“The wristbands will sound an alarm if they’re separated by more than five kilometers—roughly the city district range. Got it? It’s an invisible leash, and I’m holding the other end.”
Amber raised her little head, her attitude arrogant, like a pint-sized queen.
To deal with Ashley, she had pored over psychology texts and consulted Tribunal experts. Her conclusion: when facing Ashley, she couldn’t show the slightest weakness or concession, or she’d be looked down upon. Ashley despised the weak and wouldn’t respect them.
First, her attitude had to be tough—like training a fierce dog with loud scolding and a tightened leash.
In her imagination, she yanked hard on the leash while Ashley thrashed wildly with the noose around her neck, her little face turning purple, body rigid, tiny tongue lolling out…
The experts’ analysis held some merit, but unfortunately, the Jenkins Family wasn’t the type to be analyzed with psychology.
Ashley no longer needed taming. She was dead set on being a good person now. She understood it clearly: in a world destroyed twice, humanity had spent centuries in darkness and desolation to build this order, tenuously preserving flickers of civilization. Being a troublemaker or a villain here wasn’t fun.
Moreover, if she did anything too outrageous again, people’s last shred of patience would run out.
Then, she’d be exiled from human society, cast into the wilderness as a lone ghost, just like the other family members.
I’m going to be a good person…
Ashley repeated silently in her mind.
As for whatever Amber was thinking or doing, she automatically tuned it out—the dumb loli was irrelevant.
Seeing her opponent fall silent, Amber thought her strategy had worked. A surge of wild joy welled up in her heart, her pulse racing as she repeatedly clenched her fingers.
But Ashley merely glanced at her coldly from time to time, answering the psych evaluation questions mechanically.
As for whether the psych evaluation actually worked?
It only did if the subject cooperated.
If someone deliberately hid their true thoughts, the conclusions would inevitably be wrong.
“Can I take the fruit plate back with me?” Ashley asked softly once the evaluation was done.
The assorted fruit plate on the table held sliced apples and pears, separated orange segments, and a small dish of candied plums.
Though she hadn’t touched it during the questions, Ashley felt it was hers.
To Amber’s ears, the words sounded humble, leaving a sour taste in her heart.
Was this the pathetic state after a beating from society? The ferocious loli who’d drawn and fired in the interrogation room seemed gone forever.
“Sure,” Amber softened her tone, speaking encouragingly. “If you behave, I’ll give you some fruit every time you come.”
“Thanks, you’re so nice.”
Ashley resisted the urge to roll her eyes, picked up the untouched fruit plate, and maintained a submissive posture. “I’ll wash the plate clean and bring it back.”
Aaah, there it is! The polite kid Flora mentioned!
Amber’s eyes widened round. Ashley’s schizophrenic shift from before left her shocked and suspicious.
—
On the way back, Ashley pondered her future.
One psych evaluation per week; maintain mental stability for seventeen consecutive weeks, and the wristband could come off.
Keep a clean record for two years, and she could “graduate” from Saint Dormer Community, becoming a free person.
The conditions weren’t harsh, nor specifically targeted at her. She had to seize this chance to turn over a new leaf.
The more bad deeds she’d done, the harder it was to whitewash herself—and the difficulty compounded exponentially.
Walking along Sixth Avenue toward Whitehall Street, Ashley paused in front of a general store.
The street-facing glass cabinet displayed bundles of candles, badger oil for sores and dampness, irregular hard candies, soap, towels, and more.
Though crude and rough compared to the supermarkets from before her transmigration, they held immense appeal for poor Ashley.
A bath soap cost 5 pence and 2 francs—pale purple, dotted with dried lavender petals, wrapped in translucent wax paper, exuding mysterious temptation.
She desperately wanted one. The community’s free soap was full of impurities; when lathered on skin, hard bits scraped tender flesh, bringing fresh stings until dug out.
But Ashley’s little pouch held only 2 pence and 11 francs in loose change.
Soap couldn’t be bought by the ounce like bread; it was whole bars only.
So, rob a train or a bank?
Or maybe start with this little cart!
Her gaze fell on the wagon unloading at the store entrance.
The beast pulling it was a cadaver draped in deep green waterproof cloth.
This cadaver was hairless and skinless, its pinkish-white exposed muscles gleaming with mucus. Some parts were covered in porcelain-shiny artificial bio-armor to protect the raw tissue, with four thick reverse-jointed hooves steadily supporting the body.
Its head was an animal skull sliced from forehead down to expose nasal cavity, jawbone, and gums—like a fresh hunk of meat from the slaughterhouse, guts removed and steaming, out on the street.
This was a basic-model cadaver; the tech was crude and low-level, not even preserving eyesight. It was blind and could only be led.
The wagon was loaded with daily goods, flour, and dry goods, flying the banner of Pinecone Logistics Warehousing Company.
After staring for a bit, Ashley shook her head vigorously.
No, no, she had to be a good person, damn it.
Leaving the store, the dazzling array of salvaged items on the street curb reignited her shopping urges.
Beautiful, mysterious iridescent shells: some with molten-silver streaks in black glaze, others like polished conchs blending milky white and coffee brown, or tower-shaped spirals—all live, with moist, bizarre flesh curled deep inside.
No one but specialists knew the habits or uses of those flesh bits.
Other salvaged items included smooth flutes made from bones, cephalopods with soft tentacles and frilled skirts, and all sorts of complex standalone organs.
Most carried faint supernatural power, or they wouldn’t have been salvaged. Their vitality was insanely tough; left alone for a year or two, they wouldn’t die.
Ashley observed that salvaged items had specific customers—not curiosity buyers, but those with needs from various trades.
To ordinary folk, anyone dealing in salvaged items was a freak.
The freaks were wrapped in heavy waterproofs with arms and necks bandaged, or in white coats reeking of chemicals, mostly masked to hide their faces.
Each carried their own storage containers, handling exchanges cautiously with tongs and clamps against the weird tissues. When gripped, they’d snap back like snakes, then writhe and bite like leeches—fiercely aggressive.
“This world is full of danger, having endured two biological extinctions. Surviving humans built order amid the upheaval—that’s Union City. They cling stubbornly and conservatively to it, but here I can buy soap instead of making it myself. If I keep breaking rules, they’ll bar me from the party, depriving me of societal conveniences. My family, skulking like wild dogs in the wilderness, live like savages, sneaking in to buy basics…”
Ashley muttered softly, reminding herself to be a good person.
Just then, she sensed eyes on her. Unlike casual glances, this gaze carried strong intent.
She whipped around. The crowd bustled; some looked her way, but none matched that feeling.
It wasn’t psychic intuition or nerves—this world had no mysticism-type powers.
Ashley could tell because she’d taken a secret family potion; afterward, her skin cells secreted trace visual proteins, sensing light changes beyond her field of view.
Vigilance rose. Compared to the perilous environment, malicious people were scarier.
Who was it?
Sorting her thoughts, possibilities emerged.
One: some creep targeting an unaccompanied little girl—prime crime bait.
But the streets were simple and wide open, crowded, no cramped alleys for foul play.
Two: Tribunal surveillance, confirming the juvenile offender returned straight home without lingering or acting odd.
Three: Family had tracked her. All Jenkins were wanted, so they’d contact covertly without showing faces.
Best way to flush a tail: head to a secluded spot.
But Ashley lacked confidence in her fighting ability. Her physique was weak even for a loli; lately, no access to high-kinetic objects or motion, like a speeding train.
Her clip held one bullet—from Letisia’s launch long ago, about 100 joules.
She thought: if malicious, no need to engage; if Tribunal watcher, ignore—they couldn’t shake anyway; if family signaling, best contact tracelessly, or Tribunal catches would complicate things.
Pretending casually, Ashley patted her pocket. The pouch slipped out, hitting the ground.
Only 2 pence anyway—lost was lost.
After a stretch, she feigned interest in a roadside stewed bean cart, patted her pockets long and hard, “discovered” the missing pouch, panicked, and backtracked searching.
The pouch was still there, but when she bent to pick it up, her fingertips felt it slightly heavier than before.
Yep, the family goons were stirring again.
Ashley’s mood soured. She sensed they might hinder her good-person plan.
