That's the most dangerous thing anyone's ever said to me.
I nod again, slower this time.
He stands, heads back to his room, and closes the door.
I sit there for hours. My body gets stiff, but I don't dare move. Every few minutes I hear him shifting in the other room: the clack of a laptop, the creak of bedsprings, the low drone of a voice—either a call or a training video. I strain to make out the words, but the sound never gets loud enough.
When dusk comes, the apartment glows with the amber of streetlights filtering through the blinds. I don't turn on the lamp. I sit in the shadow, hugging my knees to my chest, back pressed into the corner where I can't be surprised.
At some point, he opens his door and comes out, not even glancing at me. He goes to the kitchen, microwaves a container of chicken, eats it standing at the counter, then washes the fork and places it in the rack.
When he's done, he looks over at me. For the first time, he actually sees me. His eyes aren't kind, but they're not cruel, either. They're just empty, like all the feelings burned out long ago.
He nods at the bedroom.
"Go," he says.
I do, but not before scanning the hallway, the living room, making sure there's nothing between me and the exit. I close the door and curl up in the farthest corner from the bed, knees to chest, arms locked around my shins. I wait.
Every sound, every creak, every shift in the air keeps me on edge. But the punishment never comes.
I fall asleep anyway, curled so tight my bones creak, waiting for the next thing to break.
It’s after midnight when I hear him in the hallway, footsteps soft but not careful. I brace myself, locking every muscle, back pressed to the wall so hard it might leave a print.
The door opens without a sound. I tense, pretending to sleep.
This is it. This is his thing.
He enters, carrying a glass carafe of water and a stack of clothes, white and grey. He doesn't pause. He walks to the nightstand and sets the carafe down. The glass thunks against the wood, and the sound is soft. He places the clothes at the far edge, perfectly squared.
He never comes closer than the length of the bed. The scent of him is faint—laundry, cologne, something sharper underneath. He stands there for a long minute, not moving, not even breathing heavy.
Then he turns and leaves, closing the door behind him.
I wait, counting to fifty, then two hundred. Only then do I look up.
The water refracts the light, turning the shadowed room into a prism. The clothes are folded with the kind of care that makes me think of hospitals, or coffins.
I stare at them, waiting for the trick, the hook. There's always one. Some men want you to beg, some want you to refuse so they have an excuse to hurt you, some want you to take and then punish you for it.
My throat aches with thirst. Slowly, I get up. I reach for the water and pour it into the glass. It doesn't shatter. The liquid doesn't fizz or smoke or turn black. I sip, slow, the cold washing through my stomach. It feels like a crime how good it is.
I wait for pain, or for his voice behind me, but the only sound is the hum of the city through the walls.
I look at the clothes. They’re soft, clean, the kind of thing you wear to blend in. Not a uniform, not the humiliating remnants of auction-house parade. Just clothes. I touch them, fingertips brushing the fabric, and I can’t help but wonder if they’re laced with something, if wearing them is the start of the next lesson.
But there's nothing else to do, so I change. The fabric smells like nothing, which is its own kind of violence.
I crawl back to my place in the corner and pull my knees to my chest. I watch the lines of light, sip the water, and wait.
Every few minutes I hear him moving in the other room: the rattle of a drawer, the faint click of a laptop, the sound of a glass being set down. He never comes back.
Hours pass like this. I don’t sleep, but my body gets heavy and slow. I memorize the room, the angles, the way the light moves across the walls.
Maybe this one is different. Maybe he won’t hurt me.
Hope is dangerous.
