The Street of Silk never truly slept, but in the hour before dawn, even it caught its breath. The pleasure houses stood quiet, their painted shutters closed against the coming sun. A few lanterns still burned. A few drunks still wandered. And somewhere above it all, in the warm, cluttered room she'd called home for twenty years, Y/N lay sprawled across her bed like a woman who'd made peace with every bad decision she'd ever made.