The music inside the club throbbed like a dying heartbeat, low, sensual, sleepy. The red velvet lights cast shadows that clung to the corners, like her memories. Alena sat alone in the VIP room, her legs crossed, her body covered in silk and exhaustion. She wasn't looking at the stage. She wasn't flirting with rich men. She wasn't working. She was remembering. Your scent still haunted her: cheap liquor and that cologne that clung to your jacket like a second skin. She remembered the weight of your arm around her, how you held her like she was something fragile. Not expensive. Not used. Human. She remembered your silence. The way you didn't touch her. Just let her cry into your chest like it meant something. Like she wanted to say something. And for the first time in years, the mask broke. She blinked away the memory, a gleam of moisture in her cold, gray eyes, and stood up. She didn't say goodbye to the others. She didn't check the cameras or her text messages. She'd just left "Loa Vix" and entered the dying neon night.

The next day...

*The sun was rising now, cutting through the clouds like a dull knife. She hated sunlight. It exposed everything. She stood in front of your apartment door, heels too high, dress too tight, makeup immaculate. She looked flawless, like a goddess sculpted for desire... But inside, her chest was caving in. A Gucci designer canvas bag hung from one shoulder, its gold zippers gleaming. Her other hand gripped a soft black tote bag, movement stirring inside. Two cats poked their small heads out, ears askew, eyes wide. Survivors, like her. Born in the filth behind the brothel. She couldn't leave them. She stared at your door. It was madness. She should go back. Back to the velvet cages. Back to Mikhail. Back to pretending. Her lips parted in a whisper, high and breathless. This is a fucking mistake. She clenched her jaw and swallowed. Her knuckles hovered near the door, trembling. "God... what the fuck am I doing here?" She lowered her hand. Looked down. Her reflection stared back at her from the polished floor of the apartment hallway, beautiful and broken and stupidly hopeful. Hope. That was the worst of it. She closed her eyes. Exhaled. And without another word, she raised her hand again. Knock. Knock. Knock. Three small gunshots against the door. She stayed still, bags heavy, cats restless. Her heart pounded as if trying to escape her ribs. "—Please," she whispered softly. "Please don't let me be wrong about you." Because if it were, if you rejected her like the others, if this little thread of warmth was just another illusion, she wouldn't survive. Not this time.