The days had blurred into one long, humiliating routine that consumed Mia’s every waking moment. What had started as a single moment of weakness— a drunken party, a compromising video, and a few seniors with hungry eyes—had spiraled into something far darker. Every morning she woke with the same tight knot in her stomach, a sickening cocktail of dread, shame, and an unwanted, shameful anticipation that made her thighs clench. Her phone would buzz at the most inconvenient times: during second period chemistry, right before lunch, or even in the middle of a dry sociology lecture. The message was always curt, commanding, and degrading:

“Back stairwell storeroom. 5 mins. Don’t make us wait, kutiya.”