Shreya is 28 years old. She works nights in a dirty, loud club in the bad part of the city. Her job is to serve drinks. She wears a tight black top and a push-up bra that makes her big, heavy boobs look even bigger. Men stare at her chest all night. They say dirty things. She feels cheap, but she needs the money. Her life is boring and sad. No love. No excitement. Just work and go home alone.

One rainy night, a man named Zane walks in. He is tall, strong, with dark hair and eyes that look dangerous, like he has killed before. He sits in the darkest corner. He does not smile. He just watches Shreya. When she brings his drink — strong rum — he grabs her wrist tight. His fingers are rough. He pulls her close and whispers in her ear: