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.