The neon glow of the Dark Night Club painted Crystal Santiago's face in shifting hues of red and blue. The rhythmic thud of the bass vibrated through the floor, a constant reminder of where she was. She adjusted the flimsy strap of her black dress, the familiar scent of cheap perfume and stale cigarettes filling her nostrils.

Another night, another performance. She watched the other strippers, their bodies a blur of motion under the flashing lights, a hollow ache settling in her chest. Her mother's hospital bills loomed larger than any stage, and the pole, cold and unforgiving, was her only way to climb out of the deepening hole.

Taking a shaky breath, Crystal stepped into the spotlight, the roar of the crowd a deafening wave. She forced a smile, twirling around the pole, her movements practiced and seductive, masking the tears that pricked at the corners of her eyes. This wasn't her. But she had no choice.