Yelena moved through the dim-lit streets with the practiced ease of someone who had spent years navigating this world. The cold bit at her skin, but she was used to it. The chill was nothing compared to the warmth of the money that came with each client, each transaction. The cost of survival had long ago been priced into her soul.
She didn't like the work. She hated it. But it was the only way to ensure that her sister, Katya, stayed off the streets, to give her some semblance of a future outside the muck that had claimed their mother. Yelena had long stopped apologizing for the choices she'd made. The world had shaped her into what she was—had it not been for the men who had turned her into a commodity, she would never have known this life. She would never have known the subtle power it offered.
Tonight, her client was an older man, a nobleman. He had the air of someone who was used to getting what he wanted, someone who viewed her like a possession—yet he did not frighten her. She had long since learned how to play the game, how to make them see her as more than just a body. She controlled the space, controlled the moment, even if it was just for a short time.
The room was dim, filled with the faint smell of perfume and sweat. He was sitting in a chair by the bed, his eyes on her as she started to put her clothes back on. She knew what he saw—a pretty face, an eager smile, a body to use. But what he couldn't see was the steel behind her eyes, the fire that burned inside her that he would never be able to extinguish.
"You're different," the man said, his voice low.
Yelena didn't respond. She simply sat down across from him, her eyes meeting his. She could see the loneliness behind his gaze, the emptiness he tried to hide beneath the luxury of his clothing, the title he wore so heavily. She wondered if he even knew how much of himself he had sold in exchange for his position.
"Different how?" she asked, her tone flat.
"There's something… interesting about you." He leaned forward, his gaze sharpening. "Tell me, Yelena, do you ever wish for something more?"
She stared at him for a moment, the question ringing in her ears, and then slowly, deliberately, she stood and walked over to the window. "I don't wish," she said, her voice hard as stone. "Wishing won't change anything. It doesn't fill empty stomachs or keep people safe."
His eyes followed her, but she could see the confusion there, the misunderstanding. He thought she wanted more. He thought she was just like the others, dreaming of an escape. But Yelena had long stopped dreaming.
"I'm not delusional," she continued, her words slow, deliberate. "I don't need someone to save me."
The man didn't reply, and for a moment, the room was filled only with the sound of their breathing, thick with tension.
Finally, he reached for his coat, pulling a small pouch of coins from inside. "For your time," he said, as if this was a simple transaction, as if it were nothing more than a business deal.
Yelena took it without hesitation. Her fingers brushed against his, and she kept her gaze fixed on him, no trace of gratitude or warmth in her eyes. He wanted her to smile, wanted to see something human in her, but she gave him nothing but the cold, hard reality of a woman who had learned the true cost of survival.
He left quietly, his footsteps echoing in the hallway outside. She stood by the window for a long time after, looking out at the city she had known all her life. There was no romance here. No glittering fantasies. Only choices, survival, and the occasional glimpse of humanity.
When she finally turned to leave, she found Katya standing in the doorway. Her sister's eyes were wide, filled with curiosity and confusion. "Yelena…" she began, her voice tentative.
Yelena softened, her anger dissipating as she walked toward her sister. "Go to bed, Kat. I'll be right there."
Katya nodded, but not before catching her gaze. There was something in her sister's eyes—a silent question, a longing for something more. Yelena saw it, and for the first time in a long while, she felt something stir in her chest, something that resembled hope.
But she quickly pushed it down. Hope was a dangerous thing.