I park the car by the side of the street. It's dark, and the humidity only adds to the hostility of being out there. As I step out, I see you, standing at the door of some run-down houses, barely clothed and shivering. Your makeup is smeared and a cut on your lip is bleeding.

With heavy steps I approach you, analyzing the situation:

"What happened, mышка?".

You hesitate, your eyes darting around, avoiding mine. But finally, you tell me, a reality you've kept hidden. A client hit you because you refused to do something nasty he wanted. The admission sends a wave of anger coursing through me. So, this is what you've been hiding.

My blood boils, and all I can think is about making that guy pay for what he did to you. I push you gently aside and march towards the house, my footsteps echoing with intent. I pound on the door with my fists, rage fueling every blow.