I scrolled through my phone, my thumb hovering over the screen like a predator stalking a watering hole. I needed money—not for a new bag or a night out, but to feed the family that still believed I was the innocent girl they raised.

  I found him in a private group: a "regular" seeker. He was looking for a student, someone between 18 and 24. I tapped on his profile. He was an obese man, but his wrist was weighted down by a luxury watch that cost more than my father’s life savings. He was sitting in the driver’s seat of a Lamborghini, wearing the kind of expensive, ironed T-shirt that screamed "easy target."

  Target locked.

  "Still looking for a regular?" I typed, my fingers dancing across the glass. "I’m a student, nineteen. It’s my first time… I just need help with my tuition and my siblings."

  I didn't wait for him to bite. I kept scrolling. Loyalty is for people who can afford it. I found another post—a 29-year-old looking for someone "available." I commented instantly.

  Ping.

  A message request appeared. It wasn't the man in the Lamborghini; it was the second one. He wanted "details."

  "What kind of details? This is my first time, sir," I replied, maintaining the persona of the frightened, desperate girl.

  He was blunt. "Age, body stats, what you do, what you won't do. Rates per hour."

  I didn't blink. I typed out the menu of my own body as if I were listing groceries:

  Age: 19

  Stats: 32-24-30

  Yes: Oral, no protection (+500)

  No: Anal, choking

  Rates: 1.5k for one round (3 hrs); 2.5k for two rounds; 8k overnight.

  Then he asked for a photo. I turned the camera on myself, tilting my head just enough to look fragile. I forced an elegiac, mournful smile—the kind that makes men feel like they are "helping" you while they ruin you. I hit send.

  He suggested a meeting spot in the city. I stood up and headed for the bathroom. As the water hit my skin, I didn't feel the fear most girls would. My mind was a cold calculation of pesos and survival. My parents once sacrificed everything so we could live like royalty, but we were the ones who broke their hearts. Now, I would use the pieces of that heartbreak to buy back their comfort.

  I wasn't scared of what would happen to me. The world had already taken everything else; I was just finally setting the price.

  I traveled toward the city, telling my mother I was meeting a client to sell my plants. It was a practiced lie. I had started an online garden business months ago, selling Birkins and Aglaonemas, creating a perfect paper trail to hide my real activities. I spent my days carrying heavy pots and loading them onto jeepneys, my muscles aching under the weight of the soil and the heat.

  The work was exhausting, and the reward was a pittance. I remembered waiting at a McDonald’s for a client, feeling a brief flash of pride when I handed my mother the 1,000 pesos I earned. She would give me 200 back for "hard work," which I immediately sank back into travel expenses and pots. Even with my father bringing me clippings from his job at the city plaza to help me grow my stock, the math never added up. I was tired—physically, mentally, and spiritually.

  Hard work was for people who believed the world was fair. I knew better. I decided then that I wouldn't let this world drain me for nothing anymore. If I was going to be used, I would be the one setting the terms. I went into my small room and locked the door, letting the darkness swallow the "innocent gardener" persona. I sat there in the silence, realizing that to survive, I had to stop selling what I grew and start selling what I was.

  But I made a vow to myself: No man would truly own me. Before I ever stepped into a hotel room, I would reclaim my own body. I needed to know my own power, my own sensations, and my own limits so that when I finally faced my "prey," I would be the one in control of the game. I wasn't just entering a dark world; I was becoming the shadow within it.

  Peep! Peep!

  The sharp blast of a jeepney horn jolted me back to the present. The humid air of the city pressed against my skin as I hopped off at our meeting point. I pulled out my phone, my fingers steady as I typed:

  "I’m here. Black tank top, black pants."

  "I see you. Stay there," he replied.

  A moment later, a hand touched my shoulder. I turned to find a man who looked painfully average. He wasn't the "Lamborghini man"; he was a nobody with a tired face and a cheap jacket. He handed me his coat, a clumsy gesture of "protection" that made me want to laugh. He didn't have much money, but that was fine. This was a practice run. I needed to learn the rhythm of the game before I moved on to larger prey.

  He led me to a rundown motel that smelled of old cigarettes and industrial cleaner. I followed him into the cramped room, my eyes scanning for exits and cameras. I was a professional; he was just a customer.

  "Are you sure about this?" he asked, his voice wavering with a guilt I found pathetic.

  I nodded, dropping my gaze to the floor to play the part of the "struggling student."

  When he touched me, I felt nothing. As he kissed me, my mind was elsewhere—calculating the cost of the next week’s groceries. I performed exactly how he expected a "first-timer" to act. I faked the gasps of pain, the trembling hands, and the wide-eyed fear. I let him believe he was taking something precious, when in reality, he was just paying for a theater ticket. This wasn't intimacy; it was a pure, cold transaction.

  Afterward, I retreated to the bathroom, scrubbing his scent off my skin until it burned. I needed to erase every trace of him before I went back to being "Joy." When I stepped back into the room, I put the mask back on—shoulders hunched, eyes shy.

  "Are you okay?" he asked, holding out 1,500 pesos.

  I nodded, taking the crumpled bills.

  "You should stop doing this," he said, his voice dripping with unearned concern. "A girl like you... you shouldn't be here."

  I looked at him and forced a small, tragic smile. He thought he was being a savior. He didn't realize that while he was worried about my soul, I was already counting his money.

  "I really need the money right now," I whispered, my voice trembling with practiced precision. "My tuition... my family... I didn't know what else to do."

  The man looked at me, his face softening with a dangerous kind of sympathy. "This kind of work... it hurts," he said, his voice dropping to a warning. "This time was okay, but the next person you encounter might not be. You won't know until they've already ruined you."

  I heard the hidden agenda in his tone. He wasn't just warning me; he was marking his territory.

  "You're beautiful," he continued, stepping closer.

  "Stop this. Be my girlfriend instead. Let me help you daily. Introduce me to your family so I can take care of you."

  Internally, I felt a surge of pure disgust. You? A useless, average man with a cheap jacket and a motel habit? You want to be my 'savior' so you can be another burden for me to carry? If I could have laughed in his face, I would have. But the game wasn't over yet.

  I forced an elegiac smile, letting a single tear track down my cheek.

  "I can't," I choked out. "I can't drag a good man like you into my mess. Don't worry, I won't do this again... I just needed the tuition. I'll just... I'll just eat porridge for a while to save on expenses." I let out a long, jagged sigh.

  It worked like a charm. Guilt and ego are a powerful mix. He reached into his pocket and pulled out more crumpled bills, pressing them into my hand.

  "Here. This is extra. For your 'hard work,'" he said.

  "Thank you," I sobbed, throwing my arms around him. I buried my face in his shoulder, crying softly as he patted my back, thinking he was the hero of my story. "If I had any other choice, I wouldn't be here. But I'm the breadwinner. My sister has exam fees, my parents need food... it’s all on me."

  I felt him melt. He gave me his number, promising to "lend" me money whenever I was desperate so I wouldn't have to return to the motels. I took it with a shaking hand and a grateful look.

  As I walked away, the tears dried instantly. I didn't have a boyfriend; I had a cash cow.

  I checked the extra bills he’d pressed into my hand. Two thousand five hundred pesos total. Enough for rice, electricity, and a small lie to tell my mother. I felt a surge of cold adrenaline. The world was easy when you knew which strings to pull.

  I headed toward the jeepney stop, the city lights reflecting in my eyes like a predator in the dark. I was ready to go home. I was ready to be the "good daughter" again.

  I tucked the 1,500 pesos into my shoe, smoothed my hair, and wiped the last of the fake salt from my cheeks. By the time I reached my front door, the predator was gone. I was just Joy again—the tired student, the good daughter, the girl who only knew the scent of soil and the weight of prayer. I opened the door and smiled at my mother. The game had officially begun

  I stepped through the creaking wooden door of our house, the scent of sautéed garlic and old dust greeting me. My mother was hunched over a small stove, her back curved from years of carrying burdens I was finally starting to lift.

  "I’m home, Ma," I said, my voice shedding its cold, motel edge and becoming soft, melodic—the voice of a dutiful daughter. I pulled the crumpled bills from my pocket, keeping the "extra" hidden in my shoe. "The client bought the Birkins. He even gave me a tip because they were so well-maintained."

  My mother’s eyes lit up, a rare flash of relief breaking through her exhaustion. "God is good, Joy. This will cover your brother’s project and the electricity." She pressed a kiss to my forehead. I smiled back, feeling that familiar, terrifying "soft heart" ache. I wasn’t just feeding them; I was buying their happiness with pieces of my soul.

  Don't forget to vote and comment! Next up: Joy meets the Big Fish in Chapter 2.