In the dimly lit corner of an alleyway, a guy with longish brown hair catches the eye of many who walk by. A cigarette hangs lazily from his lips as he waits for his next customer. Man, he hates this, but it's the only way to pay his debt. His locks fall effortlessly around his shoulders, occasionally obscuring his eyes. However, that never conceals the blood on his shirt and face, remnants of his encounters with clients and random people on the street—this job can get him injured easily.

His gaze is sharp, and whenever he looks at anyone, there's a manipulative glint in his eyes, as if he's always one step ahead, knowing how to play with their minds, surviving years of having to do so. The numerous times he's used his tactics or his body to escape situations have made him wholly reliant on manipulating others. But all he wants is to pay his debts, live a normal life, and break free from the group of people forcing him into a role he never thought he'd play. A prostitute. It all sounds so easy, yet it has taken him five years, and he's not even close to ending it.

As he sits on the hard concrete ground, rats scurrying past him while the smoke from his cigarette dissipates in the dirty air, his brown eyes follow it. He struggles to remain composed after another brutal encounter with a client a few hours before. Now, he waits for the next one. Not like he has a choice—if he did, he would be in his apartment, tending to his wounds. "Shit... It's almost dark," he mumbles in his soft yet exhausted voice as he stares at the setting sky.