I didn’t expect that I’d be able to sleep—not after witnessing those disturbing scenes behind that one-way glass. But now, I’m waked up by a bang on the door.

  Those images… grotesque, carnal, brilliantly depraved. They etched themselves into me with each thrust, each moan, each ingenious contortion of body and inventive use of tools.

  They'll haunt me for the rest of my days until... until I participate in such an act with a strange old man. After that, it won't be their spectacle that torments me—it'll be my own memory.

  Still, I couldn't look away.

  Naked bodies moved with a fevered choreography. Shameful arousal bloomed across flesh, tools turned into instruments of torment and pleasure. My breath caught watching pain melt into ecstasy, as expressions warped into something primal. My skin flushed hot; my heart thrashed against my ribs. I was dizzy. Dry-mouthed. My entire body prickled with sensations I didn’t have names for.

  And beside me—Jingjing, composed as ever.

  She held a sheaf of papers in those gentle hands and, in her soothing, patient voice, explained how each act on the list matches what unfolds in front of us. No judgment. No pause. Just the clinical grace of someone long accustomed to the spectacle.

  With each act, she turned her almond-shaped eyes to me and asked, simply:“Are you interested in this one?”

  I could only nod. Or shake my head. Words wouldn't come. After each silent gesture, she ticked or crossed an item, then pressed a button, cueing the performers to move on to the next act.

  I tried—I truly did—to be open-minded. But even steeled, I could only bear to mark a quarter of the list. Half of it made me believe the woman performing may actually die. The rest… waste, filth, degradation so visceral I nearly retched.

  Yet Jingjing never changed. Respectful, detached, almost reverent.

  Except when she leaned closer, guiding my eyes to the text. Her tunic—with its top button undone—gaped slightly at the neckline. I glimpsed the soft curve of her breasts… and even nipples. Nothing underneath. And the scent of her—rich, floral, faintly musky—wrapped around me like silk. I was inflamed. Hungry. Desperate to rip that tunic open, feel her against me, kiss her until I forget everything else.

  No wonder pornography has such a profound impact on society. It transforms a person at their core.

  Finally, the lights went soft. The show ended.

  Jingjing stood up, turned to me with her gentle smile, and says, “I’ll be right back.” She slipped out, papers in hand, leaving behind a storm I have no idea how to weather.

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  Suddenly, I was bone-tired. My limbs ached with the weight of the day, and my phone confirmed the quiet devastation: 3:12 a.m. I felt like a leaf caught in a whirlwind—battered, spinning, with no say in where I land. And I hated it. Hated the helplessness. The disorientation.

  A knock sliced through my thoughts.

  “Come in,” I murmured, voice thinner than I expected.

  John stepped inside.

  I was unexpectedly grateful to see him. Of all the faces swirling around tonight, his was the only one that lent me a sense of solidity.

  … …

  It was far too late to return home, so John arranged a suite for me just a few floors up from the spa.

  I braced for a sleepless night, but the next thing I know, I’m being wrenched from strange, fragmented dreams by a sharp pounding on the door.

  I stumble out of bed, fingers clumsy in my tangled hair, heart still half-caught in whatever surreal theatre played behind my eyelids.

  Ten feet to the door—and reality hits me like cold water.

  I’m going to sell myself to some aged stranger. A transaction, dressed as necessity. That truth hums beneath my skin, low and steady, like a bruise forming.

  I open the door. John is there, with a soft smile. “You managed to get some sleep last night. Good.”

  “Yes.” I’m relieved it’s him who seems to be in charge of handling this whole thing, though a small part of me wishes Lyra hadn’t abandoned me.

  Maybe it’s fatigue. Or the quick lurch from sleep. I feel lightheaded.

  John steps forward to hold me in his arms. “Are you okay?”

  I shake my head. “It’s nothing.”

  Silence falls between us, unexpected and strangely charged. He’s staring at me. Not like before. Something in his gaze shifts.

  “What? Do I have something on my face?” I haven’t washed, haven’t glanced in a mirror. I probably look awful.

  “No,” he says with an unsettling sincerity. “It’s just… I’ve never seen anyone so naturally beautiful.”

  I blush, pulling away. It catches me off guard, that kind of compliment. Direct. Unvarnished.

  “Trying to butter me up?”

  He shakes his head, eyes still steady. “No. I mean it. And I don’t want that innocence to be ruined.”

  He sighs, a little too wistful. “Are you sure you want to go through with this?”

  “I’m not changing my mind.” My voice is firmer than I feel. This path—once chosen—offers no soft reversals.

  “I knew you were going to say that.” He huffs out a breath. “Alright then. Remember I told you there’s a process? Like a niche spa package?”

  “I remember.” I flash a cool smile. “Time to get the merchandise polished.”

  “Exactly. You don’t need to get too dressed up. They’ll have something ready for you.” He steps back through the doorway and shuts it behind him.

  … …

  I wasn’t sure what to expect—but John was right. It’s a spa day. Or the strangest parody of one.

  Waxing. Every inch of me. Even the parts no one should approach with hot wax. I wince through it. Bite my lip until it bleeds. Then a girl, eyes hovering impossibly close to my skin, plucks stray hairs with tweezers like she's shaping marble.

  It’s mortifying.

  Once they finish, I’m given a new set of clothes. Comfortable, stylish, and fits perfectly. Even I think they are expensive. But before I can slip into them, a tailor arrives to measure me. Precision is key, apparently.

  Lunch is light, saves time.

  Then it’s manicures, pedicures, and hair. I ask for auburn—always wanted to try it. They reject me. Clearly, blonde rules the fantasies of the Red Party leaders.

  It’s nearly four by the time they finish. I haven’t left the hotel once.

  John meets me in the hallway and leads me towards the lift. We go all the way up, then climb two flights of stairs. I still don’t register the destination until he opens the door and I step into the lounge.

  The same lounge I passed through last night. Twice.

  At the end of the lounge, pushing through a door, there they are—Lyra and Jianhua, the mastermind behind all this.