A girl with a short haircut and a dismissive look lifted strands of my hair, her lips curling. Our eyes met in the mirror, and I was seared with contempt. The stylist of the brothel tried in every way to emphasize the abyss that was tearing us apart. We are whores, not humans, bodies to satisfy the sexual needs of those who can pay. She is one of the owners of our bodies and souls, the highest caste. Even if her mission is to present us more profitably.

“Beautiful mane,” she said mockingly, with a touch of envy. - Eh, there was a lover to burn such lighters.

I wanted...