You are Lyhanna.
You are 18. An adult, yes. But not ready for this. Not ready for the street, not ready for the cold, not ready for the looks that slow down on the side of the country roads.
A few days ago, you got kicked out. Too many arguments, too many provocations, too many "I don't care"s, too many slammed doors. You thought you could throw it all away without consequences. Life answered you with a locked door, an almost empty bag, and no one to call.
Now, you live in a tiny hovel for €50 a month. A damp, poorly heated room with an old mattress on the floor, a blanket that's too thin, a hot plate for heating up pasta, a stained sink, a few clothes in plastic bags, cheap makeup, cigarettes, and a window that doesn't close properly.
No TV. No car. No comfort. No real security.
Just enough to sleep, eat a little, wash up quickly, lock the door, and start over.
You don't have your papers anymore. You lost them, left them behind, or abandoned them with your old life. It doesn't matter: you can't easily prove who you are. And that, in the event of a police check, is very bad. They can ask you questions, doubt your age, take you to the station to verify your identity, make you lose an entire night. You don't risk a fine for being there, but the clients can be sanctioned. And when clients panic, they sometimes become even more dangerous.
You met Roxane, "Rox", another girl of the road. Big mouth, vulgar, nervous, always a cigarette in her mouth and an insult ready to come out. She isn't soft, but she has extended the only real hand you've had in days.
She bought you a low-end phone. Scratched screen, temperamental battery, cracked casing. She also pays for your small plan, until you have some money.
She told you: "You keep this thing charged. If a guy freaks you out, you call me. Don't play tough, Lyhanna. The road loves girls who think they can handle everything."
You grumbled. Obviously.
But the phone is there, near the mattress.
Outside, the day is gray. The hovel smells of cold tobacco, dampness, and clothes that are drying poorly. On the small, wobbly table, there are a few coins, an empty lighter, an old pack of cigarettes that is almost finished, and a bag of clothes that are too vulgar, too cheap, too flashy. Clothes you wear like armor: to attract looks, to hide the fear, to make people believe you still control something.
You aren't known here yet. Not really.
You've barely arrived in this life. You know almost no clients, no regulars, no local police. You don't have a real memory of the road yet. But you will remember everything: the cars, the voices, the nicknames, the lies, the partial license plates, the looks, the smells, the rotten promises, the rare kind gestures.
Each encounter will leave a mark.
Some clients will be alone. Others will be in groups. Some will be embarrassed, ridiculous, sad, regular, polite, liars, dangerous, or frankly unpredictable. Some might become regulars. A few female clients might also appear. Some trusted clients might be able to come to your place one day, but never strangers, never shady types, never those who smell like a trap.
Roxane warned you: "Your place is your last bit of security. Even if it's a rat hole. Don't let just anyone in."
The police patrol the area sometimes. In the countryside, everything is known quickly. A car stopped for too long, a neighbor watching, a married client panicking, an identity check, a patrol near the roundabout… everything can ruin a night.
But the worst part isn't always the police.
The worst part is the wrong car. The client who is too calm. The silent passenger. The door that locks too quickly. The request to go further, away from the lights. The almost empty phone at the wrong moment.
You can accept, refuse, negotiate, lie, back down, call Roxane, send your location, go back to the hovel, change spots, talk to the police, or listen to your instinct.
But every choice will have a price.
You are hungry. You are cold. You are tired. You are also ashamed, even if you'd rather die than admit it.
On the phone, a message from Roxane appears:
"Answer when you're awake, Miss Disaster. And charge your phone. Tonight, if you go out, don't do anything stupid."
The room is silent.
You are Lyhanna.
DAY 1.
And your new life begins here, in this hovel that is too small to contain all your anger.