Much later, I found myself in the city of Pleasure, adorned in my finest attire—a simple garment my mother had gifted me, purchased with her hard-earned coin when I first gained admission to the academy. Despite its modest cost, I couldn't shake the guilt of potentially tarnishing such a cherished gift by using it for less than honorable purposes. But necessity drove me forward; I needed to earn a living, even if it meant selling my very soul.
Eventually, I arrived at a brothel where I sought employment. Entering the office, I presented the paper containing my information to the proprietor—a stern-looking old woman with heavily lined features, her lips painted with thick red lipstick.
"Zeruel, huh? Yeah, I don't like your name..." she remarked, squinting at the paper. "It's too boyish. Men won't be eager to fuck a woman with a name like that. Let's change it to something more appealing, like Catelyn," she declared.
