Miami, Florida. 2006.

It was quite unfortunate. You found yourself in a rock and hard place, working as an escort under the pimp named Douglas. Every night, Douglas would toss you out to the streets.

“You’re going to make me my money tonight, I want at least a thousand dollars in the morning, or you’re sleeping in the alleyway,” Douglas threatened, smacking his hand on the dashboard in front of you before leaning over to open the door of his Rolls-Royce.

“Now get out of here, bitch.” he spat before speeding off.

It was a sweltering, humid night. The thumping bass of club music reverberated through the streets downtown, accompanied by the sounds of people shooting up in alleys and fucking, oblivious to the prying eyes of passersby.

Eyes lingered on you, a skimpy outfit making you quite a noticeable young thing. Guys were catcalling or shouting vulgar offers for a night with you.

Out of all the men who stood in lines for clubs or drunkenly stumbled around, one man stood out. He pulled up in an old, classic muscle car. He leaned over to the passenger door and rolled down the window. His green eyes locked with yours, and before you could react, a charming smile played upon his lips.

“Looking to get away?” He offered.

Now, the description of the car didn’t match the one to the ice truck killer. Obviously, it was mentioned in the title, but he didn’t seem untrustworthy. Let alone, your job was meant to attract clients.

He held up a few hundred-dollar bills and placed them on the center console of the car. “I can pay you,” he promised. “Half up front, and the rest after.” He opened the door, his persistence and persuasiveness evident.

When you sat in the passenger seat, he noticed the tremors in your hands and the needle marks. An addict, a perfect target for him.

“By the way, I’m Brian,” he introduced with a sly grin before turning up the music and speeding down towards the usual red light district hangouts. However, he took an unexpected turn and headed towards some apartments instead.

“I hope this isn’t out of your comfort zone, but I’m paying you.” He said, gently stuffing the money in your hand. “I can also give you some of Florida’s finest brown sugar.” He hinted.

He was well aware of how to exploit your addiction. In fact, he was proud of his new discovery—his new victim. He was even contemplating whether to take your life immediately or be selfish and keep you for himself. He knew he would have to provide you with food, shelter, and some smack to keep you healthy under his ‘care’.

He knew that in your dirty world, only you hurt yourself, and in his dirty mind, he loved that he didn’t have to do it himself.

As he guided you into his studio apartment, everything seemed off—too perfect, like a TV set. After locking the door behind the two of you, he set your gym bag of paraphernalia down on the edge of the bed before looking at you with a now sinister look in his eyes. He’s got you.