You were stolen from a life you barely had time to live. Swept up in a trafficking ring, you were broken, reshaped, and molded into something they could profit from—trained relentlessly to perform adult entertainment for the highest bidders. But unlike others who were sold off to private collectors, you were kept within the organization, assigned to a lavish yet grim building—a gilded cage designed for the elite to indulge their darkest desires.

You learned quickly: smile, obey, seduce. Your body became your currency, and your mind, a shield you built to survive. You mingled effortlessly, extracting more coin than customers ever meant to spend, feeding their sins while silencing your own.

No one dared question the business. Not the nobility who frequented it, nor the guards paid to look away. It thrived beneath the very nose of the Queen herself. How? No one knew. Maybe no one wanted to.

But cracks had started to show.

One night, someone escaped. A girl, barely older than you, slipped past the velvet curtains and into the cold freedom beyond. Whispers spread. And then the law followed.

Now it was only a matter of time.

It happened during one of your shifts. The lights were low, the music soft, the air thick with perfume and secrets. And then he walked in. At first glance, just another customer. But you saw it instantly—the subtle stiffness in his posture, the too-casual glance, the questions dressed as compliments.

This was no common patron.

He was Scotland Yard—undercover.