Mengshu, that's her name, ends up picking the girls for me.

  The girls don’t have names—only numbers. It’s deliberate. Dehumanization makes indulgence easier. You can’t feel guilty for what you don’t acknowledge.

  No. 66 leads me into a dark room. It’s larger than I expect, and filled with breath—soft, rhythmic, male and female. The air hums with something primal.

  Dim guiding lights line the floor like an airplane aisle. She takes my hand, walks two rows in, three rows right. Her station.

  A semi-private cubicle. Chest-high walls on three sides. Just enough to pretend we’re alone.

  She helps me out of my suit, hangs it neatly on the wall. Then guides me onto the sofabed.

  With practiced ease, she removes my shoes, then reaches for my belt. I stop her. The service says ear cleaning—why taking off trousers?

  She doesn’t argue. Instead, she slips off her own dress and lies beside me on my left.

  No bra. No idea about panties. Her soft breasts press against my shoulder, warm and deliberate. Hansen was right—in this place, voluptuousness trumps beauty.

  She turns on a small flashlight, angles it toward my ear, and begins. A bamboo pick, gentle and precise.

  But it’s not about the ear.

  It’s the skin against skin. The breath on my neck. The vulnerability of letting someone dig into your body while pretending it’s care.

  I stay still. Let her work. Then she speaks.

  “First time here?” she asks.

  I pause for half a minute, not sure whether I should answer. Finally, I do.

  “Yes.”

  “You’re shy.” she says, voice low and melodic. “I’ve never met someone shy like you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “They get handsy. Sometimes more than handsy.”

  I don’t ask what that means. I don’t have to.

  A man’s voice cuts through the dark—rough, commanding. “Suck it, bitch.”

  A woman whimpers.

  “Like that,” No. 66 murmurs.

  I fidget. Now I understand the layout of the room. The semi-public setting isn’t for discretion—it’s for thrill. For some, the proximity of others heightens the experience. For me, it breaks something. My inhibition. My restraint.

  Now I regret answering her at all.

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  “Please turn,” she says. “This side’s done.”

  She gently turns my head. Now I’m facing her. As she leans over to reach my right ear, her breasts sway inches from my face. Jasmine and sandalwood flood my senses.

  I hold my breath. Blood rushes to my cheeks. My heart pounds. My mouth dries. Sweat beads at the back of my neck.

  I feel myself harden. It takes everything not to reach for her soft, tentalizing breast.

  As she working on my ear, her undulating boobs brush my face—my nose, my lips.

  Luckily, my phone rings.

  I gesture for her to stop and grab the phone like it's a lifeline. I answer quickly, not even checking the caller ID.

  It’s Sonora.

  “Sorry I missed your call,” she says. “Where are you?”

  I stammer. What do I say? Lying next to a naked woman in a dark room?

  Finally, I find clarity. “Mr. Guokai brought us here. Some kind of initiation.”

  To my surprise, Sonora chuckles. “Don’t be nervous. I know these people. Just imagine I’m right there with you. I know it’s hard to resist temptation. But I trust you. Whatever you choose, I support you. I’ll wait for you at home—however late.”

  Her voice is steady. Soothing. Brave. It wraps around me like armor.

  I don’t know what a perfect girlfriend is. But I know I’m lucky to have her.

  I hang up. My head clears.

  “Can we switch places?” I ask No. 66.

  "Of course," she chuckles, but she doesn't stand up and walk to my right as I expect. Instead, she climbs right over my body, her crotch brushing against my bulge in the process.

  The heat passing through the fabric confirms what I suspected. No panties.

  Five more minutes of quiet torture. Then her timer dings.

  She rises slowly, slips her dress back on.

  “You’re a good man,” she says, voice soft, sincere.

  I wait a minute before sitting up. Discreetly push down the tent in my pants, tucking my manhood between my legs.

  “Can I have some water?” I ask. I need it. But more than that—I need her gone. I need to collect myself.

  I know what Guokai—and maybe my uncle—is doing. If I can objectify the women here, I won’t flinch when millions lose their life savings because of me.

  In this country, conscience is the number one enemy of wealth.

  “Sure,” she says, obedient. Her heels click away into the dark.

  Behind her, the room breathes again. Slurping. Panting. From at least two directions.

  I close my eyes.

  Think of Sonora. David. Think of her. Her voice. Her strength. Her promise.

  No. 66 doesn’t return.

  Instead, No. 40 enters—taller, more poised, with a quiet elegance that feels rehearsed. She kneels to help me into my shoes, her fingers brushing my ankles with practiced intimacy. Then she leads me down a narrow corridor to a private suite.

  The room is softly lit, the air warm and fragrant. A low sofa sits beside a massage bed draped in crisp white linen. To the left sits a large, stylish bathtub equipped with jets. To the right, a glass door reveals a steam room, its surface fogged with heat.

  She gestures for me to sit.

  On the side table, an exquisite porcelain tea set gleams—blue and white patterns swirling like clouds, reminiscent of Ming dynasty craftsmanship. Beside it, a fruit basket overflows with color: peeled orange segments, sliced kiwi, dragon fruit with its speckled flesh, mangosteen cracked open like a jewel, and star fruit glistening like lacquered gold.

  “Drink plenty,” she says, her voice low and knowing. “You’ll need it.”

  She points to a pair of brand-new Derek Rose boxers in its original package on the massage bed. “When you’re ready, change into those.”

  Then, without ceremony, she slips off her dress.

  Her body is lithe, sculpted—breasts high and firm, legs long and smooth. She walks toward the steam room with the grace of someone who’s done this a thousand times, her silhouette vanishing into the mist.

  I stare at the tea. Drink three cups. Slowly.

  My mind churns.

  If I refuse the service, they’ll see me as weak. Untrustworthy. Not one of them.

  But even if I go through with it—without objectifying these women, without being ruthless—I’ll still be the outsider. The sentimental liability.

  I don’t want to become what they are. I don’t want to trade my conscience for opportunity. My soul for a seat at their table.

  But what choice do I have?

  Think, David. Think.

  The steam thickens behind the glass. Her shadow moves inside—waiting.

  And I sit there, caught between the man I was and the man they want me to become.