Blackstone Code-Chapter 395: Worse Than Tragedy Is Hopelessness

Preyton was a man of rich experience and sharp intelligence—qualities that had brought him this far. In the end, it wasn’t his intellect that failed him, but fate itself. He had lost to someone favored by the goddess of destiny.

Still, there was no denying his capability and cunning. Had his opponent not been Lynch—had it not been the Federation desperate for a win—the outcome might have been entirely different, perhaps even in another country, against another adversary.

He looked at the girl standing before him, her makeup thick and heavy in an attempt to appear older, though she was clearly still very young.

A woman could hide her age and looks in many ways, but never her hands. One glance at a woman’s hands could reveal her age and physical condition.

This was a young girl. And youth, for older men, was the ultimate stimulant.

Just as Preyton was about to turn her down, a thought occurred to him. “I don’t like doing it outside.”

Cheap pleasures come with cheap ways. The girl quickly caught on. “I have a place, not far from here.”

“Take me,” Preyton replied, not even bothering to ask the price. Any woman selling her body was within his means.

The girl found his request odd. Most men cared about price, not location. Some even sought the thrill of doing it in public, verbally humiliating her, sometimes even hitting her, reveling in the risk of exposure.

To her, they were all perverts. This was the first time she’d met someone who didn’t want to do it on the street.

She hesitated, glancing back at the dark alley, but then a forceful pull from Preyton snapped her attention back.

“If I were you, I’d make sure your friends don’t interrupt us. I can give you fifty bucks.”

Preyton was a scoundrel. He knew how to motivate. Fifty bucks could support a family for half a month in these times.

The girl hesitated for a moment, then took his hand. “Follow me…”

They passed through shadow and light, arriving shortly at a basement not far from the station.

The room reeked of decay and rot, filled with trash. A few damp, heavy gym mats—probably stolen from a school—served as a bed.

As they approached the bed, a new stench rose from the corners and walls: the unmistakable trace of genetic residue.

It was revolting.

Preyton scanned the room casually. The girl quickly went through the motions, kneeling on the mat, looking up at him.

By the time the first light of dawn broke, Preyton was already awake. The stench was nauseating, but the youthful body beside him had filled him with renewed energy.

As soon as he opened his eyes, his hand went under the mat. The bag was still there—money and weapons inside.

His movements woke the girl. She watched as he pulled out the bag and took out an old twenty-Sol bill. “Go buy some food. I’m hungry. Then we need to talk.”

The girl nodded, dressed quickly, and left. Watching the door close, Preyton began to formulate new plans.

He had planned to hide in an obscure, unnoticed place, but even the most remote locations came with risks. Renting or buying a place drew attention. Neighbors would notice unfamiliar faces. That was dangerous. ℞À𐌽𝔬ꞖЕs̈

But what had happened the night before gave him a new idea. He could use this girl’s identity to hide among the locals.

Even if someone tracked him, they’d search hotels, rentals, or known hideouts—not a run-down basement in the slums. This could be the perfect place to lie low, perhaps even indefinitely.

Outside, the girl was stopped by her companions. One boy, fairly handsome, complained, “You shouldn’t have locked the door. We slept outside all night!”

She was confused—she hadn’t locked it. That basement was always open. But she didn’t argue. Maybe the man had locked it.

The boy continued, “How much did he give you?”

Another young man stepped closer. “Was it at least ten bucks?”

She hesitated, then lied. “Twenty. And I still need to buy him breakfast.”

She pulled out the twenty-Sol bill, only for her supposed boyfriend to snatch it. “Twenty? Must’ve been a hell of a time. See if he’ll stay a few days. If he spends more, we make more.”

She reached out to grab it back, but he shoved her away. She looked troubled. “He asked for breakfast. At least give me enough for a burger or hot dog.”

The boy sneered. “You’ve already slept with him. Trade it for a breakfast.” He referred to a local street vendor who sold wraps and hot dogs—but no burgers.

Sometimes, when the girls were starving or just wanted better food, they’d go to him. Both parties got what they wanted.

Some people hated this economic collapse. Others thrived in it. Without it, young girls wouldn’t be so quick to lie on filthy mattresses.

“Look, I’m doing you a favor letting you stay with me. Don’t make trouble,” the boy said, waving the bill. “This is mine.”

The girl stood there in a daze, watching them walk away. After a few seconds, she forced a smile—maybe this was just life.

She reached the corner of the street and stopped at a burrito stall. Hesitantly, she asked, “Hey… can I get one? I really need it.”

The vendor glanced back. “Ninety-nine cents…”

She looked downcast. Maybe she was rebellious, maybe depraved—but she’d never thought she’d be powerless before a breakfast. “Look, this is awkward, but I don’t have any money and I really need this.”

She turned in place, showing her outfit—a short skirt and tube top. No way to hide money. “Please.”

This was about the fifty Sol. She had already lost twenty. She couldn’t afford to lose the rest.

The vendor’s eyes lingered briefly. Then he lowered his head and started preparing the wrap. “You’ve got a few minutes…”

About ten minutes later, she returned to the basement and handed the warm, fragrant wrap to Preyton. She looked hungry, her eyes locked on the food.

Preyton gave her a glance. “Didn’t get one for yourself?” He didn’t ask for change. Instead, he showed concern.

She first shook her head, then nodded. “No… Yes, sir. I already ate.”

As Preyton ate the burrito, he said, “I’ve run into some trouble. I need a local to help me hide from some enemies. I can tell you’re a good girl—maybe you can help me.”

The girl shook her head slightly. “I can’t help you, sir. I can’t even take care of myself. I can’t help anyone.”

Preyton didn’t argue or press. He simply asked gently, “Where are your parents?”

“They divorced a long time ago.”

“Who do you live with?”

“The judge said I couldn’t be placed with my father before I turned eighteen, so I live with my mother.”

“And you…” Preyton glanced around the room, silently questioning the situation.

Whether it was for the money or simply because too much had happened too quickly, whatever shred of pride she had left seemed meaningless now. She had nothing to shield her anymore—not even dignity.

She suddenly seemed eager to speak. “My mother got married. You know how it is, sir. In this society, a woman can’t survive on her own—she has to find a man.”

“He’s a bastard. He hits her. Sometimes he hits me. Sometimes he…,” she gave a dry laugh, “wanted us all to sleep in the same bed. So I ran away.”

“Then I ran into another group of bastards. Sir, I really can’t help you.”

Hearing her miserable story didn’t stir much in Preyton. He had done too many terrible things, seen far worse than what this girl had endured.

He simply stayed silent for a moment, then said, “If I gave you the chance to make that man die, what would you say?”

She still shook her head. “If he died, what would happen to my mother?”

“As long as there’s money, there’s no problem in the Federation that can’t be solved,” Preyton said, patting his leather bag. “Three thousand, five thousand, ten, twenty, or more.”

“What you need isn’t a man. It’s money.”

The girl looked at Preyton, as if trying to determine if he was serious. After a long pause, she quietly asked, “And your problem… can’t be solved with money?”

Preyton didn’t flinch. “But you can.”