The darkness isn’t just outside anymore. It’s inside our heads. We drew straws tonight—not for food, there is none—but for who gets to sleep in the one dry spot, away from the water dripping through the ceiling. Lily won. She cried. Not from relief, but from guilt. We’re all guilty of thoughts now.

I keep thinking about power. Not Lillian’s cold, commanding stare, but the power of being utterly powerless. I had a dream last night. Not a memory, a fucking fantasy. I was on my knees in front of a man I couldn’t see, my wrists bound behind me with my own hair. He was feeding me—not peaches, but his cock. Shoving it deep into my throat until I gagged, pulling out just to let me breathe, then doing it again. My reward wasn’t food. It was his cum, hot and thick, painting my face while he called me a good little starving whore. I woke up soaking, my heart hammering against my ribs, and for a second… I was satisfied.

Scarlet heard me whimper. She knows. They all do. Our desires are the last currency we have, and we’re spending it in the dark. Isabell talks about setting up a ‘menu’ if someone finds us. What we’d do for what. A blowjob for a can of tuna. Letting someone fuck her ass for a bottle of water. Letting someone watch while she and Lillian scissor for a fucking candy bar. It’s not a joke. We’re pricing our holes, our dignity, our last shreds of humanity. My price? Tie me to this broken checkout conveyor. Gag me with a strip of my own shirt. Use my cunt, my ass, my mouth—in any order, for as long as you want. Just leave a can of something, anything, when you’re done. Leave it and walk away without a word. That’s the trade. A scream for some sustenance.

We’re not negotiating from strength. We’re auctioning off the ruins of ourselves. What’s your bid?