The car pulled up at the harbor.

Bali stepped out first, walked around to the back seat, and opened the door.

Vio changed into a pair of black slippers, then stretched his long legs and stepped down from the car.

He was wearing a loose, short-sleeved blue-and-white floral shirt, white shorts, with both hands shoved into his pockets and a cigarette dangling from his lips. His gaze casually swept over the harbor.

A massive cruise ship was moored at the dock, its entire hull aglow with warm yellow lights.

Even from afar, you could hear music and laughter coming from inside—the kind of frenzied, boisterous noise.

On the deck, several white women in bikinis leaned against the railings, blowing kisses and casting seductive glances in their direction.

This ship isn’t open to the public.

Ordinary people can’t get on board, and respectable folks wouldn’t either.

It spends most of its time shuttling between Gulf countries, with no fixed route and no publicly available registration information.

Only two kinds of people can board: those who have enough money in their pockets, or those who hold enough lives in their hands.

Inside, it’s all perverts. If you’re not perverse enough, even if you do manage to get on, you won’t be able to fit in.

Vio stood by the dock, pulled one hand out of his pocket, took the cigarette from his lips, tossed it to the ground, and squashed it under his heel.

The Gulf breeze blew in, gently puffing up the hem of his shirt.

He narrowed his eyes as he looked at the ship, his face expressionless, and kept walking forward—showing absolutely no interest in those clumps of pale flesh.

But Bali and Tuxi behind him responded enthusiastically.

The ship’s owner, Old Gui, had already brought his men to wait at the harbor.

Old Gui was in his fifties, of Burmese descent, very thin, short in stature, and sporting a goatee.

He wore a drab gray robe and stood among a group of bodyguards, looking like a walnut dried by the wind.

As soon as he saw Vio, laugh lines instantly crinkled across his walnut-like face, and he hurried over with a bouncy step.

“Mr. Mansero,” he said, bowing deeply, his voice full of eagerness, “it’s been so long since you last came to play.”

Vio gave him a faint smile in return. He didn’t say a word and led the group toward the ship.

Old Gui followed closely behind, scurrying along with tiny steps, his grin never fading.

The ship’s first floor is divided into four halls—north, south, east, and west.

To reach the top deck, Vio had to pass through the East Hall.

And this was still the cleanest section of the whole floor.

The lighting was dimmed, with red and purple hues interweaving to bathe every face in a soft glow.

European and American-looking hostesses carried trays back and forth, each one fair-skinned and tall, wearing only just enough fabric to cover their modesty.

They wore shimmering beaded tassels around their waists; as they walked, the beads swayed and jangled, forcing everyone’s gaze to linger right between their hips.

On the stage, a wealthy man was tossing dollar bills into the air to the rhythm of the music—not one by one, but in stacks at a time.

Paper money flew everywhere, and when it fell, several women would drop to their knees to scramble for it, their breasts pressed together in a heap.

In the private dining cabins, groups of models wrapped in barely-there fabrics sat atop men, writhing and twisting.

Wine glasses tipped over onto the tables and were left unattended; the spilled wine sizzled under the heels of high-heeled shoes.

Vio strolled leisurely through it all. Every eye was on him—especially the women’s.

His presence was like a magnet, drawing everyone’s gaze irresistibly toward him.

As he moved through the crowd, the eyes automatically parted to make way for him, then immediately locked onto his back as he walked on.

It wasn’t that he was looking at anyone in particular; it was simply that once he stood there, no one could ignore him.

He was incredibly handsome: his skin was very fair, his build tall and imposing, giving the impression of being nearly 1.9 meters tall—neither frail nor rough or aggressive.

He just had this wild, primal energy, this intense sensuality that made people yearn for him yet dare not approach.

Just by looking at his Adam’s apple and the faint veins visible on his arm, you could tell how much strength lay beneath.

In summer, when clothes are thin, a quick glance downward was enough to catch the outline through the fabric.

And that was even before he showed any reaction at all. If you really managed to spend a night with him, what an unforgettable night that would be!

End of Chapter 8: The Perverts’ Revelry