The room smelled like rust and mothballs, a busted ceiling fan clicking overhead like a countdown to nowhere. She lay there—legs parted like a question nobody dared answer—leaking the residue of the last transaction. Milky fluid crawling out slow, reluctant, like it had seen too much. A trickle of biology, of forgotten men. Not love. Not even lust. Just the aftermath of meat. The body processes the invasion like any other virus — indifferent, exhausted. Somewhere in the alley, a dog barked at nothing. Somewhere else, a god stubbed out his cigarette and walked away