Chapter One

Moriah

I drop to my knees before the mafia enforcer in the backroom of my best friend's shitty little bar in the middle of nowhere, Illinois.

It's an old routine by now, ever since the pandemic ended and inflation happened thanks to corporate American greed. Phil has debts, and if I don't voluntarily help him pay them, the Chicago chapter of the kkangpae will force me to "help". Doing this by choice saves me a lot of trouble — and trauma.

Who am I kidding? I don't have a choice. I just pretend I do.

It would help, though, if these men were any good at fucking. At least this guy is one of the easier ones to please. I can ensure he doesn't last three minutes and never has to get inside me.

I usually get the easier end of the stick than Phil, so I don't complain to him. They've accidentally-on-purpose put him in the hospital twice in the past two years.

When I graduated from Seoul National University with a Masters in business, I didn't think I'd wind up like this.

I close my eyes while he ineptly thrusts into my mouth, thinking how it's easy to tell why these men do what they do. Clearly no one would deal with this by choice.

It will be over soon, I chant in my mind. Soon, soon, soon.

Then the door bursts open and another guy comes in.

He practically rips me off Asshole #1's dick and lays me over the back of a rickety chair, lifting my skirt above my waist and tearing my panties off.

"What's your problem?" the first guy asks in Korean.

"You take too long," the second guy replies.

Three minutes is too long?

I don't have more time to think before a large cock penetrates me; I just squeeze my eyes shut and pretend I'm enjoying it. I don't need to make this worse on myself. I just need to survive another day, saving tips until we get enough where Phil can pay off his debts.

Just a little longer.

When it's over, the first guy miraculously lost his erection and they both left, tapping me on the bare ass first.

"See you next week."

"Next…" They only show up monthly!

One of them chuckles. I don't know which and I am not turning around to face them to check.

"He's clearly not paying up fast enough," the other says. "More frequent visits will be required.

The door to the back room shuts and I sink to the floor, my body aching, and start to cry.

* * *

"What the Hell?" I say to Phil at the end of the night, after all the meager patrons have gone home. It's nearly three am and I have been seething for hours.

He looks at me with pleading dark brown eyes, his lithe frame dusted with bruises clothes can't hide unless he wears a long-sleeved turtleneck.

"Don't be mad at me," he whines, eyes reddening. "I don't get off any easier than you do."

I know this. I know he's as much a victim as I am. But I'm still pissed off and knowledge can't change emotions.

"I can't do this once a week," I say, wiping my eyes. "I fucking can't. You need to figure something out!"

He throws his arms in the air in defeat. "Like what? Give up my shitty studio apartment so that money can go to the debt every month? Are you willing to make me your roommate? Or sell my car and be fucked to go home because public transportation stops? What do you want me to do, Moriah?"

And at that, he breaks down. "I've done all I can." He slumps down to the sticky floor we still have to clean up and hides his head in his hands as he cries silently.

I'm such a bitch. Unlike him, I chose to stay and help.

Kneeling down, I put my hand on his arm. "I'm sorry. I'm just in pain and scared and pissed off. I know there's nothing more you can do."

He looks up at me with red, tear-filled eyes. "I can't do this alone, Mori."

"You don't have to. I promise."