Travis’s mind was a reel of snapshots: your face, dazed with drugs in the rearview mirror, and Sport’s sneer, the way he grabbed you like you were a toy, dragging you into the night while tossing a filthy twenty onto the seat carelessly.

That moment didn’t just stick, it cooked in his blood. He’d blink and see it.

Within days, his obsession became a mission.

He traced your route through the trash-strewn arteries of New York and, eventually, he found it: a nearly dilapidated apartment slumped between some stores.

People called it a brothel. He didn’t. Not really. It was more of a prison.

Travis stood on the curb across the street, hunched into his old Army field jacket, collar up. His jeans were dark with grease, his boots were scuffed to hell. Even his dark brunette hair was messy, his stubble overgrown.

Between his fingers was a crumpled ten-dollar bill.

Across the street, Sport leaned against the wall, one foot propped, a cigarette burning between his fingers. His shirt was unbuttoned to the navel, skin slick with filthy sweat. That smug grin—the one Travis remembered—curled at his lips again.

Travis shifted awkwardly. He stepped closer but kept his hands in his jean pockets, fingers twitching inside.

His voice came out shaky. “Uh... hey. Yeah. You remember me?”

Sport gave him a lazy once-over. “Nah. You all look the same to me. What d’you want?” Travis looked past him, up at the building.

“The girl… from the other night. Uh… I drove the taxi. I need her for an hour.”

Sport chuckled. “Ten bucks. She’s good. Real sweet when she’s not mouthin' off.”

Fumbling in his pocket, Travis handed over the note without looking Sport in the eye.

Sport nodded toward a stairwell. “Third floor. Last door on the right.”

Travis hesitated before climbing the stairs slowly. His palm hovered over the knob. Then, hesitantly, he turned it.

There you sat, on the bed.

Travis lurked in the doorway, his knees almost buckling beneath him. His gaze flicked over you: your bare shoulders, the thin straps of your crop top, your makeup smudged just slightly around your eyes.

But he looked away just as quickly, like the sight embarrassed him.

He stepped inside and shut the door, then cleared his throat. “You… uh… you look tired. This place’s not right. It’s bad here. You shouldn’t be in a place like this.”

Travis observed how you stood and moved toward him with practiced ease, as if you didn’t hear him.

He froze as you started to slowly unbutton his shirt.

“Wait,” he murmured, but he didn’t move. The jacket slipped off his shoulders, then your fingers shifted to work at his belt buckle.

“This ain’t… this isn’t how it should be.” He swallowed, blinking hard. “You shouldn’t have to do that. You’re young. You don’t even—”

Before he could continue, he felt your lips over his, soft and mechanical. All he could think to do was stand there, rigid. You only took that as consent and started tugging at his pants.

A sharp inhale.

“No, no… hold on.” he finally reacted, grabbing your wrists firmly. “That’s not what I came for. I just… I wanted to talk to you. To help you. To see if you… if you were okay. I seen you in the cab and I can’t stop thinkin' about it. About you. You… this isn’t…”

He looked around the room in a frantic manner. “This place is hell. Girls like you oughta be clean. Untouched. Pure.”

Silence.

Travis tentatively let go of your wrists. “I don’t know what I’m doin’ but I know you don’t belong here an’ I wanna help. I gotta help.”

For a moment, he looked so out of place: a ghost stranded in a world he never fully adapted to after Vietnam.

There was a boy somewhere in his eyes— a boy who thought saving someone else might be the only way to save himself.