“They do offer bodyguards at the entrance for a deposit. You’ll be safe as long as they’re beside you. People who try to save that money end up in unpleasant situations. But don’t spread rumors that I told you this—it would cause serious trouble.”

The bartender clicked his tongue lightly, seemingly thinking Debbie was naive based on her visible discomfort. His reaction only intensified her embarrassment.

“It’s interesting though. These columns are usually written by male journalists, but now a female journalist will write one from her perspective. Honestly, I’d be curious too—what women find attractive.”

The bartender appeared strangely knowledgeable about the publishing industry. Moreover, he listened so attentively that Debbie found herself unconsciously pouring out her circumstances.

“Sounds fascinating. Let me know when your article is finished. When will the magazine be published? I should buy a copy.”

“Don’t tease me!” Debbie protested, her face burning red.

Maybe I shouldn’t have mentioned it, she thought. It was disconcerting that someone already knew Miss Patch’s identity before her writing was even published. Belatedly, she realized she had revealed her secret too easily, caught up in his engaging manner.

“I’m not teasing,” the bartender replied, looking more surprised than she was. “After hearing your story, I think it would be beneficial to have a woman honestly explain what pleases her about a man. No matter how hard we try, how can we know if we’ve satisfied our partners? Without them telling us, we can’t distinguish between fake and genuine reactions. Men can ask their friends how things went, but directly asking a woman is incredibly difficult. Even if we do ask, we can’t be sure of their sincerity.”

Somehow, the bartender had interpreted the column’s direction as “honest confessions about how women feel during s*x with men.”

Debbie’s eyes widened at this realization.

Hmm. The word “honest” struck a nerve. Even if she wanted to be honest, Debbie had no experience for comparison.

Should I actually experience it firsthand? It seemed contradictory to write a column analyzing something she’d never experienced herself.

Maybe I should visit that bar that opens at 10? 

Though literary works were her only reference point for intimate relationships, they often portrayed the connection between men and women as a matter of life and death.

She couldn’t just talk without knowing, and needed to understand why physical love was important.

Debbie had no one she loved. Yet she couldn’t chase after just anyone for her first experience. 

Though frightened by the bartender’s warning about danger, she reasoned that experiencing her first time with someone who knew her face might lead to gossip later. She was willing to pay the deposit and check out the place.

***

Reflecting an era where magic had nearly vanished, the main streets of the entertainment district sparkled with colorful luminous lamps powered by magic stones, while the back alleys were dimly lit by gas lamps.

The eerie light made Debbie even more fearful, giving her the sensation that stepping inside would send her plummeting into an endless abyss.

But she couldn’t stop now. Taking a deep breath outside the bar, she found herself facing a sea of masks. She too borrowed the power of a mask. 

Though she had initially visited bars for interviews, now she entered this one to experience a night of pleasure.

A few steps behind Debbie stood the bodyguard she’d hired with her deposit, showing off bulging muscles with arms crossed. Who would she choose as her companion for the night?

Guest columnist AB had said that chastity meant keeping faith with your partner. Debbie currently had no partner, so theoretically she could choose anyone for one night.

Using AB’s column as her shield, she muttered to herself: I’m an adult. I can take responsibility for my actions. Chastity isn’t something to lose or break.

Her legs trembled. Do I really need to go this far?

But she reminded herself that the person here was “Miss Patch,” not Debbie. She wanted her first experience to be a memory she could recall with joy and excitement. Perhaps Henrietta’s interview had influenced her thinking.

Henrietta’s mocking words calling her a “baby” came to mind: “Love? Hold onto that and you’ll wither away quickly in this business.”

Having received payment, Henrietta had generously shared the story of her first love—a neighborhood boy who treated her well. She had given him her first time after he proposed marriage, only for him to brag throughout the neighborhood about “scoring” with her. Laughing, she explained how she had fled after being treated like a loose woman.

“He married a wealthy woman—someone who inherited a fortune after her elderly husband died early. He said he disliked me for being promiscuous but liked her for her generous nature. Generous nature, my as$—he liked her generous wallet.”

She then shared stories of other opera singers: one who became a patron’s mistress to secure leading roles despite having a family with a man she loved, another who refused a nobleman’s advances only to lose her family tragically and ruin her life.

“Let me give you some advice,” Henrietta had said haughtily. “Men don’t keep their chastity either. Don’t let yourself be bound by such nonsense.”

Debbie felt confused. Looking at the sea of masks, she was struck by the dizzying realization that some people here had partners they were betraying by gathering here.

Everyone seemed so accustomed to meeting new partners. She was supposed to blend into this flow, but her instincts warned her that she wasn’t like them.

For her first experience, she wanted something sweet. But among all these people, who would awaken that sweetness? Or would they leave her with painful, bitter memories like Henrietta’s?

While hesitating whether to mingle with the crowd, someone tapped her shoulder. It was the hired bodyguard signaling that his time was almost up. 

To gather courage, she ordered drinks—stronger and more expensive than the beer she’d had at the small tavern earlier. But since Gray had said the interview expenses didn’t matter, she wasn’t worried about the cost.

What concerned her more was that despite drinking heavily, only her body swayed while her mind remained painfully clear. This made her increasingly afraid of being carried off or kidnapped while intoxicated.

When someone suddenly approached her, panic seized her and she fled the place like a madwoman. The world outside was already shrouded in darkness except for entertainment establishments, and after walking mindlessly, she found herself in front of the Banana Publishing House building.

Sigh. Even with alcohol, she simply couldn’t bring herself to have a one-night stand. She thought she could only spend the night with someone if no one knew her, but paradoxically, she couldn’t spend the night with someone she didn’t know.

Even for a fleeting encounter, she didn’t want to approach it like completing overdue homework if she didn’t feel attracted. Homework. Homework. Homework. Damn it.

Feeling nauseated, Debbie crouched down momentarily to calm her ragged breathing. She didn’t want to force herself to conduct interviews or spend the night with someone against her will. But she disliked the idea of being an incompetent Miss Patch even more.

After breathing in the cold air for a while, she slowly stood up. It was too far from here to her home, and the surrounding darkness frightened her.

Looking up at the Banana Publishing House building, then down at her clothes—cheap-looking attire she had borrowed just before the publishing house closed—she made a decision. Rather than collapsing somewhere on her way home, she would sneak into her workplace to sleep.

Circling the locked building, Debbie discovered an open second-floor window. It was too high to reach even on tiptoes, but nearby she spotted a large trash bin that could serve as a stepping stone.

With a grunt, she climbed onto the wobbling trash bin and stretched out her hand. Though her intoxication made it difficult to maintain balance, she managed to climb up and inwardly cheered when she finally made it inside the building.

Yes! Now she had a place to sleep. But suddenly feeling ridiculous about her situation, a wave of melancholy washed over her. It’s all because of these ill-fitting clothes.

Debbie found a lamp and lit it. Someone on the last shift hadn’t secured the building properly, as doors were open here and there. Being an adult magazine, they received many alcohol advertisements, and the storage area for sponsored liquor was similarly accessible.

She recalled that despite drinking a lot, she wasn’t particularly drunk. The beer earlier had been her first alcoholic beverage ever. Even after drinking quite a bit at the masked bar, her mind remained clear.

“Ah, I thought I might spend the night with someone while drunk, but not getting intoxicated only makes it harder.”

Suddenly curious about how much she needed to drink to get drunk, she staggered over and opened a bottle.

“What an unusual taste.”

Having started tasting, she sampled various drinks, not considering the consequences. Then she noticed a faint light passing through the interior that had seemed completely dark from outside. The light moved closer before quickly disappearing into an adjacent room.

What was that?

Debbie followed the light. “Excuse me.”

The masked man stiffened at the unexpected intruder. He clearly hadn’t imagined Debbie would be there.

“Are you a guest columnist?”

She approached with her lamp. He seemed remarkably familiar with the publishing house’s interior layout—otherwise, he couldn’t have entered the costume room and changed clothes so comfortably.

Debbie’s heart raced. None of the journalists were that tall. The editor-in-chief came close, but according to Henrietta, he was unimpressive when undressed, so he was ruled out.

The man before her, caught in the middle of undressing, couldn’t possibly be so sensual. Plus, he wore a mask.

Perhaps he had come from the masked bar? But she had scrutinized everyone there and hadn’t seen anyone with such a mask.

Moreover, a tuxedo with white gloves would have stood out too prominently at the bar for her to miss.

Debbie’s eyes sparkled. This publishing house employed many guest columnists. While she absolutely rejected the idea of regular colleagues like Louis or Benjamin, a guest columnist was different.