Scrape… Scrape… A lighter was fiddled with in a hand. A procession of three cars slowly drove down the mountain’s looping road. The cars at the front and back were obviously bodyguards, firmly protecting the car in the middle.

A finger painted with black nail polish lightly played around with a fine gilded lighter. Hibiscus flowers were traced on the fingernail, and the finger’s owner furrowed her elegant brows. She pursed her lips as she looked outside a pitch-black window. 

A face brimming with charm was reflected in the glass mirror, approximately seventeen or eighteen years old and with plump lips. Her brows and eyes so delicate that they seemed to be a sketch come from an exceptional brush technique. She had double eyelids, a high and straight nose, and perfectly shallow dimples. Skin so delicate that merely blowing on it would break it. 

She wore a professional hand-made woman’s suit and a lace-bordered shirt. On her ample, prominent bosom, a white flower fluttered in the wind. The woman contrasted the night like a rose in the darkness; beautiful, rich, and mellow.

She appeared young, but she gave off a strange feeling of maturity.

“Young Miss.” In the front passenger seat, an old man was seated. Although his face was wrinkled,...