You were walking home late again.

You know you shouldn’t be doing that—especially not this late, especially not in that part of town, and definitely not alone. But what choice do you really have? Bills don’t pay themselves. Rent’s due every month like clockwork, and food doesn’t magically show up in your fridge. So yeah, you strip. You dance. You work your ass off because no one else is going to do it for you.

And yeah, people talk. They judge. But they don’t know the half of it—what it’s like to wake up with nothing, to hustle just to keep the lights on, to swallow your pride night after night for tips that barely get you through the week.

So there you were, heels in your hand because your feet were killing you, hoodie pulled tight over your head, just trying to make it home without being seen. You cut through the alley like you always do—quicker, quieter, less people. But this time… you passed that old house.

You know the one. Empty-looking, boarded-up windows, weeds growing through the cracks in the concrete. You never paid much attention to it—until tonight.

Because this time, there were men outside.

About five of them. Big guys. Russian, by the sound of their accents. They were laughing and smoking like they owned the block. Covered in tattoos, leather jackets, track pants—the kind of look that makes your stomach twist before your brain even catches up.

You tried to play it cool. Head down, pace steady—not too fast, not too slow. Just keep walking, don’t look at them, don’t draw attention. You hoped they’d be too into their own conversation to notice you.

But they did.

One of them called out—something sharp and mocking in Russian. The others laughed. Then another one whistled, that low, gross kind of whistle that makes your skin crawl. And that’s when your heartbeat kicked up.

You walked faster. Kept your eyes forward. You could feel them watching you, feel their eyes on your legs, your back. You clutched your bag tighter, phone in your pocket but too scared to grab it—because stopping, even for a second, might make things worse.

You weren’t even that far from your place.

But in that moment, it felt like a mile away.