19 Hope Road, Joewood. Close to the Tassok River, which flows through Beckland, pedestrians can see the slightly turbid yet remarkably broad water surface through the gaps between the buildings. Michael Joseph, a reporter for The Daily Observer, stepped down from the carriage and pointed toward a three-story gray-blue building, saying to his companion, dressed in a black double-breasted suit, wearing a half-high silk hat and gold-framed glasses: "That's the Golden Rose—the finest legally licensed brothel in the Joewood and Beckland Bridge district, open from 3 p.m. until 2 a.m." The finest legally licensed brothel in Joewood and the Beckland Bridge district? That implies there are other, better but unofficial ones in these two districts. Klein silently murmured something, noticing a golden rose set into the building's entrance, without any posted sign. "This wouldn't count as a street-based call girl, would it?" he remarked casually. "Of course—much higher caliber." Mike smoothly guided Caine to the building's entrance and pushed the door open. As soon as they stepped inside, Caine detected a slightly sharp, complex blend of scents and heard a soothing yet intimate melody. Instinctively, he glanced around and noticed attendants in black coats and half-high hats standing along both sides of the entrance and at various corners of the hall—clearly there to handle tipsy guests and rowdy patrons. Golden sofas and chairs were arranged throughout the hall, with a piano in place, and a dancing area had been designated at the center. There, women of various hair colors—golden, brown, light yellow, or black—dressed in garments ranging from elaborate to simple to vibrant sat in different spots. Some exuded a mature grace, others a shy freshness, some a youthful charm, and many a striking beauty. They either rested their hands on their cheeks, enjoying the music, chatted animatedly with one another, quietly flipped through newspapers or magazines, or gracefully danced with men beside them. It was only three thirty in the afternoon, so the customer count was light—only a few scattered guests. At first glance, the place seemed more like a formal ballroom than an intimate setting typically found in a brothel. "If you come back at eight o'clock, you'll see some entertaining performances," Mike said with a smile. "If you're interested in any of the ladies, simply approach her and invite her to dance. As the music plays, you can casually inquire about her rate. If both parties agree, you can then move to one of the rooms on the second or third floor for a delightful evening together. Now, if you're willing to spend a bit more, you can even stay here overnight." Mike tilted his head slightly, and suddenly, the composed, polished demeanor he'd previously displayed gave way to a touch of lightness and informality. He smiled and stepped into the hall, moving toward a young girl, no older than fifteen or sixteen. This—was it his genuine nature emerging, or simply a well-rehearsed performance? Klein was left utterly astonished, instinctively following behind Mike Joseph. "The victim, Hesbel, was only sixteen. In theory, girls of a similar age would be more likely to be friends with her and know her better." Mike lowered his voice and added that. He then slightly lifted his brows, which were a bit sparse, and resumed his normal tone: "So, which lady have you taken a liking to?" "I'm just your bodyguard," Klein replied according to normal logic. Mike gave a barely perceptible nod and suddenly smiled: "When I do things like that, I'm not used to having someone watching." "I'll stay right outside," Klein understood Mike's meaning and assumed a serious, professional posture. Mike said no more, approached the young girl, bent down, and extended his hand to invite her to dance. To be a prostitute at this age, Beckland is both glamorous and grim... Hey, there's even a well-dressed middle-aged gentleman here, with white hair at his temples! Klein lowered his hands, stood straight, and gazed steadily as Mike and the fresh-faced girl moved slowly and gracefully in the center. After a few minutes, Mike returned, slightly crestfallen, and said to Klein: "It's too expensive." As they drew closer, he added softly: "The girl knows Hibel, but the owner, Ms. Lopez, forbids them from speaking to anyone else—otherwise, they face severe penalties. Oh, heaven's sake, when she heard about the penalties, the poor girl even instinctively trembled. I can only imagine how terrifying that must be." Klein sighed with sympathy, yet helplessly, and asked in a low voice, "So, what are you going to do?" "I don't want to bring any misfortune upon those girls. I'm going to go directly to Ms. Lopez." "Mike patted Klein on the shoulder and said, 'Protect me!' Klein leaned slightly and solemnly added, 'In case of any danger, you must follow my advice.' 'Got it? Follow my advice!' 'Understood, understood.' Mike raised both hands to shoulder level and nodded repeatedly. As he spoke, he walked toward the corner where a woman sat—elegant in appearance, dressed in vibrant attire, and adorned with rich makeup. 'If you don't want to lose face after the dance by backing out in front of those girls, I recommend you speak with Mrs. Lopez first and find out what each girl's price is,' Mike raised his voice. The woman, listening to their conversation, turned her head and slowly rose, offering a warm smile. 'Good afternoon, gentlemen. I'm Lopez. Do you have any girls in mind?' 'Yes,' Mike suddenly studied her closely, smiled lightly, 'I really appreciate you.' "I also really appreciate you... acting so at home here... Klein's嘴角抽动了一下. Lopez's expression grew momentarily stiff, then she smiled politely, saying, "Sorry, I've been feeling unwell today. You should know that women often experience discomfort on a monthly basis." Seeing that she wouldn't be persuaded to go into the room for a private conversation, Mike remained silent for a few seconds before suddenly becoming serious. "Lopez女士, I'm a journalist, and I'd like to learn more about Hibel. Here's my credentials." Lopez's expression immediately darkened, and she responded impatiently, "I've already told the police everything—I suggest you go find them!" "Hibel is a homeless orphan that I've adopted. That evening, she accepted an invitation from a guest to spend the night at the guest's home, and she died on her way back in the early morning." "Alright, please leave now! Or, if you'd like, invite the lady to dance." As he spoke, Lopez waved over the two bodyguards standing beside him. Kline took a step forward, positioning himself in front of Michael Joseph, shielding him as they moved back toward the hall. Seeing this, the two bodyguards did not hastily push them aside. After walking a few steps, Kline lowered his voice and said: "She's lying." "Hmm?" Michael turned, surprised. "When she speaks, her gaze keeps shifting—she avoids looking directly at you, yet she constantly glances at you, indicating that she's lying while observing your reactions. Also, her posture is highly defensive, and she appears visibly anxious." Kline delivered the analysis with calm precision. Michael opened his mouth, then after a few seconds, sighed in admiration: "You truly are a detective—only someone with sharp observational skills and outstanding deductive ability could notice these subtle details." "This is simply because I've opened my spiritual sight and noticed the inconsistency in Lopez's emotional color—everything else is post-hoc justification. Klein smiled and said, 'Thank you for the kind words. We should be going now.' Mike Joseph turned to look at Lopez and saw her walking toward the side door of the hall, heading toward her own lounge. That side door was located in a corner, quite quiet, and often unnoticed from most parts of the hall—its outer area was also guarded by two bodyguards. 'Perhaps,' Mike suddenly turned to Klein, 'we should follow Lopez and observe her reactions afterward. Maybe her earlier anxiety will prompt her to take some action.' 'Can you handle those two bodyguards quickly?' Mike asked. 'Sir, my responsibility is solely to protect you, and that would be a violation of protocol,' Klein replied with a smile. 'I'll add money! At £5 if there's a fight. If there's a fight even as we're fleeing, then £10!' "Mike Joseph bit his teeth. "Deal!" Caine stepped forward and shook hands with him. Then, the two of them circled around, avoiding the two bodyguards who had been there earlier, and quietly moved toward the side entrance. "Guest, please stop and leave this area." One of the bodyguards stepped forward and blocked Caine and Mike Joseph. "I'm sorry—we'll take care of this immediately," Caine bowed politely and apologized. At that moment, his right fist suddenly launched forward, striking hard against the abdomen of the bodyguard in front of him. The bodyguard instinctively covered his abdomen, bending into an arch, while Caine straightened up and raised his left hand to deliver a sweeping blow to the back of the opponent's head. *Crack!* The bodyguard collapsed to the ground, unconscious. His colleague, clearly unprepared for such a sudden development, stood frozen, unable to react effectively. Caine immediately stepped in smoothly, placed his right hand over the bodyguard's mouth, and delivered a left-hand punch to the abdomen. *Thud!* The fighter suddenly bent down, spitting out food that hadn't been digested yet, while Caine promptly withdrew his right hand and drove it downward with a palm strike. At the same time, he supported the fighter with his left hand, guiding him gently to the ground without making a loud thud. After exchanging a glance, Caine turned the handle, pushed open the side door, and stepped inside, while Mike Joseph crouched low and hurried after. Why are you so fluent? You're just a reporter! Caine thought to himself, moving with light steps but a steady pace down the corridor. Suddenly, they heard Lopez's voice: "Tell Cardin not to send anyone over lately!" Cardin? Sending people? Caine turned to Mike and noticed he shared the same confusion. At that moment, they heard Lopez's footsteps approaching down the corridor. "Go!" Caine pulled Mike by the arm, turned without looking back, and rushed toward the entrance, then burst out into the open. During this process, he closed the side door, accidentally breaking the lock so that the people inside couldn't get out for a while. Then, the two of them briskly walked through the hall, pretending nothing had happened, approaching the exit and moving away without a word, amid the growing murmurs of anger. Once outside on the street, Michael took a deep breath and sincerely remarked, "I've seen many similar situations, but never once has it felt this simple and effortless." "Thank you—I need to go back and find out who Carpentier is." As he spoke, he pulled out his wallet, took out a five-pound note, and murmured, "But honestly, your fee is quite high—it's equivalent to half my weekly salary." "But you can claim it, can't you?" replied Kline with a slight smile, then expressed some concern, "Won't you be afraid that Lopez will locate your newspaper using your identification and file a report to have you arrested?" "It's a fake ID," Michael said confidently, spreading his hands. “…” Kline could only express deep admiration. After watching Mike get into the car and drive away, he walked across to the opposite side, waiting for the public horse carriage, and kept a close watch for anyone following him. At that moment, a hired carriage came slowly and stopped in front of him. A middle-aged man in a black coat stepped out of the carriage and nodded briefly to Kline. He had blue eyes, a lean face, and white hair at his temples—exactly the elderly gentleman Kline had seen at the Golden Rose. He wasn’t a customer of the Golden Rose…just like us…Kline suddenly realized. "Good day," the man said, pointing down the carriage lane, "I'm Detective Eisinger Stanton, assisting the police with this case. Would you mind if we spoke a moment?"