The slums.
Homeless drifters crowded into the filthy corners.
There was always a long line outside the poorhouse.
Percy Anias, an Investigation Bureau agent, tugged uncomfortably at the secondhand clothes he'd bought at a flea market and silently observed everything around him.
He saw a man in his thirties walk by, unshaven and dressed in a dirty, cheap formal suit.
The man might once have belonged to the middle class, but a sudden illness or unemployment would have been enough to crush his family, bankrupt him, and leave him among the homeless.
From the numb despair in the man's eyes, Percy sensed that he might still be burdened with a large debt—a silence and pain that seemed... on the brink of an abyss.
What a shame... I'm only an investigator. There's nothing else I can do...
Percy knew that when some gentlemen and ladies first went bankrupt, they still tried to maintain a respectable appearance.
The men might leave early and return late, pretending they still had jobs. Their wives might tidy up their only set of clothes and walk with their chins slightly raised, clinging to a false sense of pride rather than admitting the cruel truth that they had fallen in status.
Then cold society would break them down, one step at a time.
They'd be evicted from their rented rooms for falling behind on their wages, and become homeless.
They'd have to sell their coats and jewelry, then face winter without anything to keep warm.
In the end, some of them died, while others joined the ranks of the homeless on the streets.
Percy walked on in silence, then suddenly heard a heavy thud and a cry of alarm behind him.
The crowd scattered, screaming, revealing a man lying in a pool of blood. It was the