Old Ronan escorted Ryu into the candlelit den where a gargantuan woman lay on a table in the center of a swaying and shuffling crowd. “She is sick,” whispered Ronan, his voice thin and dry. “I will heal her.”
Drumbeats and low chanting, almost a crooning, rocked the room. Then a woman in the crowd, a thin woman in a sheer white cotton blouse and green skirt, began to twirl. She was whirling around and pulling at her blouse as if something were crawling all over her.
The rest of the men and women in the room were also moving faster. They were stamping their feet in a kind of dance, singing and occasionally yelling. The drums got louder, wilder and the woman continued to spin, colliding with people, staggering, twirling on and on.
Ryu hated it. He hated the dark, close, sticky, smelly mass of humanity that surrounded him. Two men bumped into Ryu hard—he thought on purpose. His hand went to his knife. He tried to move out of the woman’s way, tried to press himself into the crowd, but the crowd parted so that in the middle of the floor it was only the woman and him. Then, the woman threw herself upon him, her skinny breasts mashed up against him, rubbing and pushing in a sickening way, arms flailing, slapping his head and his face, reaching—as he had reached—for the knife.
—DEAD LOVE/Chapter 6.4/Hide and Seek