For a heartbeat, nothing happens.
Then the flame catches.
The old fabric goes up fast. Faster than it should. The fire spreads like it's been waiting for this moment.
"YOU FUCKING?—"
The door bursts open before Dmitri can finish.
Guards rush in. They grab Dmitri and pull him back fromthe spreading flames. One has a fire extinguisher, but the fire is moving too fast now. To the curtains. To the furniture.
I watch it burn.
I can't help but smile even as guards grab me. Even as rough hands pull me toward the door. Even as I know I just made everything exponentially worse for myself.
I smile because fuck him.
The guards drag us both toward the stairs. Dmitri is shouting. Russian first. Words I don't understand but sound like curses. Then English.
"You fucking bitch! I'm going to sell you to the worst buyer I know. The absolute worst piece of shit in Moscow."
I say nothing as they pull me up stairs I didn't know were there. Stone steps. Narrow. Going up and up and up.
"Makes his girls beg for death," Dmitri continues from behind me, his voice ragged with rage. "Keeps them in cages. Breaks their fingers one by one when they don't perform. Has them for years. Decades sometimes. The ones who survive that long go fucking insane."
My smile falters.
"And when they finally die? Death doesn't stop the bastard. He's not done with them. Not even close."
"Ivan will find me." I throw the words over my shoulder. I don't know if I believe them, but I say them anyway. Anything to rattle him more.
"Will he?" Dmitri's laugh echoes in the stairwell. "Before or after this sick fuck breaks every bone in your body? Before or after you forget your own name? Before or after you're begging—no, screaming—for death and he still won't give it to you?"
I have no answer for that.
I can only focus on climbing. On breathing. On not falling apart completely.
The stairs end at a door.
A guard opens it, and night air hits my face.
Cold. Damp. Smells like lake water and fish. Like the parts of Chicago that normal people don't see.
The docks.
We're at the docks. Hidden right under everyone's noses.
Fog rolls in thick, coming off Lake Michigan in waves. Everything looks gray, muted, and unreal. Dreamlike. Nightmarish.
More women appear from different exits.
A dozen at least. Maybe fifteen. All wear variations of the same degrading lingerie. All with the same terrified expressions. Different ages. Different ethnicities. Different stories.
But the same fear.
The same fate.
A yacht materializes through the fog.
