As for the place across from the Hairy Bear Inn—the Eager Thighs—there was a simple way to describe it: it wasn't a brand-new building, but the three-story house was undeniably neat and spotless, and there was a rather touching story behind its founding.
They said that a few years ago, when Madam Carmen first arrived in the Temple Quarter, she was all alone—and she suffered a miscarriage while pregnant. Other vulnerable women helped her through it. So once she recovered, she ran herself ragged to gather them together, negotiated a partnership with Ramsmeat's gang, and built the Eager Thighs into what it was today.
Once inside the baths, Victor immediately booked two private bathing rooms as far apart as possible, one for himself and one for Dandelion—each with a large tub of hot water. Afterward, as someone who'd spent a long time turning a stirring rod day after day, he followed his usual routine: a shoulder massage after washing, to ease the fatigue.
Today, the woman working his tight muscles was someone familiar—older, not pretty, but with excellent technique and real strength in her arms.
"Hss… ah…" Victor's soft exhale came from forcing his shoulders to endure the ache of the massage.
Just then, the door opened. A thick wave of perfume swept in, and light footsteps crossed the room, walking straight to the chair beside him.
Even with his eyes closed, Victor knew who it was. "Good afternoon, Madam Carmen."
"Afternoon, Victor," Carmen purred, her voice husky, lazy, and sensual. "You haven't come by in quite a while."
"Can't be helped. Work's been busy lately, so I haven't had the time."
Carmen let out a low, amused laugh. "Don't say that. You used to support us a lot. My girls all speak highly of you—said you're a polite, gentle good boy."
That didn't really feel like praise to Victor. At least, not to him. He'd always thought brave and domineering were the compliments that mattered in a place like this.
"…Madam Carmen came over to talk. It can't be just to praise me for being polite and gentle."
"Of course not. There's something I'd like to ask you to help with."
Thinking of the tie between the Eager Thighs and Ramsmeat's gang, Victor frowned slightly. "Tell me. But I'm not promising I can help." There was caution in his tone.
"Don't be so guarded. What I'm asking can be said to involve gang conflict… but it can also be said not to. And I don't think it will violate your neutrality." Carmen's voice stayed soft, and when Victor opened his eyes, the angle was just right for him to catch the faint smile at the corner of her mouth.
Victor remembered that when he'd been coming more often last month, Carmen rarely smiled. Even when she did, it vanished quickly. Now her smile looked natural—like something good had happened. Maybe her relationship with her lover had steadied.
She lifted her big waves of hair, sweeping strands away from her eyes. "After the curfew ended, some of my girls started working later—deep into the night. Salamandra knows the girls in the city are under Ramsmeat's protection, so they disguise themselves as drunks and deliberately harass my girls, using it as an excuse to stir up trouble."
Victor knew about that. A few nights ago, when he'd climbed out of the sewers and headed home, he'd seen "drunks" harassing women—then Ramsmeat's men had jumped out to deal with them. So it hadn't been as simple as it looked.
"Tsk…" Victor clicked his tongue. "From what I understand, the City Guard should be able to step in for something like this. Especially since you and Captain Vincent…" He left the rest unsaid.
Like Griffarin had once implied, if you stayed long enough, you learned things. For instance: Madam Carmen of the Eager Thighs—her lover and protector was Captain Vincent Meis of the City Guard.
It sounded odd at first, but it was true. And since Carmen started seeing the captain, she hadn't personally taken clients anymore—so at the very least, it was safe to say Captain Vincent wasn't the kind of man who got off on being cheated on.
"Salamandra has certain powerful people backing them," Carmen said calmly. "The City Guard has received instructions: don't allow any single gang—meaning Ramsmeat's—to dominate. Letting these scum tear at each other also makes them easier to manage."
Victor could barely imagine what kind of brainless fool would propose something like that. Worse—someone had approved it. The City Guard held overwhelming power over any underground organization. Vizima had no risk of gangs spiraling beyond control.
Whoever was pushing this talk of "balance" clearly didn't care about public safety or the city's economy. Victor suspected some higher-ups were supporting Salamandra for their own reasons. But there was no need to dump those thoughts on Carmen.
"So what are you asking for, exactly?"
"I was thinking… when Salamandra's people pretend to be drunks and harass my girls, if some other drunk just happened to appear and beat them senseless—and that person wasn't one of Ramsmeat's men, just a passerby—then that would be perfect."
Victor closed his eyes and considered it. He didn't like Salamandra's methods. Bullying vulnerable women was wrong. And honestly, compared to Ramsmeat, he had more of a personal connection with Carmen. During the ghoul business he'd come here to bathe fairly often, so they'd crossed paths plenty of times—and during the "Iron Fist" incident, she'd been the first to start clapping…
He was just about to agree when a sudden, exciting idea flashed through his mind—so amusing it instantly overturned his original decision.
So Victor stared up at the ceiling as if speaking to the air. "Sorry. I don't think I can help. It still conflicts with a witcher's neutrality. But I believe sooner or later, someone righteous will step forward in this city—and Salamandra will be punished for dragging innocents into their mess."
Her eyes showed a flicker of disappointment, though it wasn't entirely unexpected. Carmen toyed with her wavy hair and said softly, "Alright. I hope so."
…
That night, in Victor's alchemy room, Angoulême set her leather armor and clothing on a frame the way Victor instructed, standing it beside the cauldron where he could see it clearly.
"Boss, is this good? What are you making this time?"
Victor pulled out a large stack of leather and a jar of black dye.
Earlier, after his massage, he'd left the Eager Thighs. As he walked out, his sharp ears had faintly caught Dandelion's voice acting somewhere in the distance—he sounded like he was playing the victim. Adults had their own ways of doing things, apparently, so Victor hadn't gone to interrupt the bard.
He'd detoured to a leather merchant in the market and bought a heap of assorted scraps and hides. Now he dumped the leather into the cauldron, poured in the black dye, added Glauber's salt and flour, then boldly plunged in the stirring rod.
Thanks to the massage, Victor's energy had returned in full. And although he'd refused Madam Carmen's request on the surface, the truth was he'd thought of a more entertaining, far more stress-relieving approach—and decided to put it into action.
Angoulême watched Vic ignore her question, just chuckling to himself as he stirred the huge pot, and a dreadful premonition rose in her chest.
The boss was clearly about to do something stupid again.
That peculiar sense of humor of his—supposedly from somewhere beyond Zerrikania, from Bell Town's "unique local flavor"—in her plain understanding, was simply a synonym for stupid antics and stupid jokes.
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