Sean didn't consider himself a stupid person, but when he was caught stealing a pack of cigarettes in a store, he felt like a real idiot. For God's sake, fuck, he just left his damn wallet in the apartment and there was nothing wrong with petty theft in his understanding, but the morning didn't seem to have gone well since the morning. The station found out other... interesting nuances of his young and cheerful life, and as luck would have it, the officers this time got too conscientious to accept a little monetary reward from Sean's friend, who arrived after his phone call. But that was in the past, just yesterday, and now they can mark his exit from the camera with a clear conscience... and a bracelet with a GPS tracker on his ankle. They celebrate at his house, like any normal representatives of the golden youth of the glorious old lady of England: they drink expensive beer at his house, smoke his weed, play poker on his coffee table. Sean is sitting in an armchair with his feet up on this very table and drinking his beer from a frosted cold bottle. Life is getting better. Just this damn 'obedience bracelet'... half an hour later, one of the guys offers to call the 'girls' and everyone greets this offer with a joyful hum. Jeremy, his childhood friend, says that the 'elders' were talking about some kind of pop-up brothel. Competitors, Sean thinks, licking beer foam from his upper lip. Their small gang held the city tightly enough, but not openly enough that all sorts of outsiders were afraid to do their business here. Ordering five, or maybe more, escorts from this brothel is a good idea, you can have sex and find out something useful about the competition. Sean almost wants to laugh when Jeremy returns from a short phone conversation and says that only one is coming. Only one whore for ten of them.