Rescued

Downstairs, Jenny kept gripping the wooden club nervously, her ears pricked as she listened to the movement upstairs.

When she saw Webber and Tom come down safely, she let out a long breath.

But when she next saw the four strange women behind them, faces deathly pale, clothes in disarray, eyes full of terror, their bodies still marked with wounds, she froze, her face filled with shock and confusion.

Webber did not explain at once. He signaled for Jenny to stay on guard, then led the four ragged women into a slightly cleaner room next door, though it was just as empty.

In the dim, wavering candlelight, the four disheveled women, tear tracks and bruises still on their faces, stood in a stiff line, their hands uneasily twisting the tattered hems of their clothes, their eyes dodging away, not daring to meet Webber's sharp gaze.

That timid look truly made them seem like elementary school students called up before the blackboard by the teacher to stand in punishment after making a mistake. Dust, the stink of blood, and a faint trace of cheap rouge and powder hung in the air, the atmosphere so oppressive it left one unable to breathe.

Webber looked around the room, which was still fairly sturdy but had been turned into a complete mess, then looked again at the four women before him who had clearly suffered every kind of torment. He tried to make his voice sound a little gentler.

Though his own mood at that moment was just as heavy as iron: "Tell us, those people who attacked you just now—where did they come from? And everyone in this Shantytown Area has run off. Why are you still here? Don't you know staying behind is waiting to die?"

His questions seemed to pierce through