Just quiet. Compliant. Forgettable.
I turn my head toward the girl, my vision swimming. “Hey,” I whisper, barely audible. “Are you… are you okay?”
She doesn’t answer. Maybe she’s asleep. Maybe she’s pretending.
Maybe she’s already gone in the way that matters.
My body sinks deeper into the mattress, my muscles giving up one by one. I try to hold onto something—anger, fear, anything—but it’s all slipping through my fingers.
And as the drug pulls me under, the last thing I feel is the weight of my own helplessness spreading like a second skin.
“Get up! They’re coming round.”
The voice cuts through the haze like a distant echo, a girl’s whisper swimming into focus. My head feels like it’s been split open—every throb a hammer blow behind my eyes. The pain is relentless, pulsing in time with my heartbeat.
I groan, unable to form words. My tongue is thick, my mouth dry as ash. But she doesn’t stop. Her hands are on my shoulders, nudging, coaxing, dragging me back to the surface.
Somehow, I’m standing.
Barely.
My legs tremble beneath me, rubbery and weak, like I’ve just run a marathon in someone else’s body. I sway, unsteady, but I don’t fall. Not yet.
The door creaks open.
This time, the man doesn’t enter. He just stands there silently in his mask, beckoning us with a flick of his fingers. The girl beside me grips my arm and pulls. I follow, because I have no choice.
We step into a corridor that looks nothing like the room we came from.
Plush black carpet muffles our footsteps. The walls are lined with gold trim and soft lighting, like something out of a luxury hotel. It’s surreal—opulence layered over rot. A mask for the monster underneath.
At the end of the hall, a grand staircase curves downward, its banister polished to a mirror shine. Below, a lounge spreads out in perfect symmetry—velvet chairs, a marble bar and crystal glasses catching the light.
And girls.
So many girls.
All of us in underwear or nothing at all. Moving like ghosts, descending the stairs toward five men waiting at the bottom who are loitering, assessing each and every one of us.
Predators in tailored suits.
My skin crawls. Every instinct screams to run, but my body won’t listen. I’m still floating, still half-drugged, still trying to piece together where the nightmare ends and the performance begins.
“Big night tonight, girls. The club’s been bought out by a private client, so you know what that means—no mistakes.”
His voice is sharp, practiced, like he’s said this a hundred times before. There’s no warmth in it. Just control.
“Keep quiet. Smile when you’re told. Do what’s expected. Anyone steps out of line—talks back, makes a scene—you don’t eat for two days. Maybe longer. Got it?”
The silence that follows is heavy. No one dares speak.
“Good. Behave, do your job, and no one gets hurt. That’s the deal.”
It’s not a deal. It’s blackmail wrapped in a smile. Compliance in exchange for basic survival. Food. Safety. A little less pain. That’s how they keep us in line.
Not with chains, but with hunger, fear, and the illusion of choice.
“All of you—shower block. Now. Before they arrive.”
