Inside the apartment, Atticus had sold everything—his furniture, his refrigerator, whatever he could get his hands on—just to raise enough money for his mother’s burial. Tomorrow, she would be cremated.

  What was once a modest home was now almost completely empty. The only thing left was Belle’s bed, where Atticus sat, his voice low and tender.

  "Mom, let me comb your hair…" he whispered, as though she could still hear him.

  He had no idea how to prepare a woman for burial. He couldn’t afford a mortician, so all he could do was wipe her face and feet clean, trying to make her presentable.

  As Atticus carefully ran the comb through Belle’s hair, the door suddenly slammed open.

  "Atticus, you in there?!"

  Atticus turned around, his expression darkening as the leader of the group stepped inside, followed by a handful of thugs.

  The leader grinned, his eyes glinting maliciously. "Kid, when are you going to pay us back what your old man owes?"

  Atticus' voice was cold, as sharp as ice. "What are you doing here?"

  The thug sneered. "The son pays the father's debts. Your father’s dead, so now we come after you."

  The leader paused, eyeing Atticus' delicate, almost feminine features. He let out a low whistle. "Not bad. You’re a real looker. Our boss is gonna love you. Since you can’t pay up, how about you just come with us and settle the debt that way? Sell your pretty little ass to our boss, and call it even."

  The group erupted into laughter, leering at him with gross, lustful expressions.

  Their boss had a "special interest" in pretty boys, and when he saw a picture of Atticus, he had been instantly smitten. Now, he was determined to have the boy—by any means necessary.

  So he forced Atticus's "father" into a desperate situation. Who would have thought that he would actually shot people with a gun.

  Atticus' face darkened. His eyes narrowed, and a dangerous aura seemed to fill the room.

  He smiled, but it wasn’t a smile of kindness. It was bloodthirsty and cruel.

  "Fine," he said softly, his voice icy.

  The men looked at each other, taken aback. They weren’t expecting him to agree so easily. The leader, momentarily stunned by how beautiful Atticus was, swallowed hard and stepped forward.

  "Shit, you really are something. A face like that should be seen before it’s sent off to the boss," the leader muttered, his fingers reaching toward Atticus' face with a greasy smile.

  Atticus didn’t flinch. He stood still, his expression unreadable, allowing the man’s filthy, cigarette-stained fingers to touch his skin. But his eyes gleamed with something darker—something dangerous.

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  The man’s hand lingered on his cheek, but Atticus’ gaze shifted subtly to his wrist. The leader didn’t notice, too focused on the boy’s beauty.

  The man let out a low whistle and spat out the cigarette butt. "Fuck, you're perfect. I wonder how you taste. The boss will be done with you soon enough, and then I'll get my turn."

  He grabbed Atticus by the wrist, yanking him forward roughly. "Since you don’t have the cash, then come with us. You’re gonna be a real treat for the boss. Don’t worry, we’ll make sure you’re well taken care of."

  Atticus’ face remained blank, hiding the darkness in his eyes as he slowly followed the men out of the apartment.

  But just as they reached the door...

  “No!”

  Clarissa broke free from Clementine’s grip and ran toward them, instinctively placing herself between the men and Atticus.

  She had no idea why she acted so impulsively. But the moment her feet hit the stairs, a sudden, violent memory crashed into her mind—one that didn’t belong to her at all.

  Eleven-year-old Atticus, holding a knife. A man’s bloody corpse lying at his feet, mutilated beyond recognition. His eyes bulging, the lower half of his body completely severed.

  Under the blood-red light, Atticus' delicate features twisted into something far darker, his eyes glowing with a murderous hunger that seemed to devour everything in its path.

  Clarissa’s heart skipped a beat, and her head spun, pain flooding her temples.

  Without thinking, she bolted back into the room, the vile, lecherous words of the men around her echoing in her ears.

  Her chest tightened, the bloody image replaying in her mind, followed by the image of a thin, helpless boy, sobbing uncontrollably while clutching his mother's lifeless body. Desperation and sorrow filled every inch of him.

  The two pictures fought for dominance inside her head, and she felt herself trembling uncontrollably. Her lips were tightly pressed together, and blood began to bead where her teeth had cut into her skin.

  The men hadn’t expected Clarissa to show up. Their leader’s eyes immediately turned to her, flashing with lust as they traveled over her figure.

  When his gaze lingered on her chest, his tongue ran across his lips, and he couldn’t help but swallow. “Well, well... Looks like women are still better.”

  Clarissa recoiled in disgust, quickly crossing her arms over her chest as she spat, “How much does he owe you? I’ll pay it off.”

  The leader’s grin widened. “You really want to pay for him, huh? His old man owes a lot...”

  Clarissa’s teeth ground together. “How much?”

  “Stop playing games, sweetheart. His father owed me $200,000. With the interest, that’s $800,000 now.”

  Clarissa cursed the loan sharks under her breath, but she kept her composure. “I don’t have that much cash on me. I’ll write you a check.”

  The man pulled out a checkbook and shoved it toward her. “Don’t try any funny business, alright?”

  Clarissa grabbed the checkbook and signed her name without hesitation.

  He reached for it eagerly, but Clarissa yanked it back. “Hold on a minute.”

  The thug raised an eyebrow. “What? You backing out?”

  “I’m not stupid,” she snapped. “Once you take the money, who’s to say you won’t cause trouble later? I want an IOU.”

  The man sneered but handed over the document. Clarissa scanned it quickly to make sure it was legitimate before handing over the check.

  The thug stuffed the check into his pocket, his eyes drinking in Clarissa’s body with an air of regret.

  Before he left, he couldn’t resist speaking again. “You know, I like you. How about we make it official? You could be my girl. I’ll take care of you. You could spend money however you like.”

  Clarissa fought the urge to vomit as she glared at him, her voice icy. “I wouldn’t take a single dime from scum like you. Get out. Now.”

  The man’s face twisted in anger. “You—smelly bitch...”

  Clarissa stood her ground, voice steady. “The money’s been paid. If you stay here, I’ll sue you for trespassing and sexual harassment. Don’t test me. I’ve got money for Atticus' debt, and I can pay to bury you in lawsuits too. So get the hell out. Now.”

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