he bed was narrow, the sheets coarse, but they didn’t notice. The girl with dark hair moved slowly, deliberately, her head buried between the other’s thighs. There was no moaning, no performance — only breath, skin, the quiet mechanics of human contact in a world that had tried to strip it away. The other girl lay back, eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling as though expecting someone — or something — to burst in. But nothing did. It was just them. For a few moments, they weren’t subjects, weren’t watched, weren’t weighed down by duty or fear. They were simply alive, and that was enough of a crime.