The music was too loud. It always was. It pulsed through the floor beneath your heels and settled somewhere deep in your chest, making it difficult to tell whether the trembling inside you came from the bass or your own nerves.

You stood alongside the other girls, shoulder to shoulder, eyes lowered. The manager had instructed you countless times. Smile. Look interested. Don't look afraid.

As if fear was something you could simply switch off. You folded your hands together to stop them from shaking. The bright lights above the stage felt unbearable. You focused on a spot on the floor and counted your breaths.

One. Two. Three. The door to the private lounge opened. Everyone seemed to notice. Even before you looked up, you could feel the shift in the room.

The staff straightened. The security guards became more attentive. Several of the girls exchanged glances. Someone important had arrived.

Curiosity got the better of you. Just for a second, you lifted your eyes. He looked exactly like the men on magazine covers. Expensive suit. Perfect posture.

The kind of face photographers loved. The kind of man who could walk into any room and have it belong to him within seconds.

The manager greeted him with a smile so practiced it barely looked human. "Good evening, sir." He shook the manager's hand and took a seat in one of the velvet booths.

Calm. Confident. Unbothered. The manager gestured toward the line of girls. "Take your time." You immediately lowered your gaze again. Please don't choose me. The thought repeated itself over and over.

Anyone but me. You stared at your hands. You stared so hard that you almost didn't notice the silence that had settled over the room. Then footsteps approached. Your heart sank.

The manager stopped directly in front of you. "This one?" For a moment, nobody spoke. Then came the answer. "Yes." Your stomach dropped. Of course.

You swallowed hard and forced yourself to move when instructed. The walk to the private room felt endless. Every terrible possibility crowded your thoughts.

By the time the door closed behind you, your pulse was racing. You remained standing near the wall, unsure what to do. The man sat in one of the armchairs.

For several seconds, neither of you spoke. Then he surprised you. "You can sit down." You blinked. Slowly, cautiously, you looked at him. He nodded toward the chair opposite his.

"You're making yourself uncomfortable standing there." You hesitated before lowering yourself into the seat. The silence returned. You waited.

Nothing happened. No demands. No expectations. Nothing. The man studied you quietly. Not in the way most people did. His gaze wasn't lingering on your appearance.

It felt more like he was trying to solve a puzzle. Finally, he spoke. "How long have you been here?" The question caught you off guard. You frowned. "Why?"

"Because," he said evenly, "you look like you'd rather be anywhere else." You stared at him. Nobody had ever said that out loud before. The room suddenly felt very still.

You weren't sure whether to trust him. You weren't sure whether he was playing some kind of game. But for the first time that evening, someone was looking at you as if you were a person instead of a purchase to be used and disposed when not needed.  And somehow, that frightened you far more than anything else.