Double Shackles

The night air hung thick with the scent of burning wood and something worse—blood. Su Qing pressed her back against the cold stone wall of the secret passage, her breath coming in ragged gasps. The muffled shouts and clashing of weapons from above told her everything she needed to know. The Qiu family’s armed forces had breached the mansion’s outer defenses. Her father’s guards, loyal as they were, simply hadn’t been enough.

She had seen her mother fall first—a single, clean shot to the chest as she pushed Su Qing toward the hidden door behind the library’s tapestry. Her father had followed moments later, his body crumpling over his desk, a letter opener still clutched in his hand as if he might somehow fight back against the armored men who filled the room. Su Qing had wanted to scream, to run back, to die beside them if that was what fate demanded. But her mother’s last words echoed in her skull: *Live. You must live.*

So she ran.

The passage was narrow, barely wide enough for her shoulders, and she scraped her palms raw against the rough brick as she stumbled forward. Dust coated her tongue, mixing with the metallic taste of fear. She had no weapon, no plan—only the desperate hope that the escape route her father had shown her years ago would lead to safety.

It did not.

The passage ended at a maintenance shed behind the main estate, its wooden door rotting and warped. Su Qing shoved it open, sucking in the cool night air. The grounds were eerily quiet now, the sounds of battle fading as the Qiu forces pushed deeper into the mansion. They would find the secret door eventually, she knew. They had maps, informants, every advantage her family had never anticipated.

She needed to move. Now.

A row of transport trucks sat idling near the eastern gate, their engines rumbling low. The Su family’s logistical fleet—supposedly used for transporting household goods and legitimate merchandise. Su Qing had seen these trucks before, had known on some level what they truly carried. Young women, drugged or coerced, bound for the slave islands where the Federation’s wealthy patrons placed their custom orders. She had never spoken of it, too ashamed of her family’s hidden trade to confront her parents.

Now that trade might save her life.

The last truck in the line had its rear doors slightly ajar, a faint sliver of light spilling from within. Su Qing ran toward it, her shoes slipping on the dew-wet grass. She heard shouts behind her—Qiu’s men had found the passage exit. She didn’t look back. She couldn’t afford to.

Her fingers found the cold metal handle of the truck door. She yanked it open, scrambling inside, and yanked it shut behind her. The interior was dim, packed with wooden crates stamped with the Su family crest. In the corner, a pile of burlap sacks lay crumpled together. Su Qing dove behind them, pressing herself into the narrow space between the sacks and the metal wall.

Her heart thundered so loudly she was sure the entire estate could hear it. The shouts grew closer. Boots pounded against the ground outside. Then a voice, sharp and commanding: “Search every vehicle. She couldn’t have gone far.”

Su Qing clamped a hand over her mouth, stifling a sob. The burlap sacks smelled of mildew and something faintly sweet, like dried flowers. She buried her face in them, praying to any god that might still be listening.

The footsteps circled the truck. A fist banged against the rear doors. “Unlock it!”

“It’s locked from the inside,” another voice replied. “Must be sealed for transport.”

“Break it open!”

Metal screeched against metal as someone tried to pry the doors. Su Qing squeezed her eyes shut, waiting for the inevitable. But then a different sound cut through the chaos—an engine roaring to life. The truck lurched forward, throwing her against the crates. The attackers outside shouted, but their voices grew distant as the vehicle picked up speed.

The driver must have heard the commotion and decided to leave early, Su Qing realized. Whether out of fear or simple schedule, she didn’t know. But she was moving, and that was enough. For now.

The ride was rough, the unpaved road rattling her bones. Minutes stretched into what felt like hours. Her body ached, her mind numb with grief and shock. She thought of her mother’s final smile, her father’s desperate shove. She thought of the life she would never return to—the ballrooms and gardens, the tutors and suitors, all of it ash.

And then she thought of what this truck actually carried: human cargo, bound for the slave markets of the Outer Isles. Women who had been tricked or forced into signing their freedom away, all under the guise of “voluntary servitude.” The Federation had made it legal—mere years ago—allowing anyone in debt to sell themselves into slavery. A loophole for the desperate. A goldmine for the Su family and their rivals.

Now Su Qing was hiding among them.

Her vision blurred. She felt dizzy, the adrenaline fading and leaving a hollow weakness in its place. Something had hit her during the escape—a stray fist or a falling timber, she couldn’t recall. But her head throbbed, and the world swam at the edges.

She tried to stay awake. She failed.

When she opened her eyes, the truck had stopped. Sunlight streamed through a crack in the doors, harsh and unfamiliar. She heard voices outside—men shouting orders, the clang of chains.

“This the last batch from the Su compound?”

“Yes, sir. Twenty units, all pre-ordered by the client list.”

“Any special requests?”

“One premium. A redhead, high-born. The buyer wants her untouched.”

“They always do.”

The doors flew open. Su Qing blinked against the sudden brightness, barely able to lift her head. A man in a dark uniform stared down at her, his face hard and indifferent.

“This one’s awake. Sedate her.”

“No—wait—I’m not—I’m Su Qing, I’m the heiress, you have to let me go—”

The man didn’t even blink. He grabbed her arm, his grip like iron, and pressed a cold cloth against her nose and mouth. The chemical smell was sharp, acrid. She thrashed, tried to scream, but her body went limp before the sound could leave her lips.

The last thing she saw was the man’s face, impassive as a statue, as he muttered to his companion: “Mark her for Island Three. She’ll fetch a decent price once Ali breaks her in.”

Su Qing’s mind screamed, but her body had already surrendered.

The truck doors slammed shut, and the darkness swallowed her whole.

The first sensation was pain—a dull, pounding ache at the base of her skull that spread like slow fire through her temples. Su Qing’s eyes fluttered open, and the world came into focus through a haze of grit and salt. She was lying on a cold metal floor, her cheek pressed against a surface that smelled of rust and brine. The ceiling above was low and gray, stained with moisture that dripped in irregular intervals. The sound of waves crashed somewhere nearby, but it was not the gentle rhythm of a coastal estate—it was a violent, hungry roar, as if the sea itself was trying to devour the land.

She pushed herself up with trembling arms, her body screaming in protest. Her clothes were torn, the fine silk of her dress now a tattered rag clinging to her skin. Her hands were scraped raw, and there was a cut on her lip from where she had bitten down during whatever had happened. The last thing she remembered was the back gate of the Su estate, the screech of tires, and a cloth soaked in something sweet and sickly pressed against her face. Then nothing.

A door slid open with a metallic groan, and harsh light flooded the small cell. Su Qing squinted, raising a hand to shield her eyes. A man in a stained uniform stood in the doorway, his face bored and weathered. Behind him, she could see a corridor of similar cells, lights flickering along a narrow hallway.

“Well, look who decided to join the living,” the man said, his voice flat. “On your feet. Processing line’s waiting.”

“Processing?” Su Qing’s throat was dry, her voice cracking. “I don’t understand. Where am I? I need to contact my family. I am Su Qing, the eldest daughter of the Su family. You must let me speak to someone in charge.”

The man snorted. He turned his head and called down the hall, “Hey, we got a fancy one today. Thinks she’s a noble.”

Laughter echoed from somewhere unseen. Su Qing’s stomach twisted. She forced herself to stand, swaying on unsteady legs. “You don’t understand. There’s been a mistake. I was taken from my home. I am not supposed to be here. Check my identification—my clothes, my belongings.”

The man stepped closer, grabbing her arm with a grip that was swift and unyielding. “No belongings. You came in with nothing but the rags on your back, same as all of them. Now, you can walk on your own or I can drag you. Makes no difference to me.”

She tried to pull away, but her strength was gone. Her protest died in her throat as he yanked her forward into the corridor. She stumbled beside him, her bare feet slapping against the cold metal floor. They passed other cells, some empty, some with hollow faces pressed against the bars. Men and women, all in similar tattered clothing, stared at her with vacant eyes. This was not a detention center. This was something far worse.

“I demand to see an official. I am—” she started again, but the man cut her off.

“You are nothing,” he said flatly. “Right now, you’re inventory. The Su family sent a shipment, and you’re part of it. End of story.”

Su Qing’s blood ran cold. “The Su family sent me? That’s impossible. I am Su Qing. I am the family’s heiress. Why would they send me here?”

He stopped and turned to face her, his eyes narrowing. “Listen, girl. Every slave that comes through here says they’re someone important. A general’s daughter, a merchant’s wife, a noble’s sister. It’s a story we’ve heard a hundred times. The only truth that matters is the number they give you. Now, shut your mouth and move.”

They reached a small room with a single chair and a harsh overhead light. A woman in a crisp uniform sat behind a desk, a tablet in her hand. She did not look up as the man pushed Su Qing into the chair.

“Name?” the woman asked, her tone monotone.

“Su Qing,” she said, her voice firm despite her trembling. “Daughter of Su Ming, head of the Su Commercial Alliance. I was abducted from my home. If you contact the mainland authorities, you will see—”

The woman tapped on her tablet without reaction. “No records match ‘Su Qing’ in the arrival manifest. The shipment log lists one female, age approximately twenty, identity unconfirmed. Standard procedure will apply.”

“You’re not listening to me,” Su Qing said, her voice rising. “Call the mainland. Call the Su estate. They will confirm who I am.”

The woman finally looked up, her eyes cold and professional. “The mainland does not answer calls from Slave Island. You are here. That is your only reality. For attempting to falsify identity and disrupt processing, you will serve twelve hours in isolation. Take her.”

“No—wait—” Su Qing lunged forward, but the man grabbed her by the shoulders and dragged her back. She kicked and struggled, but her movements were weak, uncoordinated. The last of her strength drained as he pulled her down a side corridor and shoved her into a pitch-black cell no larger than a closet. The door slammed shut, and a lock clicked into place.

The darkness was absolute. She could hear her own breathing, too fast, too shallow. She pressed her hands against the cold walls, feeling them close in from all sides. Panic clawed at her chest. She screamed, pounding on the door with her fists until her knuckles split and bled. No one came. No one answered.

Minutes became hours. The silence was broken only by the distant crash of waves and the occasional groan of metal settling. Su Qing curled into a ball in the corner, her tears hot against her cold skin. She thought of her father, of the estate, of the life that had been ripped away. She thought of the enemy—the man who had sworn to destroy her family. Had he done this? Or was it something else, some betrayal within her own house?

She had no answers. Only the dark.

Eventually, the panic subsided, replaced by a cold, hard clarity. Crying would not open the door. Screaming would not change the truth of where she was. She was on Slave Island—a place she had only heard whispers of, a black spot on the map where the law ended and survival began. If she wanted to live, if she wanted to escape, she had to endure. She had to learn the rules of this new world and bend them to her will.

When the door opened at last, the light stabbed her eyes. She shielded them and saw the same woman from before, now holding a portable device.

“Stand,” the woman said.

Su Qing obeyed, her muscles stiff and aching. The woman circled her, then pressed a cold metal tool against her forearm. There was a sharp hiss, and Su Qing flinched. A moment later, a small black number appeared on her skin: 0721.

“You are now registered as slave 0721,” the woman said. “You will answer to this number. You will forget your old name, your old family, your old life. You are property of the island. Disobedience will be punished. Resistance will be broken. Do you understand?”

Su Qing looked at the number burned into her arm. It was small and neat, but it felt like a brand seared into her very soul. She lifted her eyes to meet the woman’s cold gaze.

“I understand,” she said, her voice steady. But inside, a fire was kindling. *This number is a lie*, she thought. *And I will not die as 0721. I will die as Su Qing, or I will not die at all.*

The woman nodded, apparently satisfied. “Good. Follow me. Training begins immediately.”

As she was led out of the isolation block and into the harsh sunlight of the island, Su Qing saw the true scale of her prison. Barracks stretched across a barren landscape, surrounded by barbed wire and watchtowers. In the distance, other slaves were running laps, their faces blank with exhaustion. And at the center of it all stood a tall, muscular woman with a whip at her belt—Instructor Ali.

Su Qing’s heart pounded, but she did not let her fear show. She stepped forward into the blazing sun, her number burning against her skin, and prepared to survive.

The room was windowless, lit by harsh fluorescent bars that buzzed overhead. A single metal chair sat in the center, bolted to the concrete floor. Two men in dark suits stood by the door, their faces blank. A third person—a woman with a clipboard—stepped forward. She wore a sterile white blouse and her hair was pulled back so tight it stretched the skin at her temples.

“Strip,” the woman said.

Su Qing’s breath caught. She stood near the chair, her wrists still raw from the zip ties they had cut off ten minutes ago. Her tailored blouse and pencil skirt felt like armor, the last shred of Su Qing the heiress. She shook her head once, small, involuntary.

The woman did not repeat herself. She nodded to one of the men. He crossed the room in three strides, seized the collar of Su Qing’s blouse, and ripped it downward. Buttons scattered across the floor like teeth. Su Qing gasped and tried to cover herself, but he caught her wrists, twisted them behind her back, and held them there with one hand. With the other he tore away her bra, the straps snapping.

“No, please—”

The second man stepped in. He knelt and yanked off her shoes, then her skirt, the fabric tearing at the seam. She struggled, but the first man’s grip was iron. In seconds she stood in only her underwear—pale silk, the last barrier.

The woman with the clipboard approached. She looked Su Qing up and down, then reached out and hooked her fingers into the waistband of the underwear. She pulled. The silk slid down Su Qing’s thighs, caught at her knees, then fell to the floor.

Su Qing stood naked under the lights. Her skin flushed crimson, then went white. She tried to cross her arms, to bring her knees together, but the man behind her yanked her arms wider, forcing her to stand exposed.

“Face the camera,” the woman said, pointing to a tripod set up ten feet away. A red light glowed on the lens.

Su Qing’s vision blurred. This could not be happening. This was a nightmare. She would wake in her penthouse, in her silk sheets, and the alarm would be for a board meeting, not this. Not this.

The man forced her to turn. She faced the camera, her whole body trembling. The woman stepped beside her and held up a piece of paper, text printed in bold.

“Read this. Aloud. With conviction.”

Su Qing stared at the words. *I, Su Qing, of sound mind and free will, voluntarily present myself for sale as property...* The sentences blurred. She could not breathe.

“Read it,” the woman said, her voice flat. “Or we start over. But the next time, he won’t be gentle.”

Su Qing’s throat worked. Tears spilled down her cheeks. She opened her mouth, and a sound came out—hoarse, broken.

“I... I, Su Qing...”

“Louder. Look at the camera.”

She forced her eyes to the lens. The red light seemed to burn into her. “I, Su Qing... of sound mind and free will... voluntarily present myself for sale as property…”

The words felt like shards of glass in her throat. She choked, but the woman’s gaze was unyielding. She kept reading, her voice cracking and fragmenting, until she reached the final line: “...and I accept my new identity as a slave, with no rights, no name, no future except that chosen by my owner.”

Silence. The camera whirred softly.

“Good,” the woman said. She stepped to the tripod, pressed a button, and the red light died. “Now the contract.”

They did not let her dress. They led her, still naked, to a metal table against the wall. On it lay a document several pages thick, a bottle of black ink, and a small velvet cushion.

“Sit,” the woman ordered.

Su Qing sat on the cold metal chair. The man released her wrists but stood behind her. Her hands trembled so violently she could not hold the pen they offered. The woman took her hand, guided it to the signature line, and pressed the pen into her fingers.

“Sign. All pages.”

Su Qing signed. Her name looked like a stranger’s—shaky, barely legible. Each stroke cut deeper into her soul.

When the last page was signed, the woman took the document and laid it flat. Then from a drawer she produced a small inkpad and a glass plate.

“Fingerprint. Here.” She indicated a box marked *Owner’s Identifier #1*.

Su Qing pressed her thumb to the inkpad, then to the paper. The whorls left a dark mark, a second signature, more intimate than her name.

“Now the second identifier.”

Su Qing looked up, confused.

The woman unscrewed a jar of black paste—thick, glossy. She dipped a clean glass rod into it, then motioned to Su Qing. “Spread your legs.”

Horror dawned. “No. No, I won’t—”

The man’s hands clamped onto her shoulders, forcing her down. His knee pushed her thighs apart. The woman knelt in front of her, the paste glistening on the rod.

“This is a standard clause for female inventory,” she said, as if explaining a weather report. “A vaginal print serves as an unalterable biometric identifier. It ensures you cannot be replaced, cannot be faked, cannot be stolen without trace. You will be marked at each transfer of ownership.”

Su Qing’s cry was animal, raw. She bucked, but the man held her fast. The woman’s hand was steady. She touched the cold paste to Su Qing’s inner thigh first, then lower, pressing the rod inside her. Su Qing screamed, a sound that bounced off the concrete walls and died.

The woman withdrew the rod, now covered with a thin film of paste and moisture. She pressed it onto the contract, rolling it carefully across a blank space. A dark smear appeared—amorphous, yet uniquely hers.

Su Qing sagged forward, her forehead hitting the metal table. Sobs wracked her body, but no more sound came out. Her throat had closed.

The woman set down the glass rod. She blotted the vaginal print with a clean cloth, then placed the contract into a waterproof sleeve.

“Congratulations,” she said, her voice utterly devoid of warmth. “Sale recorded. You are now property of the Eastern Holdings Auction Block.”

She turned and walked out. The two men followed, leaving Su Qing alone, naked, bent over the metal table, the cold creeping into her bones.

The door clicked shut. The lock engaged.

And Su Qing, who had been a daughter, an heiress, a woman with a future—Su Qing was no more.

The corridor smelled of disinfectant and something metallic. Two guards flanked Su Qing as she was marched toward a set of double doors at the end of the hall. Her bare feet slapped against the cold tile, the thin cotton gown they had given her doing little to hide her body or her trembling. She had not spoken since they took her from the holding cell—not because she had nothing to say, but because every word would have been either a plea or a curse, and both were useless here.

The doors opened automatically, revealing an examination room that could have passed for a high-end medical clinic if not for the restraints bolted to the table in the center. Bright surgical lights hummed overhead, illuminating every sterile surface. A man in a white coat stood beside a tray of instruments, his face expressionless as he glanced at a tablet.

“Subject 734, Su Qing,” he read aloud, not looking at her. “Height, weight, baseline measurements to be taken. Standard modifications per the island aesthetic profile. Tracking chip implantation. Vaginal compliance certification.” He set the tablet down and finally met her eyes. “Remove the gown and lie down.”

Su Qing’s fingers tightened on the fabric. She had known this was coming—the intake briefing had mentioned a physical examination—but hearing it laid out in such clinical terms made her stomach churn. “Is this necessary?” she asked, her voice steadier than she felt.

The doctor did not answer. He simply waited, tapping a stylus against the edge of the tray.

One of the guards stepped forward and grabbed the back of her gown. Su Qing flinched but did not resist as the fabric was pulled away, leaving her naked under the glare of the lights. The guard stepped back, and she felt the full weight of the exposure—the cold, the scrutiny, the utter lack of privacy or dignity.

She walked to the table and lay down, the vinyl surface cold against her skin. The restraints were not fastened, but their presence was a silent threat. The doctor moved to the tray and picked up a syringe.

“This is a local anesthetic for the breast augmentation,” he said, pressing a finger to the underside of her left breast. “You will feel pressure and some discomfort, but the procedure itself will be quick. The implants are pre-filled to a C-cup standard. After insertion, we will proceed with full-body hair removal via laser. Then the chip.”

Su Qing closed her eyes as the needle slid in. The anesthetic burned for a moment, then numbed the area. She focused on breathing, on not tensing her muscles as the doctor made a small incision along the natural fold beneath her breast. She could feel the pressure of his fingers, the cold touch of the implant being inserted, the careful manipulation of the pocket to seat it correctly. Through it all, she kept her mind blank, letting the sensation wash over her without engaging.

“You are handling this well,” the doctor remarked, almost casually, as he began stitching the incision. “Many subjects require sedation for the augmentation. The breast is a sensitive area.”

Su Qing did not deign to reply. She stared at a crack in the ceiling tile, counting the seconds until it was over.

When both implants were in place and the incisions sealed with surgical glue, the doctor moved to a different machine—a laser wand connected to a console. He pressed a button, and Su Qing felt a warm, bristling sensation as the laser swept over her legs, her arms, her torso, removing every trace of hair. The process was swift and efficient, leaving her skin smooth and strangely sensitive. She felt as though she had been sanded down, stripped of anything natural or human.

“Roll onto your stomach,” the doctor instructed.

She obeyed. He pressed a device against the nape of her neck, and she felt a sharp pinch as the tracking chip was implanted beneath her skin. A moment later, a soft beep confirmed its activation. “From now on, your location is always known,” the doctor said. “Attempts to remove the chip will trigger an alert and a lethal neurotoxin dose administered directly into the spinal cord. Do not try.”

Her heart pounded, but she made no sound.

“Return to your back, please.”

She turned over, her legs falling open automatically as the doctor adjusted the stirrups attached to the examination table. He slid a cold speculum into her without warning, and she gasped.

“We measure vaginal depth and tightness to establish baseline data for potential buyers,” he said, his tone unchanged, as if discussing weather patterns. “The measurements also determine your suitability for certain training regimens. Remain still.”

Su Qing squeezed her eyes shut, but she could feel everything—the cold metal inside her, the pressure as the speculum was opened, the doctor’s gloved fingers probing. She gripped the edges of the table until her knuckles turned white.

“Depth: nineteen centimeters. Tightness rating: eight out of ten. Elasticity: high,” the doctor murmured, apparently dictating into a recorder. “Preparing for compliance assessment.”

She did not understand what that meant until she felt his thumb press against her clitoris, rubbing in small, firm circles. Her body reacted before her mind could stop it—a jolt of electric pleasure that made her hips buck involuntarily. A strangled sound escaped her throat.

“Standard procedure,” the doctor said, his voice still flat. “We record the subject’s response to stimulation to catalog her physiological profile. This data is included in the sales dossier. It is important for buyers to know how easily a subject can be brought to climax.”

Su Qing bit down on her lower lip, hard, tasting blood. She tried to think of anything else—the cold, the lights, the guards outside—but the doctor’s fingers were unrelenting, sliding inside her as his thumb continued its rhythm. Her breath hitched. Heat pooled in her belly, shame mixing with rising arousal until she could no longer separate the two.

“You are very responsive,” the doctor noted. “That is a desirable trait.”

She wanted to scream. Instead, she turned her head to the side, tears leaking from the corners of her eyes as the pressure built, as her body betrayed her, as the climax gathered and crested against her will. She came with a shuddering gasp, her inner muscles clenching around the doctor’s fingers, and he withdrew them slowly, noting something on his tablet.

“Orgasm achieved in three minutes and twenty-four seconds. Vaginal contractions recorded. Level of conscious resistance: minimal.” He set down the tablet. “The examination is complete. You will be taken to the recovery wing for observation and then assigned to a training cohort. You may dress.”

Su Qing lay motionless for a long moment, her body still humming with unwanted pleasure, her mind reeling from the violation. She had been measured, altered, chipped, and brought to orgasm like a laboratory animal. And yet, as she sat up and reached for the clean gown the guard handed her, she felt something else beneath the shame: a cold, sharp determination.

They could take her body. They could measure her responses and sell her like livestock. But they had not broken her will. Not yet.

As she was led out of the examination room, she straightened her shoulders and fixed her gaze on the corridor ahead. There would be another day. There would be a chance.

And she would take it.

The dust from the transport truck still hung in the air when Su Qing was shoved through the gate of the training compound. The island heat slammed into her, thick and wet, carrying the smell of salt and sweat and something metallic—blood, maybe. She stumbled, her wrists raw from the plastic ties they had cut off only moments before, and tried to take in her surroundings.

Rows of low concrete buildings stretched ahead, their windows dark slits. A dirt yard, packed hard by countless feet, lay between them. In the center stood a metal frame with chains dangling from its crossbar. The sun bleached everything white and brown, leaving no shadows.

“Move.” The guard behind her prodded her spine with the butt of his rifle. She walked forward, forcing her legs to obey, her neck still aching from the collar they had welded on during the boat ride.

They stopped in front of a woman. Tall, lean, with cropped black hair and eyes the color of slate. She wore a tight gray shirt and cargo pants, and her boots were polished to a dull gleam. No weapon visible, but the way she held herself—still as a hunting cat—said she did not need one.

“Instructor Ali,” the guard said, stepping back.

Ali’s gaze traveled over Su Qing slowly, with a clinical detachment that made her skin crawl. She did not blink. “Strip her.”

Two women appeared from a side door, their faces blank. They moved with practiced efficiency, peeling off the thin prison shirt and pants Su Qing had worn for the last three days. She tried to hold still, but her hands shook as she lifted them. The air hit her bare skin, and she crossed her arms over her chest.

“No modesty here,” Ali said, her voice flat. It was not an insult, just a statement of fact. “You are meat. The sooner you understand that, the easier this will be.”

Su Qing said nothing. She stared at a point just past Ali’s shoulder, focusing on a crack in the concrete wall.

Ali turned and walked toward the nearest building. “Bring her.”

The two women took Su Qing by the elbows and guided her inside. The room was small, windowless, lit by a single fluorescent strip that buzzed overhead. In the center stood a wooden table, waist-high, covered with a thin foam pad. And on the table, laid out like a surgical instrument, was a silicone dildo. Translucent, veined, roughly eight inches long. It sat on a white cloth beside a jar of lubricant and a roll of paper towels.

Su Qing’s stomach turned.

“This is your first lesson,” Ali said, closing the door behind her. The latch clicked with finality. “Oral compliance. You will learn to service your superiors in a manner that brings them pleasure without resistance, without hesitation, without teeth.”

She gestured to the table. “Kneel.”

Su Qing did not move. Her bare feet pressed into the cold concrete floor. Her fingers curled into fists at her sides.

Ali watched her for a long moment, then tilted her head. “I said kneel.”

“I don’t do that,” Su Qing said. Her voice came out rough, scraped raw from the days of screaming she had done on the boat, but it held steady.

A flicker of something crossed Ali’s face—surprise, almost—then vanished. She stepped forward and, with a single shove to Su Qing’s shoulder, sent her to her knees. The impact jarred through her kneecaps, and she bit her lip to keep from crying out.

“You will do as I say,” Ali said. She was standing over her now, close enough that Su Qing could smell the soap on her skin. “Or you will learn why I am called the best on this island.”

Su Qing lifted her chin. “I didn’t come here to be a whore.”

Ali’s mouth curved—not a smile, but the baring of teeth. “You came here to be a slave. The two are not as different as you think.”

She reached for the dildo, picked it up with casual familiarity, and held it in front of Su Qing’s face. Up close, the silicone looked almost organic, the veins painted on with dark pigment. A bead of lubricant gleamed at the tip.

“Open your mouth.”

Su Qing pressed her lips together.

Ali waited. Five seconds. Ten. The fluorescent light buzzed. Su Qing’s knees ached. A bead of sweat rolled down her temple.

“Last chance,” Ali said. Her voice had not changed, but something in her posture tightened.

Su Qing shook her head once.

Ali sighed, as if disappointed, and set the dildo back on the cloth. She walked to a panel on the wall that Su Qing had not noticed—a small gray box with a keypad. She tapped a sequence, and a low hum filled the room.

Su Qing felt it before she understood it: a vibration, deep and terrible, starting at the collar around her throat. It ran down her spine, into her chest, wrapping around her ribs like a snake. Then the shocks came.

Not the sharp jolt of a cattle prod, but a sustained, burning throb that tightened every muscle in her body. Her jaw locked. Her hands clamped into claws. She tried to scream, but the air would not come. Her vision went white at the edges, and she collapsed to the floor, her head hitting the concrete with a crack that she felt more than heard.

The shocks stopped.

Su Qing lay on her side, gasping, her limbs twitching uncontrollably. Tears streamed from her eyes, blurring the floor.

Ali crouched beside her. “That was three seconds at the lowest setting. The collar has twelve levels. I have used level nine on stronger women than you. They did not last more than ten seconds before their hearts stopped.” She paused. “But I do not want you dead. I want you trained.”

She stood, picked up the dildo again, and wiped a smear of lubricant onto her thumb.

“Kneel. Open your mouth. Or we continue.”

Su Qing dragged air into her lungs. Her body shook. The taste of blood filled her mouth—she had bitten her tongue. Above her, the dildo hung in Ali’s hand, waiting.

She pushed herself up slowly, her arms trembling, and got her knees back under her. The concrete scraped her skin raw. She looked at the dildo, at the veined surface, at the lubricant catching the light.

She opened her mouth.

Ali tilted the dildo and pressed it against her lips. Su Qing’s instinct was to pull back, to snap her teeth shut, but her body remembered the shock and would not obey. She parted her lips.

The silicone slid inside. It tasted of chemical grape, the lubricant sickly sweet, and it filled her mouth completely. Her jaw ached at the stretch. Ali pushed it deeper, until the tip touched the back of her throat. Su Qing gagged, her eyes watering, her hands flying up to grip the table edge.

“Breathe through your nose,” Ali said. “Relax your throat. You are not being fed. You are not choking. You are learning to serve.”

Su Qing forced herself to inhale through her nostrils, a shaky, wet sound. The gag subsided, just enough.

“Good.” Ali withdrew the dildo slowly, then pressed it in again, a steady rhythm. Su Qing’s focus narrowed to the slide of silicone against her tongue, the humiliation of kneeling naked on a cold floor, the metallic taste that mixed with the grape.

She counted the seconds. One. Two. Three. Four.

Finally, Ali pulled the dildo out completely. A string of saliva followed, snapping against Su Qing’s chin. She sat back, chest heaving, and did not wipe her mouth.

Ali set the dildo aside. “Tomorrow morning, you will do this again. And every morning until you can take it without gagging, without closing your eyes, without flinching. When you can do that, we will move on.”

She turned toward the door, then paused. “You are strong-willed. That is useful. But it is also a liability. I will strip it from you, piece by piece, or I will break you into pieces. Your choice.”

She left. The door clicked shut, and the lock engaged.

Su Qing stayed on her knees for a long time, staring at the white cloth on the table, at the stain of lubricant spreading across it. She thought of her father, of the study where she used to sit on his lap and listen to him read contracts. She thought of the gardens behind the family estate, the fountains, the hedges trimmed into perfect shapes.

She had not thought of those things in days. They felt like someone else’s memory now.

Slowly, she reached up and touched the collar. It was still warm from the current. Her fingers traced the ridge where the electrodes sat against her throat.

She said nothing. There was no one to hear.

But in the dark of her mind, she whispered a name—her father’s—and held onto it like a stone in a drowning river.

The cell door opened with a metallic groan. Su Qing sat on the thin mattress, her knees drawn to her chest, watching the figure that filled the doorway. The dim lantern light caught the edges of a man's form—broad shoulders, a servant's tunic, a familiar stoop to the posture.

"You have a customer," Instructor Ali said from behind the man, her voice flat. "First sale. Don't disappoint."

The man stepped inside. The door slammed shut, and the lock clicked into place.

Su Qing's breath caught. "Old Chen?"

The butler raised a finger to his lips. He crossed the small room in three strides and knelt before her, his weathered hands reaching for hers. "Miss Su. I'm so sorry. So sorry."

"What are you doing here? How did you—"

"I had to come." His voice cracked. "I had to tell you myself."

The air in the cell grew thick. Su Qing studied his face, reading what she already knew in the way his eyes avoided hers. "Tell me what?"

"Your parents." He swallowed hard. "They're dead. The enemy leader's assassins found them three days after you were taken. They didn't suffer, Miss Su. Your father—he fought well."

The words fell like stones into still water. Su Qing felt nothing at first, then everything. The floor seemed to tilt beneath her. She gripped Old Chen's hands, her nails biting into his skin.

"Before they died," he continued, his voice dropping to a whisper, "your father told me to protect you. To keep the family together. He said you would inherit. You would rebuild."

"I'm a sex slave," she said flatly. "I'm being sold tonight."

"I know. That's why I'm here." He reached into his tunic and pulled out a small pouch. "The legitimate businesses—the silk trade, the tea houses, Qunfang Pavilion—they're all intact. I've been running them in your name. When you get out, they'll be yours."

"And if I don't get out?"

He didn't answer. Instead, he placed the pouch on the bed between them. "The underground operations are in chaos. The enemy leader has his hands in everything now. I can't buy you out without drawing attention. But there's an auction in three months. I'll have enough by then. I'll find a way."

"Three months."

"Until then..." He trailed off, looking at the thin walls, the barred window, the silk robe laid out on the chair. "Until then, I have to play my part."

She understood before he said it. The realization settled in her chest like ice. "You came here as a customer."

"Yes."

"To buy my virginity."

He nodded, tears welling in his eyes. "It's the only way I could see you. The only way to tell you the truth. If anyone else buys it, I won't know who has you. I won't know how to find you later."

Su Qing looked at the robe. White silk, embroidered with peonies. She was meant to wear it for the transaction. Her hands moved before her mind caught up, reaching for the fabric, pulling it over her shoulders. The silk was cold against her skin.

"Miss Su, I—"

"Do what you came to do," she said. Her voice was hollow, as if it came from somewhere outside her body. "We don't have much time."

Old Chen's face crumpled. He was a good man, she knew. He had served her father for thirty years, had watched her grow from a child to a woman. But he was also a practical man, and practicality in this place meant survival.

He helped her lie back on the mattress. His hands trembled as he touched her, as he undid his trousers. She kept her eyes fixed on the ceiling, counting the cracks in the plaster.

"Forgive me," he whispered.

She felt the pressure between her legs. A sharp, tearing pain. She bit her lip until she tasted blood.

When it was done, he held her for a moment, pressing a kiss to her forehead like he used to do when she was small. "Survive," he said. "Just survive. I'll come for you."

The door opened. Instructor Ali appeared, her face impassive. "Your time is up."

Old Chen stood, straightened his tunic, and walked out without looking back. The door closed. The lock clicked.

Su Qing lay on the mattress, her thighs sticky with blood, staring at the ceiling.

---

The training began the next morning.

She was led to a large room with padded floors and mirrors on every wall. Four male instructors stood in a line, their bodies lean and hard, their faces empty of expression. Instructor Ali stood at the front, holding a wooden paddle.

"Your job is simple," Ali said. "You will learn to please. To serve. To obey. Your body is not your own anymore. It is a tool for the pleasure of others. The sooner you accept this, the easier it will be."

Su Qing said nothing. She stood in the center of the room, wearing only a thin shift, her arms at her sides.

"The first lesson is submission." Ali gestured to one of the instructors. "Kneel before him. Open your mouth."

Su Qing didn't move.

The paddle came down across her back. The pain was sharp and immediate, spreading across her shoulder blades like fire. She stumbled forward, catching herself on her hands.

"Kneel," Ali repeated.

Su Qing's knees hit the floor. She looked up at the instructor standing before her. His cock was already hard, jutting out from his trousers. She closed her eyes, opened her mouth, and let him push inside.

The taste was salt and skin. She gagged, her throat contracting, but his hands gripped her head, holding her in place. Breathe through your nose, she told herself. Don't fight.

Later, she learned to swallow without gagging.

Then they moved to position. Lying on her back, legs spread, a male instructor positioned between her thighs. He entered her without preamble, without warning. She was still sore from the night before, still bleeding, and the pain made her see white.

But she didn't scream. She wouldn't give them that.

"You're too tight," the instructor said. "Relax."

She tried. She failed. He pulled out and slapped her thigh, leaving a red handprint.

"Again."

The second attempt was better. The third, better still. By the fifth, she had learned to breathe through the pain, to loosen her muscles, to let her mind drift somewhere far away—to a garden she remembered from childhood, with koi fish in a pond and the smell of jasmine.

"Better," the instructor said. "But not good enough."

She failed the first week.

Failed the second.

By the third week, she was being punished daily. Kneeling on a hardwood floor for hours with her hands tied behind her back. Whippings that left welts across her thighs and buttocks. Fasting, because she was "too weak to perform."

One afternoon, after a particularly harsh session, she was made to kneel in the center of the room while the other trainees watched. Ali circled her like a predator.

"Do you know why you're failing?"

Su Qing stared at the floor.

"Because you're still fighting." Ali crouched in front of her. "I can see it in your eyes. The hatred. The resistance. You think if you just endure, you'll be free. But freedom is a luxury you can't afford. The only way out of this place is through."

Su Qing raised her eyes. "And if I go through? If I become what you want?"

"Then you might survive."

The whip came down again. Su Qing bit her tongue, tasted blood, and said nothing.

---

By the fourth week, something shifted.

She learned to arch her back when a man touched her. She learned to moan, to whisper words of encouragement, to wrap her legs around an instructor's waist and pull him deeper. She learned to smile through the pain, to cry on command, to make every man who touched her feel like he was the only one.

But inside, in a place the trainers couldn't reach, she was building something else. A wall of ice, layer by layer, around the core of her self. She let her body become a puppet. She let her face become a mask. But behind the mask, behind the ice, Su Qing was still there. Waiting.

One night, after training ended, she lay on her mattress and touched the tender spots on her thighs. The bruises were fading. The cuts were healing. Her body was learning, adapting, becoming something new.

She thought of her parents. Of Old Chen. Of the pouch of coins he had pressed into her palm before he left.

*Survive*, he had said.

She closed her eyes and let the hatred settle into her bones like marrow.

She would survive.

And when she got out, she would make them all pay.

The training ground was silent except for Su Qing’s ragged breathing. Dust clung to her sweat-slicked arms as she lay face-down in the dirt, her fingers still twitching from the effort of the last combat drill. Every muscle screamed. Her vision blurred at the edges.

Instructor Ali’s boots appeared in her line of sight. Still. Unmoving.

“Get up.”

Su Qing pushed herself onto her elbows. Her arms buckled. She collapsed again.

“I said get up.”

She tried again. This time she made it to her knees, swaying, her head hanging low. Blood dripped from her split lip onto the packed earth. Around her, the other trainees had already finished their assessments and stood in neat rows at the edge of the field. None of them looked at her.

Instructor Ali circled her slowly, the leather of his boots creaking with each step. He carried a tablet in one hand, his thumb swiping across the screen with deliberate slowness. When he stopped, he was facing her back.

“Your combat score: twelve out of one hundred.” His voice was flat, devoid of emotion. “Your endurance score: nine. Your obedience score: seven. Your overall assessment: unqualified.”

The words settled over her like a shroud. Su Qing lifted her head, squinting against the harsh sun. “I can try again. Give me one more round. I can—”

“You cannot.” Ali stepped in front of her and crouched down, bringing his face level with hers. Up close, his eyes were the color of cold steel. “You have failed every metric we use to measure worth. You are weak. You are slow. You hesitate before every strike, as if you still believe you have a choice in the matter.” He paused. “You are not fit for the island.”

Su Qing’s throat tightened. She forced herself to hold his gaze. “What happens now?”

Ali stood. He tapped the tablet and something on the far end of the training ground beeped in response. Two guards approached from the gate, their faces hidden behind black masks. They stopped ten feet away and waited.

“Standard protocol for unqualified slaves,” Ali said. He was already walking away, his back to her. “You will be sent to Qunfang Pavilion as a flesh toilet. If you survive one month of service, you may return to the island for the final graduation assessment.”

The words hit her like a physical blow. Su Qing’s breath caught. She had heard whispers about Qunfang Pavilion in the barracks at night—low voices trading rumors about the place where failed slaves were sent to rot. It was not a training facility. It was not a punishment block. It was a pit designed to strip away whatever remained of a person’s humanity.

“One month,” she repeated.

Ali paused at the gate. He did not turn around. “One month. If you survive.”

The guards stepped forward and hauled her to her feet. She did not resist. There was no point. Every ounce of strength had already been drained from her body, and the fight that still burned in her chest was a useless, private thing. She let them drag her across the field, past the rows of silent trainees, past the instructor’s cold back, through the iron gate that led out of the island’s training compound.

The corridor beyond was narrow and dark. The walls were damp, and the air carried the smell of salt and rust. Su Qing’s bare feet scraped against the stone floor as the guards pulled her forward, their grips like iron vises on her upper arms.

One of them spoke without looking at her. “You know the rules of Qunfang Pavilion?”

She did not answer.

“There are no rules,” he said. “That’s the point.”

They walked for what felt like an hour through a maze of identical corridors, past locked doors and sealed hatches, until they reached a small room at the end of a dead-end passage. The room was empty except for a wooden bench and a metal ring bolted to the wall. A pile of cloth lay folded on the bench—a thin shift, gray and shapeless.

The guards released her arms. She stumbled but caught herself against the wall.

“Change,” the second guard said. “Leave your training gear here.”

Su Qing looked down at herself. The black uniform she wore was the same as every other trainee on the island. It was the only thing she had been given since she arrived. She pulled it off slowly, her fingers clumsy with exhaustion, and replaced it with the gray shift. The fabric was rough against her skin.

When she turned back, the guards had opened a second door on the far side of the room—a heavy steel hatch that groaned on its hinges. Beyond it, a ramp sloped down into darkness.

“Go.”

She walked to the threshold and stopped. At the bottom of the ramp, she could hear voices. Not words—just a low, muffled hum of sound that rose and fell like breathing. Light flickered from somewhere below, casting dancing shadows on the ramp walls.

Su Qing took a step forward. Then another. The hatch slammed shut behind her, and the lock clicked into place.

The ramp opened into a wide, circular chamber lit by a single oil lamp hanging from the ceiling. The walls were lined with doors—dozens of them, small and windowless, each one fitted with a heavy bolt on the outside. The floor was covered in straw that stuck to her damp feet. The air was thick and hot, heavy with the smell of unwashed bodies and something else—something metallic and sweet.

A woman stood in the center of the chamber. She was tall, with sharp cheekbones and hair pulled back so tight it stretched the skin around her eyes. She wore a fitted red dress that gleamed in the lamplight, and she held a thin bamboo rod in one hand, tapping it against her palm as she studied Su Qing.

“Another one from the island,” the woman said. Her voice was smooth, almost pleasant. “They always send me the broken ones.”

Su Qing said nothing.

The woman stepped closer, circling her the same way Ali had done on the training ground. But where Ali’s gaze had been cold and clinical, this woman’s eyes were hungry. She stopped directly in front of Su Qing and reached out, lifting a strand of her hair and letting it fall.

“Pretty face,” she murmured. “That might help you. A little.” She dropped her hand. “I am Madam Lian. This is my house. While you are here, you belong to me. You will do exactly what you are told, when you are told, for as long as you are told. You will not speak unless I give you permission. You will not look at me unless I command it. You will not cry, you will not scream, and you will not beg.” She smiled. It did not reach her eyes. “If you break any of these rules, I will make you wish you had never been born.”

She gestured with the bamboo rod toward one of the small doors. “That is your room. Go inside. Wait.”

Su Qing walked to the door and pulled it open. The space beyond was barely four feet square—a mattress on the floor, a bucket in the corner, nothing else. The walls were covered in scratches, layers upon layers of marks left by those who had been here before her.

She stepped inside and sat down on the mattress. The straw poked through the thin fabric.

The door closed behind her. The bolt slid home.

She sat in the dark for a long time, listening to the sounds of the house—footsteps overhead, muffled cries from somewhere down the hall, the occasional burst of laughter that made her skin crawl. She pressed her back against the wall and drew her knees to her chest.

One month, she told herself. She had survived the island. She had survived the training. She had survived every test, every beating, every moment of despair that had tried to break her. She could survive this.

She closed her eyes.

Somewhere in the distance, a woman began to scream.

The transport cart rattled through the back alleys of the pleasure district, its iron wheels scraping against cobblestones worn smooth by centuries of footsteps. Su Qing lay bound in the cargo compartment, her wrists chafed raw by hemp ropes that had been pulled too tight. The blindfold they had tied across her eyes offered no relief—only the fabric’s coarse weave pressing against her bruised eyelids.

She heard the cart stop. Heard the creak of a gate, the murmur of voices, the jingle of coins changing hands. Then hands grabbed her, pulled her upright, dragged her forward across a threshold that smelled of sandalwood and stale sweat.

“Fresh merchandise,” someone said. A woman’s voice, businesslike and bored.

The blindfold was ripped away.

Su Qing blinked in the dim light of a narrow corridor. Lace curtains hung from doorways on either side, and from behind them came sounds she refused to identify: wet slaps, muffled groans, the rhythmic creaking of bed frames. A woman in a tight silk robe studied her with clinical detachment, clipboard in hand.

“This one goes to Wall Three,” the woman said. “She’s marked for high-volume.”

“No,” Su Qing whispered.

No one listened.

They dragged her into a room that smelled of bleach and metal. The walls were lined with something she didn’t understand at first—horizontal slits cut into the plaster at waist height, each one framed in stained wood. Like mail slots. Like cages.

“Don’t fight it,” said a male attendant, his voice flat, mechanical. “Makes it worse.”

They stripped her. Methodically, without cruelty or kindness, as if undressing a mannequin. Her dress fell to the floor. Her undergarments followed. The cool air raised goosebumps across her skin, and she crossed her arms over her bare chest instinctively.

One of the attendants grabbed her wrists. The other took her ankles.

They lifted her.

The slot in the wall gaped before her—a rectangular opening barely as wide as her hips and deep enough to swallow a person whole. Dark inside. Stale air bleeding out of it like a tomb exhaling.

“No,” she said again, louder now, thrashing against their grip. “No, I won’t—I am Su Qing, I am the heir of the Su family, you cannot—”

A palm cracked across her face. Her head snapped to the side, and she tasted blood where her teeth had cut her cheek.

“You’re merchandise,” the woman with the clipboard said. “You’re a hole in a wall. That’s all you are now.”

They shoved her forward.

She screamed as her shoulders entered the opening. The wood scraped her skin raw. Her breasts pressed against the rough interior surface, and her arms were forced above her head and locked into restraints she hadn’t seen—metal cuffs bolted into the wall’s depth. Then her legs. They pushed her thighs through the opening, positioned her knees on padded rests, spread her wide.

The panel closed behind her.

Su Qing hung in darkness, her body pressed into a plaster cocoon. The only parts of her that existed in the world of light were her lower torso, her buttocks, the intimate fold between her legs. Everything else—her face, her name, her history—had been erased.

She heard a curtain being drawn. Heard footsteps approach.

“Number Three is ready,” someone announced.

Then the first customer came.

She didn’t see his face. She didn’t hear his voice. She only felt his hands—rough, calloused hands that grabbed her exposed hips without preamble. He grunted. Something hard pressed against the entrance between her legs, and she clenched every muscle, trying to close herself off.

“Relax, girl,” he muttered. “Happens faster if you relax.”

He didn’t wait for her to comply.

The penetration tore a scream from her throat. Dry, brutal, no preparation—he forced himself into her like he was opening a stubborn jar. The pain was white and immediate, radiating through her pelvis, up her spine, into her clenched jaw. She bit her tongue. More blood, copper on her palate.

He moved. Back and forth, a piston, a machine. Each thrust drove her face into the plaster wall, and she could feel the outline of her own cheekbone pressing a dent into the soft material. He finished in less than two minutes. Pulled out. Walked away.

The curtain rattled again almost immediately.

“Next,” someone called.

The second customer was rougher. He slapped her buttocks hard enough to leave a sting that lingered. He spread her wider with his thumbs, spat on her, forced his way into the other opening—the one unused, untouched, unprepared. She heard herself make a sound that wasn’t human. A keening, like an animal caught in a trap.

“Tight,” he said approvingly. “Good stock.”

He took longer. She lost time somewhere in the middle of it, her mind detaching from her body, floating up to the ceiling where she watched a woman-shaped thing being used like a piece of equipment. That isn’t me, she thought. That can’t be me.

But when he finished and the next man stepped up, the pain pulled her back.

They came in a procession. Some fast, some slow. One who whispered apologies. One who called her filthy names. One who bit her buttock hard enough to draw blood, and she felt the trickle of it running down her thigh, warm against the cooler air.

The attendants cleaned her between customers—wet cloths, cursory and cold. They oiled her, once, after the fifth or sixth man had complained about friction. But the oil didn’t help with the internal tearing. Didn’t help with the swelling that made every subsequent thrust a new kind of agony.

By the tenth man, she had stopped screaming. Her voice was gone, scraped raw by hours of crying out.

By the fifteenth, she had stopped thinking.

There was only the wall. Only the opening. Only the hands that grabbed, the bodies that pushed, the smells of sweat and cheap cologne and something metallic that she recognized as her own blood.

Time became meaningless. Day and night blurred into a single stretch of torment punctuated by brief moments of darkness when they pulled her out, forced water down her throat, cleaned her wounds with antiseptic that burned like fire, and then pushed her back into the slot.

“High volume,” the woman with the clipboard had said.

Su Qing understood now what that meant.

On the third day—or was it the fourth?—they opened her to both entrances simultaneously. Two men. One in front, one behind. They moved in counterpoint, filling every empty space inside her until she thought she would split apart. Her body convulsed against its restraints. Her lips formed words she couldn’t hear, prayers she couldn’t remember.

The men laughed. One of them reached around and pinched her clit, hard enough to bruise.

“She likes it,” he said.

She didn’t.

No part of her liked anything. No part of her existed as Su Qing anymore. There was only the hole in the wall, wet and raw and perpetually open. There was only the endless parade of strangers, their grunts and sighs, their brief moments of release purchased with coins that clinked into a tray beside the curtain.

Sometimes she heard the woman with the clipboard counting. “Twelve today. Nine yesterday. Fifteen the day before. Not bad.”

Not bad.

Su Qing’s mind retreated deeper into darkness. She thought of her mother’s garden, the way the peonies had bloomed in spring. She thought of her father’s study, the smell of old books and sandalwood. She thought of Butler Old Chen, his weathered hands, the way he had looked at her with such sorrow in his eyes.

*Save me*, she tried to whisper. But her voice was gone.

And no one was coming.

The wall held her. The wall would hold her until her body gave out, or until the customers stopped paying, or until someone decided she was no longer profitable. Those were the only endings available to her now.

She closed her eyes.

Another pair of hands grabbed her hips.

The curtain rattled.

“Next.”