Here's your translation into English, babe, with a dark aristocratic–devilish tone like you asked before. I kept the flow smooth but preserved the cruelty and elegance in the wording:
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Karen fell asleep the moment her body touched the bed. She was not used to waking in the night and sleeping at dawn. But Tokio had told her it would be fine for a few days.
She wore no makeup, so there was no need to wash her face. And Tokio seemed to accept it when Karen refused to let anything touch her skin.
It was a face she despised. Her complexion was flawless, without blemishes or scars, her lips tinted a natural pink. A face that made others call her a whore, a lowly woman.
In her sleep, Karen remembered every sharp crack of the whip that always lashed the children in the orphanage if they failed to bring home money.
Some children there had been trained as pickpockets since birth. But Karen alone refused. She delivered newspapers each morning, an honest job, though it earned her almost nothing.
Every cent the children gathered was seized by the head of the orphanage. Those who brought in more money were spoiled with "luxuries"—perhaps a second-hand dress salvaged from discarded clothing, or food that passed for lavish: a scrap of meat, a glass of chocolate milk.
Karen's meager wages, paid only once a month, condemned her to daily punishments.
Even in dreams she remembered clearly how her legs turned crimson beneath the small, rigid bamboo canes the head of the orphanage used to beat her.
Karen cried and staggered, trying to escape the sting, but the woman would seize her frail arm.
"If you cry and run, I'll strike you harder! Stop sniveling, you spoiled child!"
Karen wept harder, and the blows indeed grew harsher. For months, every punishment brought tears. But now… no longer. Her body was not immune, the pain was still human, but her heart had long been forced into silence.
She had endured punishments that even the nuns in the church could not bear to watch. Others were merely locked away or denied food; Karen endured it all—shackles, beatings, slaps—her tears bearing witness.
In time, she learned the truth: guilty or innocent, the head of the orphanage would always beat her. No matter how she tried to avoid it, punishment came. There was always an excuse—dust on the window, crumbs on the floor, a dish not clean enough.
Karen was never treated as one of the children. While the others stole, she was forced to clean the orphanage after work. No food, no rest, until it was done.
She was grateful the fire had freed her, yet terrified of flames. At every sight of fire, she rushed to extinguish it.
***
"I will work again," Karen said when the bespectacled head of the orphanage clasped her hands, trying to stop her from leaving.
"Karen…" the woman began, but Karen refused to listen.
"We need money."
"Donors and volunteers will help us. You don't have to work, Karen," she pleaded softly.
"I must." She insist.
"Why? Do you love money so much?"
Karen shook her head firmly. "I hate it, but I need it desperately."
"Why? For what reason?"
Karen gave no answer. "I'll be home by morning. Don't wait for me."
The woman sighed, pressing her chest as she watched Karen's rigid back retreat. She could not understand why Karen kept such distance.
Karen allowed the children to touch her, surround her, even hug her—but no more. She never ate with them. Never spoke with them.
And now, she even rejected my touch , the woman thought in sorrow.
Karen had reason to need money. The government planned to close the orphanage and send the children elsewhere. She could not allow it.
If they discovered she was once a runaway from another orphanage, she could be deported. The former headmistress had never registered her, believing the abandoned girl would not survive. No birth certificate, no identity, no trace of origin. She could be anyone—immigrant, refugee, or nothing at all.
When the fire broke out and she was taken to the hospital, the nuns had recorded their names, their addresses. Upon learning they were orphans, they contacted the government.
Karen, hidden behind a curtain, overheard the plan to relocate the children. Terrified of further abuse, she fled barefoot in a hospital gown.
And ironically, she ended up in another orphanage. This one was smaller, poorer, forgotten. No donors, no volunteers. But here, at least, Karen was treated as "human."
She did not love it, nor felt bound to it. But it sheltered her. And she would defend it. If not, she would search for her true self.
Her job at Tokio's was possible only because she had purchased a forged ID card from black market sellers who catered to fugitives, criminals, and the desperate. Karen was the last.
She had no phone. Couldn't afford one. Didn't want one. Memories were useless when there was nothing worth keeping.
She boarded a bus, scanned her card at the machine, and sat at the very back. Alone. Always alone.
Karen never let herself grow close to anyone. She built an invisible wall, keeping the world at bay.
***
Aaron, meanwhile, sat at his desk, savoring the morning newspaper. The front page showed the Butterfly building draped in police tape, patrol cars lining the street.
He read the report with a cold smile. The police claimed a tip had revealed human organ trafficking within the glamorous night club.
Of course, it was a lie. But Aaron could make lies become truth.
His phone flashed. He answered.
"What is it?"
"Mr. Ken wishes to see you. Shall I arrange it?" asked his secretary.
"Send him in."
Moments later, the door opened, and a broad-shouldered young man in a cream suit approached.
"Do you bring me good news?"
The secretary closed the door. Ken hesitated, then forced a grim smile. He drew out an envelope and handed it over.
"I don't know how to put this. That woman… she's strange."
"Strange? What do you mean?" Aaron opened the folder—empty. His brows drew together, eyes darkening.
"What is this, Ken? Do you mock me?"
Ken shook his head. "This is the result of my investigation. Nothing."
"Nothing? You mean you found nothing on Karen Leichster, or you are simply incompetent?"
"Nothing at all."
"Nothing?" Aaron echoed.
"Nothing," Ken confirmed. "No health insurance, no property, no phone records. I even hacked immigration—no trace of Karen Leichster as foreigner or tourist."
Aaron leaned forward. "Her life? Where she lives? Her number? Her birth record?"
"Nothing, boss. Not even credit history."
Aaron's gaze sharpened. "Are you certain her name is Karen Leichster?"
Ken swallowed. "You think Tokio deceived you?"
Aaron's lips curved into a cold half-smile. "Two possibilities, Ken. Either Tokio lied to me… or she lied to Tokio, and gave him a false name."
Ken paled at the softness in Aaron's voice—it carried more menace than a shout.
"What will you do, sir?"
"Find the one who forges ID cards. Ask if he has seen a woman calling herself Karen Leichster. Keep searching until you do."
"And if I still cannot?"
Aaron rose, turning toward the floor-to-ceiling windows of his twenty-sixth floor office. He placed his hands in his pockets, eyes narrowing as he looked out over Tokyo.
"Then I will do it myself. And when I search, I always find."
Ken prayed it would never come to that. Aaron was a young tycoon not by chance, but by ruthlessness. He never forgave deceit.
If Karen had given a false name, she would taste Aaron's punishment. And when Aaron took matters into his own hands, his success was absolute.
Ken shuddered, unwilling to imagine the torment awaiting her.
May God pity her…