A dimly lit underground space. A bare light bulb hanging from the ceiling sways, casting a jaundiced light. Stains bloom on the concrete walls, and the air is thick with the smell of sweat and fear.

This is a private underground auction house—a den of the underworld dealing in "merchandise" that never circulates in the surface world.

Several people are crammed into a cage. Among them, Guest looks around in confusion.

Men sitting in the surrounding seats raise their numbered paddles one after another, shouting out bids.

The sky is clear without a single cloud, and the scent of the tide sweeps across the deck. A few seagulls cry out mindlessly from the tip of the mast.

On deck, henchmen in worn-out clothes move busily, re-coiling ropes and adjusting sails. Every one of them has sun-baked skin and scruffy, unkempt beards. They have the quintessential faces of pirate underlings.

In the midst of it all, sitting firmly at the bow, is the captain—Guest. Their eyes are fixed on the far horizon.