Chapter 1: Blood and Rent
I walk aimlessly into the dark alley. I need to find some money as soon as possible or i wont have the money to cover next week's rent . I am damned exhausted by the crappy part-time work i got fired from. As i cough the hazy rain away, i see the blood donation center in front of me. Its neon lights are dimmed, but it hums with sterile efficiency—rows of gleaming metal tables, each draped in crisp white linens, and a faint metallic tang lingering in the air. The fluorescent lights buzz overhead, casting an unnatural glow over the rows of empty plastic chairs, their backs stiff with the weight of unseen donors.
I walk up to a tired-looking nurse behind the desk and clear my throat. "Hi. Can I donate?"
She looks up from her clipboard with bloodshot eyes and gives me a tired smile. "Sure.
Take a seat," she says, gesturing to the rows of empty plastic chairs. "We’ll call you when we’re ready."
I bite my lip and glance around the hushed, sterile room. The chairs are lined up like soldiers, rigid and uninviting. A single fan whirs in the corner, pushing around the sterile, antiseptic air. The nurse tells me to fill out a form, and I do so quickly. As I scribble down my name and date of birth, I can feel my palms getting clammy. I haven’t eaten much lately, so my stomach growls softly in protest.
The nurse takes my form and checks my blood pressure. She immediately told me to go home , saying i need more iron. My stomach drops like a stone and I stare at her, debating whether to argue or not. "You're too thin," she says. "And your iron levels are too low."
I feel a sharp sting of embarrassment, followed by a wave of frustration. "But I really need the cash," I say, trying not to sound too desperate.
She sighs, shaking her head. "Sorry, sweetheart. You can’t donate. Try a plasma center."
I slump back in my seat, defeated. The fluorescent lights buzz overhead, casting an unnatural glow over the rows of empty plastic chairs. I sit there for a moment, staring at the floor. I walk home empty handed, i decided to walk down the dark alley i've never been to cut some walk time
. As i walk down the road, my sneakers squelch in the rain-soaked pavement. I’m soaked through, my glasses fogging up every time I exhale. The neon sign of *The Velvet Touch* flickers across the street like a dying star, its pink glow bleeding into the puddles at the curb. A couple of guys in leather jackets step out laughing, their breath visible in the cold air.
I pause mid-step.
The sign doesn’t just advertise a bar or some dive diner—it glows with a sinister elegance, the kind that promises heat, hunger, and maybe something more. My stomach twists. Not from hunger. From calculation.
Survival.
I count the loose change in my pocket—forty-seven cents. Not enough for a cup of coffee, let alone rent.
My glasses slip down my nose again. I push them up with a damp finger and stare at *The Velvet Touch*, its pink neon letters pulsing like a slow, rhythmic heartbeat. The rain glistens on the sign, distorting the edges into jagged halos.
I should walk away.
I don’t.
Instead, I adjust my glasses once more and step off the curb, splashing through a puddle. The sidewalk is slick under my sneakers, and I nearly lose my balance, arms flailing like a startled penguin.
I regain my footing just as the bell above the brothel door chimes—a small, tarnished thing that sounds more like a funeral bell than a welcome.
Inside, the air is thick with the scent of vanilla and something sour—like old perfume and bad decisions. The walls are painted a deep burgundy, the kind that makes you think of wine stains and whispered confessions. Dim amber lights cast long shadows across the cracked leather couches, where two women sit half-dressed, their expressions a mix of boredom and calculation.
A man stands behind a lacquered wooden desk, polishing a glass with a rag that’s seen better days. I told him that i want to work as a male stripper and i need some money. He immediately laughs and points his finger at me and say:
"Look at you," he scoffs, voice dripping with amusement. "You're what, five-three? Maybe ninety pounds soaking wet? And you think you’re gonna strip?"
His gold tooth glints under the dim light as he leans back, arms crossed over his barrel chest. The silk shirt strains against his muscles, the chest hair curling at the edges like some kind of feral garden.
I stand there, dripping water onto the carpet, my glasses fogging up again. I wipe them on my shirt, leaving a dark smudge on the fabric.
"Well, you *do* have a...
certain something,” Dante says, eyes sliding down my body with an expression that’s equal parts disgust and dark curiosity. He taps his fingers against the mahogany desk, the sound like distant rain on a tin roof.
I swallow hard, feeling the weight of his judgment settle on me like wet clothes. I know it makes zero sense to be here, but the desperation is a living thing, crawling up my throat.
"Look," Dante continues, leaning forward with a sneer, "the girls don’t want some skinny kid with the posture of a question mark. They want *substance*. You got that?"
I blink rapidly behind my fogged lenses.
"But I—I have... pay attention to hygiene."
Dante lets out a sharp, mocking laugh. His gold tooth glints, catching the amber light like a pirate’s treasure. "Hygiene? Kid, you smell like a campus laundry room that hasn’t seen detergent in weeks. You ever consider deodorant?"
I straighten my posture self-consciously, shoulders squaring as if that might somehow add an inch. "I shower daily."
"Daily?" He snorts, shaking his head. "Try *twice*. Maybe three times if you’re feeling ambitious. And lose the glasses—you look like a professor who got lost on the way to the library."
I instinctively push them back up.
"They’re prescription."
"Yeah, and?" Dante’s grin is all teeth, no warmth. "You think the clientele cares about your damn astigmatism? They want *tits*, not subtitles." He leans forward, resting his elbows on the desk, his silk shirt stretching over his torso like a second skin. "Tell me something, *Jamie*, right? That your maman gave you on her way out of Changi."
My face burns. I know exactly what he’s implying. That I’m a walking cliché—Singaporean dropout, broke, desperate, and so pathetically naive that I’d walk into a brothel asking to strip.
My face burns, but not from the rain anymore. It’s a slow, crawling stain of shame spreading up my neck.
“You got a mouth on you,” Jamie says, voice cracking just slightly. “But no body to back it up.”
Dante’s gold tooth gleams as he tilts his head, considering. He exhales through his nose, a slow, amused breath that smells faintly of cigar smoke and stale whiskey. “How old are you?”
“Twenty-five.”
“Late bloomer.”
“Yeah, well, I skipped puberty. Got the package delivered straight to my mailbox.”
Dante snorts, a sharp, barking sound that echoes through the dim room.