The warehouse district at midnight smelled of diesel and wet concrete when she arrived, her duffel bag stuffed with nothing but the required items—collar, cuffs, a single change of plain cotton underwear. A man in a surgical mask emerged from the shadows, wordlessly holding out a hand for her phone. When she hesitated, he tapped his wristwatch twice. The implication was clear: time to choose. She handed it over, and he pressed a cold metal tag into her palm—*47* stamped deep into the steel.

The hallway stretched endlessly, its industrial fluorescents buzzing like trapped insects overhead. Identical doors lined both sides, each marked with a brass number plate and a small red light above the frame. Through the narrow glass panels, she glimpsed other girls—*33* bent over a bench while three men circled her, 12 spreadeagled against a wall as someone dripped hot wax down her thighs. The air tasted like sweat and anticipation. A voice crackled over the intercom: "Assignments commence. Masters may rotate between rooms at will." Riya's stomach dropped. Eight men per girl, she realized. Eight sets of hands, eight different tastes in pain.