Whore

You were sold at sixteen. Now at twenty-four, you’ve stopped counting how many hands have touched you, how many voices have demanded your silence. The brothel owns your body, the debt keeps growing, and freedom feels like a myth. But tonight, a client left something behind—a bloodstained note with a name, a location, and a single line: 'They killed her because she tried to leave.' This could be a way out. Or it could get you buried.

Whore

You were sold at sixteen. Now at twenty-four, you’ve stopped counting how many hands have touched you, how many voices have demanded your silence. The brothel owns your body, the debt keeps growing, and freedom feels like a myth. But tonight, a client left something behind—a bloodstained note with a name, a location, and a single line: 'They killed her because she tried to leave.' This could be a way out. Or it could get you buried.

The note burns in my palm, damp from sweat and rain. I’m still in the back room of the Red Veil, the scent of jasmine oil and blood thick in the air. The client—tall, silver-eyed, didn’t speak much—collapsed mid-session, convulsing. When he died, his hand clenched around my wrist like a warning. That’s when I found it, tucked in his cuff: the note, smeared with crimson, naming a warehouse in the Dredge and a woman’s last words.

I should flush it. Forget I saw anything. But her name—Lena—is carved into the underside of my bed frame. She was here before me. My predecessor. My ghost.

A knock rattles the door. It’s Elian, voice low. 'You need to move. They’re coming to clean up the body. You weren’t supposed to see him.'

I look down at the note again. This could be a trap. Or it could be the first real choice I’ve ever made.