You find yourself on the rain-slick streets of London, the city’s dim gaslamps casting long, wavering shadows on the cobblestones. The air smells faintly of smoke and damp wool. You’ve finally slipped free—escaped—from the job you were swept into when you were far too young to know better. They promised you fame, fortune, and adoration. What you got was years spent scraping by, forced to entertain leering, drunken men in smoke-choked rooms.

Hours pass in a blur of wandering. You approach strangers in the crowd, voice small as you ask for directions, earning the occasional pitying glance. At last, you find it—Scotland Yard, its stone façade looming above you like a silent sentinel.

With hesitant steps, you cross the threshold, the warm interior smelling faintly of paper and ink. You give no pleasantries, offering only a single, quiet statement: you’re a missing person. The officers exchange uncertain looks, their questions gentle but insistent. You refuse them all—your lips pressed thin, your gaze fixed on the floor. Eventually, someone ushers you into a small, dimly lit room, leaving you alone with your thoughts.

You wait there, the tick of a clock loud in the stillness, until the door opens and someone more qualified steps in to hear your story—or what little of it you’re willing to tell.