Chapter 1: The Wrong Alley, The Right Prey
The city had a way of swallowing a person whole, and Danu was beginning to suspect he had already been digested. He stood at the corner of an intersection that looked exactly like the last three he had passed, clutching a crumpled piece of paper with an address scrawled in his uncle's shaky handwriting. The buildings around him leaned inward like tired old men, their windows dark and their walls sweating moisture in the humid night air. Somewhere in the distance, a motorcycle engine coughed and died. Then silence.
He had been walking for hours.
His feet ached inside his worn sandals, the strap on the left one threatening to give way with every step.
His feet ached inside his worn sandals, the strap on the left one threatening to give way with every step. He stopped, bent down, and tried to wiggle the leather back into place. It held, barely.
It held, barely.
He straightened up
It held, barely. He took another step, then another, dragging his feet along cracke
He straightened up.
It held, barely. He took another step, then another, dragging his feet along cracked pavement that glittered with broken glass and something wet he didn't want to identify. The alley narrowed ahead of him, the walls pressing closer like they wanted to squeeze him out of existence. A rat skittered across his path. He didn't even flinch anymore. That was how tired he was.
The address on the paper mocked him. Jalan Melati, number forty-seven. He had passed three streets named Melati in the last hour. None of them had a number forty-seven. None of them had anything but shuttered shops and stray cats and the occasional drunk pissing against a wall.
He should have taken the bus. He should have asked for directions. He should have done a lot of things differently.
His throat burned with thirst. The kind of thirst that made you swallow air and hope it would somehow turn to water. He hadn't drunk anything since the morning, too nervous about missing his stop, too proud to admit he was lost.
The alley opened suddenly into a dead end.
Danu stopped.
Four men stood in the shadows, their cigarettes glowing like angry eyes in the dark. Motorcycles lined the wall behind them, chrome catching what little light filtered down from the single bulb above a door at the far end. One of the men turned, his face half-hidden by a beard that looked like it had never met a comb.
"You looking for something, kid?"
The question slithered through the air like oil on water.
Danu's heart hammered against his ribs. His mother had warned him about the city. His uncle had warned him about the city. Everyone had warned him, and he had smiled and nodded and said he would be careful, because that was what you did when people worried about you.
But warnings didn't help you when you were standing in a dead-end alley with four strangers staring at you like you were prey.
"No, I—" His voice cracked. He cleared his throat. "I'm just looking for an address. I'll be on my way."
The bearded man took a step forward. His boots scraped against the concrete. "You from the village?"
Danu's silence was answer enough.
The men exchanged glances. One of them laughed, low and mean.
"There's a place back there," another one said, jerking his thumb toward the door at the end of the alley. "A stall. You can ask there. If you got money."
Danu didn't have much money. A few bills tucked into his sock, hidden there by his mother who had pressed them into his palm and told him not to trust anyone. But he nodded anyway. Anything to get away from this circle of hard faces and harder questions.
He walked toward the door. His legs felt like they belonged to someone else. The men watched him go, their eyes boring holes into his back, and he could feel their amusement like heat radiating from a fire.
The door was made of warped wood, barely hanging onto its hinges. He pushed it open and stepped inside.
The smell hit him first.
Arak. Sharp and sour, stinging his nostrils like acid. Underneath it, the stale burn of cigarettes. And then something else, something that made his stomach twist in a way he couldn't name. Perfume, maybe. Too much of it. The cheap kind that lingered long after it should have died.
And beneath the perfume, bodies. Sweat and skin and warmth. Not the warmth of a home, not the warmth of a kitchen. Something else. Something that made his ears feel hot and his palms slick.
The warung was smaller than he expected.
Wooden boards creaked beneath his sandals as he stepped further in. The walls looked like they had been patched a hundred times, each patch a different shade of rot. A single bulb hung from the ceiling, swaying slightly, casting shadows that moved like living things. There was a counter, rough and unpolished, with bottles lined up behind it in a display that hadn't been wiped clean in years.
The floor was sticky. He didn't want to think about why.
A radio played somewhere, tinny and distant, some slow song about lost love that seemed to crawl under his skin.
Someone was sitting at a table in the corner. Danu's eyes needed a moment to adjust before he could see them clearly. A man, old and thin, his face collapsed into wrinkles, his hands wrapped around a glass that held something dark. He didn't look up. Didn't seem to notice Danu at all.
Danu swallowed. "Excuse me."
His voice barely carried.
The old man didn't move.
"Excuse me," Danu tried again, louder. "I'm looking for—"
"You lost, little bird?"
The voice came from behind him. Deep. Rough. A voice that sounded like it had been dragged through gravel and cigarette smoke, then left out in the rain.
Danu turned.
She was standing in the doorway to what he assumed was a back room, one hand on the frame, the other on her hip. And she was massive. Not just tall, though she was that too, towering over him like a tree that had grown crooked and refused to fall. Wide shoulders. Thick arms. A body that looked like it had been built for hard work and harder living, wrapped in a faded dress that had once been red but was now something closer to dried blood.
Her hair was a mess of dark tangles, streaked with gray, falling past her shoulders. Her face was broad and lined, a map of years and bad decisions and worse sleep. Her eyes, though. Her eyes were sharp.
Danu felt them cut into him like they could see everything he was trying to hide.
"I—I'm just looking for an address," he stammered. "Jalan Melati, number forty-seven. Do you know where—"
"Address." She repeated the word like it was a joke. "You come to my place and ask for address."
She laughed. It was a rough sound, full of teeth and phlegm, and it echoed in the small space like it had weight.
Danu's face burned. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to—"
"You didn't mean to what?" She stepped closer, and he had to fight the urge to step back. Her bare feet slapped against the floor, and she moved with a confidence that made him feel like a child. "You didn't mean to walk into my warung? You didn't mean to interrupt my night?"
"I just need directions. That's all. I'll leave."
"You'll leave." She laughed again. "Little bird, you don't even know where you are. You think you can just leave?"
Danu's throat tightened.
She stopped a few feet away from him, close enough that he could smell her. That perfume, overwhelming and cheap, mixed with something underneath. Something warm and musky. Something that made his head feel strange.
His mouth was dry. His legs were shaking.
"You look thirsty," she said.
It wasn't a question.
"I—"
"Sit down."
He didn't move.
Her eyes narrowed. "I said sit down."
Danu sat.
He chose the nearest table, a rickety thing that wobbled when he put his hands on it. The old man in the corner still hadn't moved. He might have been asleep. He might have been dead. Danu wasn't sure which possibility was worse.
The woman moved behind the counter. Her back was broad, her movements unhurried. She reached for a glass, then a bottle. Then another bottle, this one unlabeled, filled with something cloudy and pale.
"You come from the village," she said without turning around. "I can tell."
Danu didn't respond. He didn't know how.
"Your clothes. Your shoes. The way you sit." She poured the pale liquid into the glass, then added something from the first bottle. "And your face. Village boys have that look. Like they've never seen anything real before."
She turned and walked toward him, the glass held in one thick hand.
Danu stared at it. At the condensation on the glass. At the way the liquid inside caught the light and shimmered like something that shouldn't exist.
"What is it?" he asked.
"Tea." She set it down in front of him. "Sweet tea. You like sweet things?"
He did. He liked sweet things.
He picked up the glass and took a sip.
It was sweet. Almost too sweet, like syrup, like something cloying that stuck to the back of his throat. But there was something else underneath. Something sharp that cut through the sugar and left a trail of heat down his chest.
His face must have shown his confusion, because she laughed again.
"It's my special recipe," she said. "For tired boys who wander into the wrong alleys."
Danu took another sip. Then another. The heat spread through him, loosening something in his shoulders, softening the edges of his fear. The warung looked different now. Less threatening. The shadows were just shadows.
He drank.
The woman watched him.
"You're small," she said.
Danu's grip tightened on the glass.
"Thin." She leaned against the table, and the wood creaked under her weight. "Not like the men who come here. They're big. Loud. They break things." She tilted her head. "You don't look like you break things."
"I don't," Danu said.
His voice sounded strange to his own ears. Slurred. Too loud. The sweet tea burned in his belly, and his head felt light.
"No," she agreed. "You don't."
She leaned closer. He could count the pores on her face. Strange things to notice. He wasn't used to noticing things like that. He wasn't used to noticing the way her lips curved even when she wasn't smiling, or the way her hands looked like they could crush him without trying.
"You're a virgin," she said.
The word hit him like cold water.
His face burned. His chest burned. Everything burned.
"I—"
She knew. How could she know? He had never said it. He had never done anything to give it away.
She knew.
"I can smell it on you," she said, and she smiled.
"I can smell it on you," she said, and she smiled.
Danu's fingers went numb around the glass. The sweet tea sloshed against the rim, threatening to spill. He wanted to deny it. He wanted to laugh it off, to say something clever, to prove her wrong. But his tongue had turned to lead in his mouth, and his brain had stopped working the moment she said that word.
Virgin.
The way she said it. Like it was candy. Like it was something she wanted to unwrap.
"I don't—" he started.
"Don't."
“Don’t what?” Danu’s voice came out thin, scratched raw. “Don’t say it? Don’t pretend?”
Maya’s lips pulled back from her teeth. Not quite a smile. Something hungrier.
“Don’t lie to me, little bird. I hate liars. They waste my time.”
She reached out and caught his chin between her thumb and forefinger. Her grip was firm but not rough. Still, it held him in place like a leash. He could feel the heat of her skin, the calluses on her fingertips, the faint tremor in his own jaw.
“I’m not lying,” he said.
“I know.” She let go. His chin stayed lifted for a second too long, as if her hand had left a mark he couldn’t see. “That’s the only reason you’re still sitting there.”
The warung tilted. Danu blinked, but the room didn’t correct itself. The single bulb above swayed in a lazy arc, throwing shadows that crawled up the cracked walls. The old man in the corner hadn’t moved. He might have been part of the furniture. Danu wished he could be part of the furniture. Furniture didn’t have to think. Furniture didn’t have a pulse hammering in its throat.
He tried to stand.
His knees unlocked, then locked again, then forgot what they were supposed to do. He grabbed the edge of the table. The wood groaned. His sandal caught on a splinter, and he stumbled sideways, catching himself on the counter with a palm that slipped on something sticky.
Maya laughed. It was a full-bodied sound, rough and delighted.
“Look at you. One glass and you’re already swimming.”
“What was in that?” He meant it to sound demanding. It came out like a question from a child who’d been caught stealing candy.
“Tea.” She wiped the counter with her forearm, pushing aside a bottle and a rag that smelled like gasoline. “And a little something to help you relax.”
“I don’t need help relaxing.”
“You do.” She stepped closer. Her shadow fell over him, cool and heavy. “You’re wound up tighter than a virgin on his wedding night.”
His face went hot. His whole body went hot. The words sat in the air between them, ugly and true, and he couldn’t think of a single thing to say that wouldn’t make it worse.
She tilted her head. “You don’t like that word.”
“I don’t like you saying it.”
“Why? It’s just a word.” She tapped one thick finger against his chest, right over his heart. “It’s what you are. Nothing wrong with it. Nothing wrong with being new.”
He wanted to argue. He wanted to push her hand away and walk out the door and find Jalan Melati, number forty-seven, and never think about this alley again. But his feet felt nailed to the floor. And the truth was, some small, secret part of him didn’t want to move.
That part scared him more than she did.
“I should go,” he said.
“You should.” She nodded, slow and thoughtful. “The men outside would love to help you find your way. They’re very helpful. Especially with boys from the village.”
Danu’s stomach dropped.
“They’ll take your money,” she continued. “Maybe your shoes. Maybe more. Depends on how bored they are.”
He swallowed. His throat was dry again, but the sweet tea still burned in his belly, and his head felt loose on his neck.
“You’re not going anywhere tonight,” Maya said. Not mean. Not gentle either. Just a fact, like rain or rot or the smell of arak soaked into the floorboards. “Not like this.”
He opened his mouth to protest. She didn’t let him.
One arm slid behind his back. The other hooked under his knees. He was weightless before he understood what was happening. The floor fell away. The ceiling swung into view—stained wood, a dead moth stuck to the bulb, cobwebs like old lace.
She lifted him.
His sandals dangled in the air. His hands grabbed at nothing, then found her shoulder, her neck, the rough fabric of her dress. She smelled like smoke and sweat and that cheap perfume, and under all of it, something warm and alive. Her arms didn’t shake. Her breath didn’t change. She carried him like he was a sack of rice, like he weighed nothing at all.
“Put me down,” he whispered.
“No.”
She carried him toward the back room. The old man in the corner finally moved. He lifted his glass, drank, and set it back down with a soft click. He didn’t look at them. He didn’t say a word.
The door to the back room creaked open. Darkness waited inside. Maya stepped through, and Danu’s sandal caught on the frame. She didn’t stop. She didn’t stumble. She just kept walking, his thin, small body folded against her chest, his heart beating fast and wild against her ribs.
She lifts him.
She carried him through the dark like he was nothing. Like he was a bundle of laundry, a sack of rice, a thing that didn't weigh enough to matter. His back pressed against her arm, his legs draped over her elbow, his heart hammering so fast he thought it might stop. The room beyond the door smelled different than the warung. More intimate. More dangerous.
A mattress on the floor. A single candle on a crate, its flame weak and guttering. Clothes piled in corners. A mirror with a crack running through it, mounted crooked on the wall. A woman's things everywhere—hairpins, empty bottles, a pair of underwear hanging from the edge of a bucket.
The door clicked shut behind them.
He hadn't heard her let go of the handle.
His back met the mattress. It was thin, stuffed with something that crunched under his weight. The springs underneath the fabric groaned like they had given up years ago. He tried to sit up. His arms wouldn't cooperate. The sweet tea had turned his bones to wet paper.
Maya stood over him.
She wasn't in a hurry. That was the worst part. She watched him struggle against the weight of his own limbs, and she let him. Let him twist. Let him push himself up on one elbow before it slipped and he fell back flat. Let him gasp. Let him feel the panic climb up his throat like bile.
"You're fighting it," she said. "That's good. Means the drink won't make you sick."
"Please."
"Please what?"
He didn't know. That was the truth. He didn't know what he was asking for. Let me go? Let me stay? Don't touch me? Touch me? The words tangled in his head until none of them made sense.
She crouched beside him. The mattress dipped under her weight, rolling him slightly toward her. Her knees popped as she settled in, close enough that her breath fanned warm across his face. It smelled of smoke and something sour. Something he should have found repulsive.
He didn't.
That scared him more than anything.
"You're shaking," she said.
"I know."
"Scared?"
He nodded. His throat was too tight for words.
She reached out and brushed the hair off his forehead. Her hand was enormous. It covered half his face. The touch was—gentle. That was the word he would have used if he could think straight. Gentle in a way that didn't match her voice or her size or the wall of muscle in her arms. It confused him. Made him want to lean into it even as every nerve in his body screamed at him to run.
"Nothing happens tonight that you don't want," she said.
The words should have been a comfort.
They weren't.
Because he didn't know what he wanted. He had never known. That was the problem, wasn't it? Twenty-two years on this earth and he had never once figured out what he wanted, not really. He had wanted to come to the city. He had wanted to find his uncle. And now he was here, lying on a stranger's mattress in a stranger's back room, and he wanted—he wanted—
"I don't know what to do," he whispered.
"I know."
She stood up. Kicked off her sandals. The sound of them hitting the floor made him flinch.
"First time is always like this," she said. "Men come to me all the time. Young ones. Old ones. Ones who think they know everything and ones who know nothing at all." She pulled something from her hair—a pin, a clip, he couldn't tell—and tossed it onto the crate. Her hair fell loose around her shoulders, tangled and wild. "You're not special, little bird. You're just new."
"I didn't ask for this."
"You walked into my place. You drank my drink. You sat when I told you to sit." She turned toward him, and the candlelight caught the planes of her face, the deep lines, the heavy jaw. "That's asking."
Her dress was held up by a single strap over one shoulder. She hooked her thumb under it.
Danu's breath caught.
"Wait—"
"Don't."
The strap slid down her arm. The fabric followed, pooling at her waist. She wasn't wearing anything underneath. Her breasts hung heavy and low, the skin darker than the rest of her, the nipples broad and flat and staring at him like eyes.
He tried to look away. He couldn't.
His body was doing things. Things he couldn't control. Things that made him feel hot and sick and ashamed. His hands gripped the edge of the mattress. His nails dug into the fabric. His breath came fast and shallow.
"You've never seen a woman before," she said. "Not like this."
"No."
"You've seen pictures."
"Yes."
"On your phone. Under your blanket at night."
His face burned. How did she know? How could she possibly—
"That's not real," she said. "That's the lie they sell you. This is real." She touched her stomach. Her fingers traced the curve of her belly, the stretch marks, the thick hair that started under her navel and disappeared between her legs. "This is what a woman looks like. Not those little girls on your screen. This."
He wanted to say something. Anything. But his mouth was dry and his tongue was heavy property and the room was spinning and she was getting closer.
She knelt on the mattress. The weight of her made it dip deep, rolling him toward her, and she set one hand on his chest to stop him from sliding. Then both hands. She was straddling him.
"You're so small," she murmured. Not an insult. An observation. A wonder. Like she'd found a strange bird that had fallen out of the nest. "I could break you without trying."
"Please—"
"Shh." She pressed one finger to his lips. It smelled of her, of the drink, of the mint she must have chewed hours ago. "No more talking."
Her hands slid down his chest. Past his stomach. To the waistband of his pants. His body bucked. Not away. Into—no, he didn't mean that. He didn't mean to arch his hips. He didn't mean to whimper.
His hands came up. He didn't know why. To push her away? To pull her closer? They landed on her shoulders and stayed there, frozen, useless.
"Let me," she said.
It wasn't a question.
Her fingers found the button. Popped it. Found the zipper. Pulled it down. The sound was loud in the small room, obscene, a scream of metal teeth. She hooked her fingers into the waist of his pants and his underwear at the same time.
His hips lifted.
He didn't tell them to.
"You want this," she said.
"No—"
"You do." She smiled. Her teeth were yellow in places, crooked in others, and he had never seen anything so terrifying or so strange. "Your body knows what it wants. Your head is just catching up."
She pulled.
The fabric came down his thighs. His back scraped against the mattress, dragging him up and then down. His sandals caught on the ends of his pants, then slipped off his feet entirely. He was bare from the waist down. Exposed. The candlelight seemed to intensify, as if the flame had leaned closer to see.
He grabbed at the mattress. Grab at the sheets. He wanted to cover himself. He wanted to disappear. He wanted—
Maya looked down at him.
"Well," she said. "Would you look at that."
He closed his eyes. He couldn't bear to see her expression. He couldn't bear to see anything.
"Open your eyes."
He didn't.
Her hand closed around his jaw. Tight. Demand. She squeezed until his teeth ached and his eyes flew open by reflex.
"I said open them."
He obeyed.
She didn't look disgusted. She didn't look amused. She looked like a woman studying a puzzle, working through the pieces, figuring out where the first one should go.
"You're going to learn something tonight," she said. "Something they don't teach you in the village. Something your mother never told you."
Her hand slid down his chest. Down his stomach. Down.
He couldn't breathe. He couldn't think.He couldn't move.
She stopped just above where he wanted—didn't want—couldn't possibly—
"P-please—"
And then she moved again.
Her hand touched me.