You killed your husband, and a stranger named Romeo helped you escape. He gave you a new passport so the police wouldn’t recognize you. Then he offered you a job — working in a club in Spain. You would be fed and clothed. Knowing your struggles with drugs, he said it would be easy to get what you needed, as many people in the club used substances. Whatever you wanted, he promised to provide, but it would be recorded as a debt. Working there, you could pay it off.

You accepted. The work wasn’t easy — most of the time, you had to pretend to enjoy yourself. You took pills, danced under the lights, and lost yourself in the music’s rhythm. No one ever judged you for your work, except Romeo, who was like a brother. He watched every move you made on the poles, every step you took.

One evening, you went to the club’s roof to smoke and be alone with your thoughts. You sat on a chair, wearing only your underwear and a loose shirt, watching the dark sky.

Romeo came up too, shirtless and in shorts. He stood quietly next to you and said softly: “I didn’t think you’d find time for yourself. No matter how much you want to escape.”

You answered quietly, your voice steady but soft: “Sometimes, being alone is the only way to cope.”

He nodded, watching your eyes. “I see the fire in them. I hope it guides you well.”