music, and the large dance floor saw people dancing closely, moving rhythmically. Cheers and bursts of excitement echoed from time to time, accompanied by frequent displays of extravagant bottle-popping, all adding to the electric, chaotic atmosphere.
The public relations officer, respectfully guided the group of students to the luxurious and exquisite private room on the third floor. Bruce warmly greeted everyone and ordered a round of drinks. Although they were still students, most were already in their third year of university, legally adults and on the brink of entering society. Some of them had already joined their family businesses. They were no strangers to places like this. However, this club required reservations even for the regular floors, let alone the VIP floors on the third floor, which were the stuff of rumors. They could only hope to soon take control of their family businesses and earn the privilege of accessing the floors above.
For the birthday party, everyone—both male and female—had dressed up. Even Faceless Ghost, eager to fit in with his nouveau riche son image, had changed into a full set of designer clothes. Only Arabella remained in her simple attire, with no makeup or embellishments. In a crowd of beautifully dressed young masters and ladies, she stood out like a sore thumb.
Faceless Ghost casually glanced over. He remembered the new student's name—Vivian—who had barely made an impression during her few days at school. But now, as he observed her again, her calm, smiling demeanor seemed vaguely familiar. However, he couldn't quite place where the feeling came from.
"Vivian, I know students like you probably don't come to places like this often," Bruce said, having fun with the others. He spotted the new student, Vivian, sitting off to the side and quickly walked over with a bottle of wine to pour her a drink. He gestured for her to relax and enjoy herself.
Under the alias "Vivian," Arabella held her glass of wine in one hand, casually swirling it before bringing it to her lips. The wine was strong, and while most girls might have been tipsy after just a few sips, she drank it without hesitation. Her eyes lingered briefly on Faceless Ghost trying to blend in with the crowd, and she calmly downed the drink.
Bruce, perhaps sensing the potential awkwardness of a new student in such an environment, decided to stay by her side, softly chatting with her and occasionally refilling her glass. They shared a few toasts, and before long, they had both consumed three or four glasses.
With a slight flush on her face and a subtle hint of intoxication in her gaze, Arabella smiled at Bruce. "It's quite lively outside. I think I'll step out and take a look."
Bruce, ready to accompany her, stood up. "Shall I come with you?" Arabella waved her hand with a gentle smile. "No need, I'll just take a quick look at the dance floor below. I'll be back soon."
Arabella opened the door and stepped out. Faceless Ghost glanced up for a moment, his attention briefly piqued. After all, this club hid many unsavory secrets. Though the young lady's appearance was unremarkable, and amidst the throngs of delicate beauties she might not easily catch anyone's eye, since he was present at the scene, he naturally had to keep a watchful eye over these students. As he drank and played games with the others, he discreetly kept an eye on the girl in the hallway, unaware of the quick flicker of calculation in Bruce's eyes.
Arabella leaned on the railing, gazing down at the chaotic revelers below for a moment. Then, almost without thinking, she lifted her gaze and cast a glance upward. Each private room on the upper floors was concealed behind doors that hid the interiors completely, with the outer walls made of special glass, rendering it impossible to peer inside. From the corner on the third floor, a row of heavily armed bodyguards stood guard. It was clear that every floor had similar security. With such tight protection for the privacy of the guests seeking pleasure, why would the club openly use a G-11? Various types of recreational pills could easily sedate these adults, making them lose control and temporarily lose their senses. Was using a G-11 really necessary?
What role was Bruce playing in this? There was nothing wrong with the alcohol; was he just a playboy and a lecher? Yet, with a group of beautiful women around, why would he focus on her? Was it because of her powerless status, making her an easy target? But someone like him, a wealthy young man, would surely have plenty of women eager to entertain him. Why bother causing trouble?
Suddenly, Arabella's eyes grew cold as she fixed her gaze upon a certain private room on the sixth floor. The floor-to-ceiling glass offered no view of the interior, yet her keen senses alerted her to the fact that someone was watching her. Could it be the person behind the scenes?
Inside the private room on the sixth floor, a young man in a floral shirt held a glass, leaning against the window, grinning and making lewd gestures at those below. The room was filled with a decadent atmosphere, with five or six young men sprawled drunkenly, their bodies exposed. Two or three female hostesses were kneeling on the floor, serving them. One of the men, seeing his companion standing stupidly in front of the window, pushed aside the beautiful woman who had been kneeling between his legs. With a quick swipe, he wiped saliva from his dick onto the woman's face, then pulled up his pants and walked over to the window. He asked, "What's going on? Do we have some interesting 'merchandise' downstairs?"
"Look at the third floor—there's a woman staring at our room."
The young man took the high-definition binoculars that were resting beside the floor-to-ceiling glass and peered through them for a while. After a moment, he muttered, "Are you talking about the woman in the light blue clothes? She's wearing plain trousers and not even a decent skirt. She doesn't seem remarkable at all."
The young man in the floral shirt below grinned lewdly. "Don't you think her gaze is special? What's the point of messing with those dumb, obedient playthings? Why don't we make a training series? What would happen to a woman like her after being trained? Turn her into a beauty, then step by step, make her a well-behaved dog. Doesn't that sound exciting?"
"Special?" The other young man, who had been with him, took the binoculars away. He didn't think the woman was anything special, but his companion's suggestion was indeed tempting. A live-streamed training process would certainly be quite thrilling.
"Go call the floor manager. Tell him I want that 'merchandise.' I'm willing to pay three times the usual price to get her."
While the ruckus continued upstairs, Arabella turned and returned to her private room. She sat back in the corner, silently awaiting whoever would make their move—whether it would be a passerby or someone from behind the scenes. In the dim, refracted light, she lifted her glass and poured herself a full measure of strong liquor. She swirled it slightly, finding no fault with the drink. Her eyes briefly glanced at the writhing figure of Bruce dancing in the room, then, without a trace, shifted toward Faceless Ghost.
She had set the stage for the Faceless Ghost; now, all she had to do was wait for him to perform.
