The first thing she noticed was the Eiffel Tower.

Cixi had never been outside Demond City, and everything she knew about other countries came from what she had seen on social media, so the first thought that struck her was confusion—what was she doing in France? In Paris? Could a soul travel this far from where her body remained?

She had heard countless romantic tales about Paris, so why was she drawn here to witness a murder?

"No, it can’t be! I don’t want to watch any horror in this Romantic City. Please take me away from here. I don’t want to watch any murder in this country," She screamed, but no one heard her.

Her scream faded when she heard voices nearby, and she turned toward the sound to see a group of men standing in a narrow alley, speaking in a language that should have been foreign to her. As her soul moved closer, the words slowly grew clearer.

Cixi’s spirit hovered at the entrance of a dimly lit backstreet alley tucked behind a row of shuttered shops in the outer arrondissements, far away from the tourist glow of the Eiffel Tower and the Champs-Elysees.

She counted them and realised there were five men in the alley, four standing while one lay on the ground.

The four men loomed over their victim in dark hoodies pulled over their heads, baggy jeans sagging precariously on their hips. Two were clutching beer cans, one had a cigarette wedged between his fingers, and the last was empty-handed except for his fists. The man on the ground appeared to be in his early twenties, thin with dark hair matted with sweat, wearing a denim jacket torn at the shoulder where it had been yanked. He lay curled on his side, arms protecting his skull, knees pulled tightly to his chest to minimise the impact of the kicks raining down on him from the four aggressors.

"S’il vous plaît," he croaked, the words spilling from his split lips like fragile whispers. "Prenez l’argent. Prenez tout. Laissez-moi partir."

("Please. Take the money. Take everything. Let me go.")

Cixi understood every word. How was that possible? Had she learned French without realising it? No! She had never learned French, not that she knew of, and yet she understood them clearly. Was it part of the curse? Would she still understand it when she returned to her body? Could she speak it too?

Her thoughts were interrupted by the anguished voice of the young man.

The tallest of the four hooded figures, the one with the cigarette, squatted beside the young man’s head. He balanced on the balls of his feet, elbows resting on his knees, and took a long drag, letting the smoke escape in two streams from his nostrils.

The sight reminded her of Cassian. And she hated that her mind went there.

Why was she thinking about him when someone was about to die?

She wasn’t heartless. She knew she wasn’t.

No, it was just a distraction from the pain and that Cassian had started to take up a lot of space in her mind nowadays without her permission.

Shaking those thoughts away, Cixi moved closer to the scene.

"We don’t need money." This voice came out lazy, almost entertained. He spat on the ground near the young man’s face, the saliva landing next to the young man’s face, glistening in the flickering light. "Tonight, we need a punching bag."

The others erupted in laughter. One of them crushed a beer can against the wall and hurled it at the man on the ground. The can connected with his head, drawing blood instantly.

Cixi couldn’t help but think of her own bullies, the drug users who had used her as a punching bag. Tears welled in her eyes as she empathised with the young man, fully aware of his pain.

Desperate to help, she leaned closer, but it was futile. She could only watch, just as she did every other night.

The first kick came from the one without the beer. He stepped forward, driving the toe of his trainer into the young man’s lower back with the casual precision of someone experienced in inflicting pain. The young man’s body jolted, his mouth letting out a pained scream as he clawed at the wet cobblestones.

The second kick targeted his ribs, forcing the young man to fold in on himself, a choked sob escaping his throat. The third kick landed at the base of his spine, causing spasms throughout his body.

Cixi cried out for him, their pain intertwined. The significant difference was that she wasn’t bleeding, unlike the young man. This realisation ignited a determination within her: she would no longer submit to cruelty. Witnessing monsters like those four men abuse their power over the innocent, Cixi vowed never to show weakness again.

One final cry echoed from the young man’s throat as Cixi looked around, realising the street was completely deserted. They treated him like bored children kicking a ball around a vacant lot, lacking any personal hatred, their only motivation the sheer thrill of inflicting pain on someone who couldn’t fight back. Between kicks, they drank and laughed.

"Again." One of them tipped his beer back, swallowed, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and gestured at the man on the ground with the can. "Hit harder."

The one with bare fists stepped forward, moved over the young man, and pulled his leg back before driving it forward with full force into the space beneath his ribs.

The sound that followed stayed with Cixi.

Something cracked.

The young man’s body went rigid as his back arched, his mouth opened in a silent scream, his fingers spread against the ground in a final, desperate reaction.

Then everything gave out.

His body fell flat and still, and the tension drained from him completely as his arms slipped away from his head and rested against the ground with a finality that made it clear he would not move again.