“Why don’t you pray to me instead? I’m much more merciful than your god, who wouldn’t even listen no matter how much you fiddle and pray.”

Kang Kwonju calmly mocked her, waiting for the woman’s reaction. Soon, an insolent remark that didn’t match her frightened eyes came back.

“…I don’t pray to thugs.”

A snort came out of Kang Kwonju. He barely provoked her, akin to poking a crab, but her defiant response intrigued him. She was desperate yet refused to beg, trembling with fear but not crying, likely because she despised him, the thug, so much.

“Is that so? You won’t pray to a gangster, huh? Future nun?”

He carefully observed the woman’s face as she bit her lip tightly. Her soft cheeks trembled, and her once clear eyes were now undeniably tinged with red.

And he liked that. It felt like witnessing a speck of dirt spreading across a pristine white canvas. Watching that sight before him, it felt like his hidden sadistic tendencies began to surface.

Suddenly, he had the urge to take away what she clung to so desperately as if it were her life.

He wanted to take it—to make her cry.

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