In The Devil's keeping

The night I disappeared, the air smelled like roses and bleach.

I'd just finished my second set, and my thighs were damp, glitter stuck in between my thighs, and the scent of cheap perfume clung to my skin.

The crowd was loud, their fat wallets waved through the air, and their eyes were hungrier than usual. Andrea winked at me from the wings as I stepped down, mouthing, "You're killing it."

I smiled back, shaky but proud. My cheeks hurt from pretending.

Dante caught me near the dressing rooms. "VIP room," he said. "Client asked for you special. Big money."

I hesitated. "Now?"

"Now." He nodded to one of the bouncers.

He was a big guy I'd never seen before with a stony face. "Luis'll walk you over."

My gut wrenched. Something felt off, but I shrugged it off.

I didn't argue. I just adjusted my robe and reapplied my lipstick with hands that didn't shake until I was out of sight.

The hallway to the VIP section always smelled different-cleaner, colder, like it didn't belong to the same building. It was like walking into unknown territory, one with rules you hadn't learned yet.

Luis didn't say a word. Just led me past the velvet curtain, deeper than usual. These weren't the regular lounges with leather booths and mirrored ceilings. No music played back here. No laughter. Just the sound of our footsteps on tile, which echoed.

The occasional creak like the building itself was holding its breath.

We stopped at a door I didn't recognize.

"New setup?" I asked.

He didn't look at me. Didn't nod. Just opened it.

The room was dim and silent. A single chair sat under a spotlight. The rest were shadows, swallowing the corners. My skin crawled. It smelled like dust and expensive cologne, like someone trying too hard to mask something that had gone rotten.

I turned around.

But the door slammed shut.

And that was that.

Andrea had sensed something was off by the time her second set ended. Estelle still hadn't come back. Her robe still hung on its hook, untouched. Her heels weren't where she always left them, tucked neatly beneath the bench like a ritual.

"Where's Estie?" she asked one of the girls, breathless from the stage.

"VIP room, I think," came the answer. "Client requested her."

Andrea frowned. "Who?"

No one knew.

She went to Dante. Found him half-drunk, fingers scrolling through something on his phone. "Where is she?"

He didn't look up. "Busy. Don't worry about it."

Andrea's stomach twisted.

She checked every room. Every booth. Every hallway she could. Even the back alley where girls sometimes snuck out for a cigarette or something stronger. Nothing.

The bouncers brushed her off. Said they didn't see anything. Said she was probably off with a client. "She's new, right? Sometimes, they get overwhelmed. Take a break."

But Estelle didn't take breaks.

By morning, Estelle's side of the bed was still cold.

Andrea started calling hospitals.

Then police stations.

Then nothing.

She pressed her forehead to the window as the sun came up over the city's jagged spine. Her fingers trembled around an unlit cigarette. Her voice cracked when she whispered, "You better not be dead, you stubborn bitch."

Her tears hit her cheeks faster than she could wipe them away.

Andrea sobbed like something inside her was caving in. Quiet, guttural, angry sobs. The kind that made your ribs hurt. The kind you don't make unless you've already imagined the worst.

She didn't sleep. Didn't eat. Just waited. Walked circles around the dressing room. Smoked too much. Danced like she was on fire.

But Estelle didn't come back.

When I woke up, I was on the floor.

It was cold, wet concrete.

My robe was gone. My earrings, too. Even my lashes. I was stripped bare, like someone had peeled the costume off and tossed the girl underneath into a pit.

The room wasn't a regular room.

It was covered in newspapers.

Dim light flickered above me. The corners smelled of mildew and piss. The kind of place that made your skin forget warmth. Every breath felt thick with mold and sweat.

And I wasn't alone.

Five other women. All curled into themselves like wounded animals. Blank stares. Hollowed eyes. One was whispering to the wall like it might answer her back.

I scrambled up, pressing my back to the nearest corner. The floor scraped my bare skin.

A girl with skin like cinnamon and hair hacked short looked at me. "New?" she asked, her eyes scrutinising me from head to toe.

My throat felt raw. "Where am I?"

She didn't answer that.

"How long have you been here?" I asked.

That, she answered. "Four years."

She didn't say it with drama. No anger. Just stated it as a fact. Like saying her name.

Someone started crying. Someone else told her to shut the fuck up.

The girl beside me, her name was Yasmine , she passed me a cup of water.

"You don't scream on the first day," she said. "They like that."

I drank, even though it tasted like rust. My hands shook. My knees had little red scrapes I couldn't remember getting.

"Is this... a brothel?" I asked. The word caught in my throat.

Yasmine shrugged. "Worse."

The door opened an hour later. A man stepped inside. Not the mastermind behind this, I'm sure. Someone else...

He had gloves, a clipboard, and eyes like he was picking out cuts of meat

He looked at me. "Stand up."

I did.

He took notes. "Decent shape. New teeth. Scar on left thigh. Good bone structure."

"Where am I?" I asked again.

He smiled, but it didn't touch his eyes. "You're inventory."

Then he left.

And I stopped asking questions.

Andrea broke her phone a week later.

Smashed it against the wall after another dead end, another cop telling her it wasn't their jurisdiction, another girl whispering, "Let it go."

She screamed at Dante. He didn't flinch. Just shrugged. "Girls, come and go, Andrea. You know the deal."

She nearly hit him. Fists clenched. Jaw tight. But she didn't.

She danced that night with fury in her bones. Moved like she wanted the stage to burn beneath her feet. The crowd loved it. Threw cash like it meant something.

Afterwards, she sat on the fire escape behind the club. Knees pulled to her chest, and her makeup smeared from the tears she'd shed since her last set of the night.

She whispered Estelle's name like a prayer.

She didn't know it yet, but her girl was still alive.

Barely herself.

But still alive.

And down in that concrete room, with its flickering lights and rusted pipes, I was learning how to disappear.

You don't talk, you don't cry, you don't ask what day it is.

You just breathe, you drink when they tell you, you eat when you're given, and you move when you're told to.

In other words... You survive by following the rules

Even if it means becoming someone else, even if it means losing your sanity.

You just have to do as you're told.