Life in the brothel turned out to be a strange gift for Grey.
A place that should have inspired disgust somehow became a safe haven for his new identity, Alexander Greyrot, an orphan from a fallen noble house, as well as for Little and Adult Grey.
There were no punishments here, no humiliation, no one whispering curses at his back.
All the women in the house treated him with kindness. He slept in a soft bed, even if it was not very big. Even Sheryl and Lily now had their own rooms. Here, they were simply children. Even the children in a house where didn't sing songs at night, but moans.
Senior Grey kept grumbling about it nonstop, but Junior, who had spent so much time with him, was not sure whether his "civilized" companion was cursing the injustice of the world or the simple rule of "look, but don't touch."
Be that as it may, neither Grey nor Sheryl and Lily had access to the rooms where the girls met with clients.
His work began and ended at a table with a scratched surface, under dim window light.
The job was simple in theory and difficult in practice, to keep track of income and expenses, carefully write down the numbers, and prepare reports for the madam, the simpler the better.
That was his entire little world.
At first glance, the establishment seemed to be thriving. The building was luxurious, the girls were beautiful, the clientele was wealthy. But the moment Grey dug into the details, a completely different picture unfolded before him.
It felt as if the entire place rested on nothing but the madam's word and her legendary charm, which made any man dance to her tune like an obedient little dog.
Although he had never seen his benefactor in person, speaking with her only through Lily's mother, he had clearly grasped her true nature.
"A bored empress." That was what Senior Grey called her behind her back.
One simple phrase said it all, one that Aunt Lydia once passed on to him after he submitted his first report:
"I've never understood why my creditors complain that I can't repay my debts. They knew from the very beginning that I had no money."
The moment those words hung in the air, Grey slammed his head against the table he was sitting at. Then he did it again. And again.
At that moment, the senior succubus, whose disguise could not fool the boy's sight, felt as if her own eye had started twitching in irritation. Grey's emotions were simply that overwhelming.
Expenses devoured the income like wildfires through dry forest. High-grade medicine for the girls, minor healing potions to be exact. Expensive food. Incense. Alcohol. Silk dresses and costly outfits, all of it cost a fortune, especially in this hole called the Thorn Kingdom.
And Grey had been given a simple task, to show profit.
The task made him want to tear his hair out. He had to work in conditions where cutting expenses was treated as an even greater taboo than his own existence.
Which meant there was only one path left, to increase income.
Neither Little Grey nor his senior companion were happy with what they had to do.
Prostitution seemed disgusting and degrading to them. But changing the world by sheer will alone was simply impossible.
"We work with what we have," Senior Grey said grimly.
"And do everything we can to make it easier for them," Little echoed.
And this was where the real work began, along with new "plans." It was worth noting that recently both Greys had come to a silent agreement to avoid that word as if it were the plague.
The changes started small.
First of all, the abolition of free alcohol and tobacco. Now they became a luxury that had to be paid for, at triple the price. With Sheryl and Lily's help, Grey set up a wooden counter in the corner of the establishment with several bottles of expensive wine and sealed tobacco tins.
"What kind of nonsense is this?" one of the regulars grumbled, a fat man in a fur cloak, eyeing the new prices.
"This is for the care of our esteemed guests," one of the girls replied gently, having been given prepared answers by Grey in advance. "Fine wine deserves proper respect."
And that was only the beginning.
His next step was a zero-tolerance policy. From now on, the behavior of all clients was to be closely monitored. At the slightest hint of rudeness or cruelty, harsh fines would be imposed, up to a lifetime ban from visiting "Venus's Embrace."
"If they want to stink of cheap wine and beat women, they can crawl into a ditch," Grey snapped sharply when he noticed bruises on Monica's body.
This red-haired woman cared for him more than anyone else ever since she bought the boy from Harmon. Her strictness and warm smile reminded Grey of his own mother.
And now, seeing how she could barely move from the pain, he could hardly hold himself back from breaking into her room, where the culprit lay peacefully dozing. The man had not even apologized, he had simply tossed five silver coins onto the bed and gone to sleep, as if paying for cheap meat at a stall.
The boy's hand kept twitching toward his pocket, ready to grab the dagger and slit that vile bastard's throat, but he restrained himself. He knew that acting like that would change nothing and would only bring trouble upon himself and Monica.
Although Senior Grey was well familiar with such stories from his past life, now the thought of tolerating such cruelty did not even cross his mind.
The greasy, self-satisfied faces of wealthy clients kept surfacing in his subconscious, along with all the rot and ugliness they brought with them. Many had very specific inclinations, which they indulged here without the slightest shame, simply because they "paid for it."
But Grey could not see the girls as soulless goods.
He lived with them, ate at the same table. He accepted their care, heard their laughter and their tears. They were all alive and real. They were individuals, not mere dolls meant to satisfy someone's desires.
At that very moment, he could not help but recall a late-night conversation between Sophie and Wendy that he had overheard not long ago.
They sat in the common room, legs tucked under them, speaking in low voices, thinking everyone else was already asleep.
But Grey, hiding in an inconspicuous corner with an account book, had unwillingly become a witness to their confession.
"He lost everything, Sophie," Wendy whispered hoarsely, a middle-aged woman with curly light-brown hair and a full figure. "The house, the family jewels, even our wedding rings. My husband. Oh, how I loved him. Even when he started drinking every day. Even when he raised his hand against me. I loved him."
"What a fool I was!"
"I was the daughter of an aristocrat, almost nobility, but I ran away from home to be with him. And he… he… just sent me here to pay off his friends. He didn't even object when they took me. Three of them at once. He just watched and pleasured himself. It was horrible. And now they say I'm expensive, like fine wine opened at a funeral," Wendy shared dryly with her young friend.
She did not cry, her shoulders did not tremble with sobs. She spoke of it all with detachment, as if she were not the one at the center of that story.
"I have neither wine nor a funeral," Sophie replied, forcing a smile through damp eyes.
She was a young blonde with soft, chubby cheeks that always formed dimples when she smiled.
But now her hair was disheveled, and her green eyes were blurred with tears.
"My mother died when I was twelve. My father disappeared long ago in the war. He served under Baron Orpheus, but one day he simply never came back. So I was left alone. I lived on the streets. Sometimes I ate, sometimes I didn't. I chose this life myself. And I'm grateful to the madam for taking me in and giving me a roof. I asked for it myself, kneeling right here. I had nowhere else to go. Then why… why does it hurt so much now?!"
Just recalling their conversation made Grey feel his heart tighten, his chest squeezed painfully.
Their stories… they did not sound like complaints or whims. They were dry, broken lines torn from life.
The lives of these girls could not be changed overnight, but he was certain he could help. Do something, anything, to return at least a little justice to this crooked world. Even a drop of the respect that had long been taken from them.
That was why he had to introduce new rules and order.
The zero-tolerance policy was not cruel. It was necessary. But it had to be justified and paired with solutions so that income would not drop. That was exactly what he had been working on lately.
It was a warm summer night, unusually quiet.
Cicadas chirped lazily outside the window, and from a distant alley came the clear sound of hooves striking stone. Somewhere far off, a sign creaked on its chains. Only the pale pink crescent of Venus, one of the three moons of this world, lingered atop a neighboring roof, bearing silent witness to the boy's diligent work.
Grey still sat in the dimness of his small room, bent over his notes.
The quill hung motionless in his fingers, barely touching the paper. He had been staring at the same point for too long, as if hoping the numbers would arrange themselves into the right picture. The flickering candlelight cast long shadows over the worn parchment, creating the illusion that he was surrounded by the ghosts of his own thoughts.
"I can't cut a single bronze coin from the expenses," he reminded himself again and again.
This was no exaggeration. His own value in Lady Veronika's eyes depended directly on his effectiveness. Lost in thought, he brought the quill down to the first entry.
"New sources of income"
"1. Private meeting rooms**"
He knew exactly how it should look. The transmigrant had described in detail the scenes of noisy negotiations on the upper floors of Earth's glass towers. Grey clearly understood that the most profitable deals were not made in official halls, but in half-lit rooms, with soft lighting and fragrant wine drawing people into conversation.
"We shouldn't sell the body, we should sell the atmosphere." Senior's voice echoed in his head. "Privacy, comfort, all of that is valuable currency even in savage worlds like yours."
According to their shared plan, they would arrange rooms on the first floor for private talks. The image had already formed in his mind: dark wooden tables, local pipes resembling hookahs that induced a light dizziness and loosened tongues, dim lighting, beautiful waitresses…
And hired guards.
"You're right. This should pay off. People crave conversation, intrigue, and simple gossip. We'll just give them a place for it. Not only will we earn money, we'll also be the first to hear the latest news. Maybe I'll catch something about my family in those conversations. The chances are slim, of course, but it's better than nothing."
"Don't lose heart," Senior encouraged him. "Your idea to use the name Alexander Greyrot to draw attention isn't bad either. If I understand correctly, Alex is a nickname you used before, known only to those close to you, and Greyrot is derived from your real name. I'm sure if any of your relatives hear that name, they'll want to check it out, and then they'll find us themselves."
"That's right. We'll use every opportunity."
Grey wrote down the ideas, added a note beside them, "discuss with the madam," and set the quill aside. He stretched, reaching to massage his aching temples, when at that very moment...
…a quiet singing drifted in.
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