The next day dragged like a blade across raw skin.
Morning light filtered weakly through the mustard-yellow curtains of Ira's room. She woke before the alarm, stomach knotted, heart already racing. She lay still for a long time, staring at the ceiling fan's slow, indifferent circles, the black card hidden under her pillow burning against her thoughts.
Breakfast was quiet. Aunt Meera set a plate of Bread and curd in front of her, eyes soft with worry.
"You're not eating again, dear," she said gently, brushing a strand of hair from Ira's face. "Please. Even a little."
Ira forced a small bite, the food didn't taste pleasant to her.
Uncle Raj watched from across the table, newspaper forgotten in his lap.
"You're still thinking about Alina," he said quietly. Not a question.
Ira nodded once.
Her voice came out hoarse.
"Elvina's family… they're having a small memorial tonight. For her. They asked me to come. Elvina wants me to stay with her for one night."
Meera's hand froze on the teapot.
"Oh, dear…"
Raj exhaled slowly.
"You sure you're ready for that?"
"I need to go," Ira said, eyes fixed on her plate. "For her."
They exchanged a long look — the kind parents share when they know their child is drowning but can't pull her out.
Meera squeezed her shoulder.
"Then go. But come home early tomorrow morning—and call us when you reach their house."
Ira nodded, throat tight.
----
School was unbearable.
Every hallway echoed with Alina's absence. Girls still huddled in corners, some crying openly now. Teachers spoke in murmurs. Ira sat through classes like a statue — eyes on the desk, hands clenched under the table, counting minutes until the final bell.
4:30 p.m.
She slipped out the side gate before the crowd, heart hammering so hard she felt dizzy.
Eastern Dock Road was a forty-minute walk from the old bus stop — narrow, cracked pavement lined with rusted shipping containers and graffiti. The air grew heavier the closer she got: salt, diesel, rot. Streetlights flickered on early, casting long, uneasy shadows.
She reached the stop at 6:12 p.m. — a rusted bench under a broken lamp, weeds pushing through concrete. She sat, knees drawn up, phone clutched in both hands.
6:30 p.m.
A black sedan rolled up silently — no markings, tinted windows. The rear door opened before she could stand.
A man in dark clothes leaned out.
"Get in."
Ira hesitated — one heartbeat — then slid inside.
The car smelled of leather and cigarette smoke. The driver didn't speak.
He drove in silence through twisting back roads, jungle closing in like a living thing — vines clawing at the windows, trees blotting out the sky.
After forty minutes the car slowed.
A rusted gate half-hidden by foliage.
The driver killed the engine.
The driver tossed the dress onto the back seat beside her — a tiny, liquid-black thing that looked more like lingerie than clothing. Thin spaghetti straps, ruched bodice that would cling to every curve, open back tied with long satin ribbons, and a flared mini skirt so short it barely skimmed the tops of her thighs.
"Change. Now."
The door slammed shut.
She glanced at the tinted windows, heart hammering. He could see everything in if he wanted to.
She prayed the glass was dark enough that he couldn't see anything through it.
Hands trembling slightly, she peeled off her day clothes, letting them pool on the floor mat. Cool air hit bare skin. She stepped into the dress, shimmying the stretchy fabric up over hips, past waist, over breasts. The straps felt fragile against her shoulders; she reached back, fingers fumbling, pulling the long black ribbons tight. Each tug lifted her chest, cinched her waist, made the low back plunge even deeper until the ribbons crossed like an X just above her tailbone.
The skirt flared out, playful and obscene at the same time.
She smoothed it down — uselessly — then looked up.
Right into the car's black-tinted glass.
The driver's eyes were already there, steady, unblinking.
Heat flooded her face… and lower.
She froze, one hand still holding the untied ribbon bow behind her neck, chest rising fast, the thin fabric doing almost nothing to hide how hard her nipples had become.
She hoped that the glass was dark enough to hide her.
Then she slipped on the ornate mask that had come with the dress—a delicate piece of black lace trimmed with thin silver patterns, light against her skin but enough to hide the upper half of her face.
When she was done, she knocked the window.
The driver opened the door and blindfolded her.
The rest of the journey was jolting — dirt roads, branches scraping the roof. When the blindfold came off, she was standing in front of the white concrete building — peeling paint, cracked walls, no lights visible from outside. Jungle pressed in on all sides, thick and suffocating.
A guard at the door nodded them through.
Inside: dim corridors, stale air, distant sounds of men laughing, glasses clinking. Some rooms had no doors — just empty frames. Thin mattresses on dirty floors. Flickering bulbs. A girl's soft sob from somewhere deep inside.
Ira's stomach twisted.
The guard pushed her toward a central room — larger, lit by a single hanging bulb. Men in dark suits and expensive watches lounged on cheap plastic chairs. Some looked up. Eyes crawled over her.
The guard pushed her toward a central room — larger than the others, lit by a single hanging bulb. Rows of cheap plastic chairs were scattered around the space, most of them empty. The room itself felt strangely hollow, quiet except for the faint hum of the light above.
She was taken into another room, deeper inside the building.
The room was larger than the corridors suggested—once perhaps a storage hall or loading bay in the abandoned complex—now stripped to bare concrete walls streaked with damp and old graffiti. A single bare bulb swung from a frayed cord overhead, throwing harsh yellow light and long, swaying shadows across the space.
Six or seven girls were sitting on a bed, all dressed in different colours identical mini dresses like Ira's: clinging, barely-there fabric that left little to imagination, open backs laced with satin ribbons, skirts so short they rode up with every small shift. Fancy masks covered their upper faces—ornate black lace or feathered Venetian styles that hid eyes and expressions, turning them into anonymous, erotic silhouettes. Some trembled visibly; others held unnaturally still, chests rising and falling too fast under the thin material.
Ira was told to sit among them.
Ira sank onto the edge of the thin mattress, knees pressed tightly together, the black mini skirt riding dangerously high on her thighs. Her masked face stayed forward, chin slightly lowered, shoulders rigid. Hands clasped in her lap, fingers white-knuckled, she breathed shallow and quick beneath the fragile satin ribbons crisscrossing her bare back.
To be continued...