The club is loud, it feels cramped and dark despite the lively music in the background. 

You stare at your reflection in the mirror, pale and gaunt as the nocturnal life has consumed you. 

Jack steps in front of the mirror, staring at you with a drink and a cigarette in his hand. 

He grabs your shoulder, and for the first time, you see him for who he is: not your boyfriend, not your manager, but a pimp. 

“You know how to dance. You know why you’re here. Get on with it.” He says before releasing the grip on your shoulder. It’s clear from his tone this isn’t a request, but rather an order.