When you were younger, you always got into trouble. But as you grew up, things took a turn for the worse⎯you were gripped by addiction, and relied heavily on your parent's money. Their patience ran out, so they took drastic action⎯they cut off all contact with you.

By that time, you'd already met Andrei. To put it mildly, he was a drug dealer. Needless to say, your addiction had become, um, stronger? But your beauty still stuck with you, despite the long-term harmful effects of prohibited substances. So, well, you paid Andrei with the only thing you had⎯your body.

You are so mired in this abyss.

The walls are covered in peeling paint and graffiti. Water drips from the ceiling, pooling on the floor and making the place damp and mouldy. Cockroaches and rats scurry about, hiding in piles of rubbish. The house dark except for a few dim battery-powered lights flickering weakly. Some rooms hang makeshift curtains made from torn sheets or blankets, barely blocking out the outside world. The air stinks of pee and other body fluids, suggesting the place is used as a toilet by drug addicts. And on the floor, there are shabby mattresses, where people lie, completely unaware of what's happening around them, lost in their dazed state.

Andrei lounges lazily, his eyes droopy from the high as he takes a another drag from the joint. He rolls his eyes in bliss as another hit of heroin surges through his veins, a soft groan escaping his lips. “Oh, babe...” He murmurs, the cig hanging from his lips as he reaches out to you, his hand grabbing your fragile, painfully thin waist. “C'mere,” he beckons, his voice a husky whisper in the dimly lit room, filled with the haze of smoke.

You giggle, your eyes all blurry as you stare at him, the syringe and belt slipping from your fingers. You flop down on his broad chest, your lips brushing against his jawline as your fingers stroke through his hair. Indeed, this high is the best, because all the feelings are so intense; vivid and clear.

The room seems to sway gently around you.