Strong foundation

What truly constitutes despair? Is it the sigh of surrender or the numb acceptance? Perhaps it encompasses both.

Genuine despair is akin to drowning, trapped in a profound sea of blue. The surface, bathed in sunlight, hovers just above, yet your hands and feet cease their strokes. You merely perceive the scorching sensation of air escaping your lungs, slowly departing from the water's edge towards a denser darkness.

The process is gradual and serene, devoid of any ripples or struggles. It might last a second or a century. When your lungs can no longer find oxygen, filled with frigid lake water, when your sight can no longer seek the light, darkness envelops you entirely. Suddenly, a thread snaps, and everything concludes, without the slightest warning.

Henry succumbed to despair. He tried to restrain his crumbling sobs, attempting to distance himself from the world's clamor. Yet, the stabbing pain in his chest remained piercingly clear, an unrelenting reminder: even as a walking corpse, he was still alive.

The sounds around him were equally distinct. The incoherent murmurs of the drunkard, the resonating rumble of the bus engine, the sharp friction of high heels, all mingling in the gentle night breeze, echoing incessantly in his ears. Filthy, sordid, cheap, vulgar, ugly, crude, primal, and authentic, as if smeared with viscous white mucus on a heap of garbage. Flies buzzed, dancing up and down, the viscous liquid sloshed, and nauseating tendrils formed.

Henry did not wish to acknowledge them; he refused to do so. He widened his eyes, gazing vacantly ahead, as the wounded soul desperately sought a crevice to breathe. Then, the murmurs reached their peak, seemingly released at last, and a harsh voice came through, "Gimme the f*ckin' money!"

It was an immature voice, yet it carried a weathered weight beyond its years, savage and coarse. It bore a nauseating sense of vulgarity, as if soaked in a thick, repulsive substance. Henry's gaze reflexively shifted, not out of curiosity but mere reaction. And there, he saw her.

She appeared no more than twelve or thirteen, her body not yet fully developed. Her slender curves hung vacant beneath a black lace camisole. Below, she wore tattered black fishnet stockings and cheap plastic diamond stilettos. Her young face still bore traces of baby fat, concealed beneath low-quality foundation and bright red lipstick.

She was underage, a child prostitute. She was a fledgling harlot.

A soul not yet allowed to grow, eagerly living a life thirty years beyond its years. The profound incongruity was reminiscent of "The Truman Show", turning absurd reality into a comedy. This curvature at the corners of Henry's mouth should have been a mocking smile, yet the smile transformed into a faint arc, lingering on his lips, because she turned to face him.

Erika sensed a calm yet scorching gaze directed at her. She reflexively turned and glared at the source, only to find a pair of deep, unyielding eyes. Their gray depths, thick and indomitable, revealed a hint of pain and sorrow, subtly struggling. His handsome brows, like the midnight sun at twelve o'clock, were sparse yet grand.

Sami froze. This wasn't in the script. According to the script, she shouldn't have turned her head but focused on demanding payment from the drunkard. However, she felt that deep gaze, and almost as a physical reaction, she turned her head. When she did, she regretted it. Was this shoot going to be paused again because of her mistake?

But then Sami saw those eyes. The facade of reality in her mind gradually faded away as she immersed herself in those eyes. She captured the pain and sorrow hidden deep within, the torment that tore through that handsome brow like a fierce storm, and the restrained sorrow that gradually thickened into despair. It stabbed into her heart fiercely, soft and strong, all shattered.

The emotions in her eyes flowed uncontrollably. This wasn't acting; this was real.

Before her brain could process it, she instinctively bared her teeth and glared fiercely at the person, as if protesting. She didn't know who she was anymore, whether she was Sami or Erica. She acted on instinct, smoothly and naturally.

Then, she paid no more attention to the person, turned her head, and looked at the customer in front of her with a fierce expression, like a vicious guard dog. She displayed her dominance. "You heard me! Gimme the f*ckin' money!" Compared to the man from earlier, this payment in front of her was more important. The service was completed, and the transaction naturally had to be completed.

A smile lingered on Henry's lips as he saw those eyes.

Clear yet worldly, stubborn and sharp, unrestrained yet fragile, she diligently tried to protect herself, then donned the cloak of worldly experience, confronting the world carelessly, smashing into it headfirst. But not to escape or pursue dreams, hopes, or freedom. Only to survive.

The confusion and vulnerability hidden behind her gaze were deeply rooted, perhaps even unnoticed by herself. In this cold and unforgiving world, she had no time to consider anything else, just to survive, to endure ruthlessly, and that was the sole focus.

The disdainful, critical, mocking, and condescending gazes held no meaning for her, just as confusion and vulnerability couldn't fill her empty stomach. So, she raised the corners of her mouth, seemingly mocking Henry's self-righteousness, then turned away, indifferent.

This was the future of society; this was the state of the next generation. In this broken, dark world, it seemed like there was never a future.

A sharp pain pierced Henry's heart, the heart that was gradually stiffening due to despair. Yet, the heart felt no pain, only an icy coldness. The spreading ripples of bitterness made the taste of despair increasingly clear, and every cell in his body was bearing it.

The young face had not noticed Henry's decline; she remained persistent about her payment. She had provided a service, and naturally, she expected something in return. She aggressively hit the drunkard's thigh. "Give me the f*cking money now!"

"What?" The drunkard was already too drunk to understand, even a moment of joy couldn't wake him up. Just like this sleeping society.

"You think I like you? Give me the f*cking money!" She continued to scream sharply and forcefully, using all her strength. Her determination to fight for her life was moving. She bared her teeth and waved her hands vigorously, trying to find her reward on the drunkard's body, even if it was just a few dollars. "Now!"

The drunkard finally sobered up from the alcohol-induced stupor, but it only took a moment. He raised his right hand and slapped the young prostitute in front of him hard. The force was too strong, causing her to fall to the ground, blood filling her mouth.

Unexpectedly, once again, everything went off-script. But this time, Sami's mind was clear, without a hint of panic. She could feel the calm gaze upon her shoulder.

According to the script, she should have stood up, then looked down on Henry provocatively, using her eyes to tease him. She was worried because she had no idea what "teasing" meant. But at this moment, she didn't need to think, nor could she. The plain gaze seemed to possess a strong force, drawing her in.

She remembered the makeup artist's words. So she lifted her head, following the physiological reflex, and met that gaze. The deep and complex gaze stung her fragility sharply. Under that burning gaze, a surge of uncontrollable emotions welled up. Her eyes were filled with resentment and mockery, as if saying: Am I pitiful to you? Are you enjoying this? So, what do you think? Shouldn't you pay? After all, performances come with a price.

That snake-like gaze was mixed with grievance, recklessness, anger, jealousy, hatred, scorn, mockery, and indifference. It poured down on Henry like a torrential downpour. It was a soul scarred by wounds, a soul trapped in hell, a soul that chose self-exile because it couldn't see a tomorrow, a soul that hated society and despised others.

In this moment, she wasn't Sami; she was Erica. He wasn't Renly, he was Henry. Under the gaze, she involuntarily raised her chin, looking scornful and provocative. The impulse surged in her chest, wanting to vent unreservedly.

Henry sat quietly in his place, no surprise, no astonishment, no fear. Just the grayness gradually eating away the last remnants of color on his body.

How absurd, and how ridiculous. Such a soul, yet only twelve or thirteen years old, with a face so tender it hadn't even shed its childishness. Disharmonious contradictions made everything appear surreal and unrestrained, like the distorted and magical society in "One Hundred Years of Solitude", making it hard to distinguish between fiction and reality.

At the end of despair, Henry chose to accept, to accept reality. The pain that had penetrated his bones could no longer stir any ripples, because his soul was in tatters, his pain receptors had exceeded their limits. He no longer felt any pain, any pity, and certainly no hope. So he just watched those eyes quietly, without a hint of disturbance, radiating a faint coldness from the inside out, chilling to the bone.

Erica sensed that icy and fragile aura, realizing that she was dealing with prey.