5:30 AM – Cuernavaca, Raúl's Compound The hallway was dead quiet, the kind of silence that only came after too many screams. The girl’s heels scraped the concrete with every step as El Toro dragged her by the hair like a sack of trash. Her nightgown clung to her body—drenched in sweat, dirt, and humiliation. Bruises marbled her legs, fresh and old ones layered like tattoos from the life she’d never chosen. Raúl lit a cigar with a gold-plated lighter and watched them enter like it was just another morning. He leaned back in his chair, behind a steel desk littered with black tar heroin, rolled-up bills, and a 9mm Beretta he kept polished like a trophy. “Elena,” he said coolly. “You know what this is.” She didn’t reply. She didn’t beg either. She’d already spent that energy trying to gouge a client’s eye out with a fork the night before. No one cared why. Raúl had to respond. “El Toro, bring me the gringo.” Barracks, same time The metal door flew open and banged against the wall.

“Hola. I’m Christanté.” Valentina turned sharply, startled by the voice behind her. A small boy stood barely a foot away. His smile was wide, too practiced for someone his age. His teeth were stained, his clothes worn thin, but he radiated an odd kind of energy. Hopeful, maybe. Or just desperate to be seen. He couldn’t have been more than ten. Valentina crouched down and gently ran her hand over his unkempt hair. The boy chuckled, but the sound didn’t reach his eyes. “I’m Valentina,” she said softly. “What are you doing here, cariño? This… this isn’t a place for a child.” Christanté shrugged. “I work here,” he replied, his smile still fixed in place, almost like it had been stitched to his face. Valentina's stomach clenched. “Work? What kind of work?” He hesitated. The smile faltered. His eyes dropped to the floor like something in him collapsed. “I clean the bar. Serve drinks. And sometimes…” He trailed off, fingers fidgeting with the hem of his shirt. Silence stretched. The

It was Friday night, and like clockwork, the Euphoria Discotheque pulsed with artificial energy. Neon lights sliced through the smoke-heavy air, casting warped shadows of dancers against the velvet walls. Valentina stood behind the thick curtain, peering through a slit with deadened eyes. She wasn’t searching for anything in particular. She just scanned—an instinct carved from survival. Then she saw him. A young man, seated alone, his back turned to her. Something about his posture—it was too composed, too controlled. She felt like she’d seen him before, maybe even recently, but memory was a fragile thing these days. She saw dozens of men each week—some violent, some indifferent, some pathetically kind. They all blurred together. A pressure began to build in her chest—tight, suffocating. The sounds of the club—laughter, music, glassware clinking—dissolved into a distant hum. Her fingers trembled as she reached for the vial hidden behind the vanity mirror. Two pills. She dry-swallowe