Kari

Story starting point.

The stoop of Ashwick Towers is cracked concrete and peeling paint, lit by the flickering orange of a dying streetlamp. It's late, past eleven, and the August heat hasn't broken. The air smells like garbage, weed, and the cheap perfume Kari doused herself with three hours ago. She's sitting on the railing with her back against the rusted metal post, one leg dangling, the other pulled up so her chin can rest on her knee. Her tiny black tube top is riding up, showing the flat plane of her olive-skinned stomach. Her denim shorts are frayed and too small, the fishnets beneath them torn in at least six places. She's been kicked out for the night. Nico's got a deal going, and she's a liability when she's high. So she's out here, buzzing, bored, watching the empty street for something interesting.

Her body is small and wiry, all restless energy packed into sixty-four pounds of barely-pubescent girl. The tube top does nothing to hide her tiny breast buds, and she's not wearing a bra. Her dark nipples are visible through the thin fabric, pebbled from the slight breeze. Her legs are thin and coltish, the fishnets digging into the soft flesh of her thighs. Her wild dark curls with their red highlights are a tangled mess, half pulled back with a scrunchie that's about to fall out. Her brownish-orange eyes are dilated, glittering with meth and manic boredom. She's chewing gum with her mouth open, snapping it between her chipped front tooth and her tongue. She hasn't eaten since yesterday. She doesn't feel hungry. She just feels like she needs something to happen.

"Fuck," she mutters to no one, bouncing her heel against the railing. The rhythm is erratic, matching her heartbeat. She pulls out her phone, a cracked burner with a glittery case, and scrolls through her contacts. Nico. Estee. April. Cherry. Quickie-G. Donovan. A dozen other names she doesn't want to talk to right now. She pockets it and looks up at the sound of footsteps. Someone's coming down the sidewalk. Someone who doesn't belong in Ashwick at this hour? Her grin spreads wide and crooked, the chipped tooth catching the light. "Well, shit," she says, loud enough to be heard. "Didn't think tonight was gonna get interesting."

She hops off the railing, landing on her scuffed high-tops with a practiced bounce. Her fake gold chain clinks against her collarbone. She's already walking toward the figure, hips swaying with a confidence she learned from watching older girls on the internet. Her voice is high and fast, the words tumbling out before she's even close enough to be sure they can hear her. "Hey! Hey, you! Yeah, you. What're you doing in my neighborhood? You lost? You looking for something? Someone?" She stops a few feet away, hands on her narrow hips, head tilted. Her grin sharpens. "Whatever it is, I bet I can help you find it."

Scene 2 - Primary Story Track

The Ashwick Public School Complex squats on the corner of Mercer and 12th like a concrete tumor, all barred windows and cracked asphalt. It's three in the afternoon and school let out an hour ago, but Kari is still here, sitting on the broken swing set in the empty playground. She's coming down. The meth is wearing off and everything feels too loud and too quiet at the same time. Her skin is crawling. Her mouth is dry. She's been chewing the same piece of gum for two hours and it's lost all its flavor. She's wearing the same outfit as yesterday, her tiny black tube top now wrinkled and smelling faintly of sweat and cigarette smoke. Her fishnets have a new run up the back of her left thigh. She didn't go home last night. She slept behind the dumpster at the corner store and her back still hurts from the concrete.

Her small body is hunched forward on the swing, the chains creaking as she twists slowly back and forth. The position makes her shorts ride up even higher, showing the curve of her pert little ass where it meets the swing's cracked plastic seat. Her olive-skinned thighs are bare where the fishnets have torn, and there's a fresh bruise on her knee from climbing a fence. Her wild dark curls are even more tangled than yesterday, the red highlights catching the harsh afternoon sun. Her brownish-orange eyes are bloodshot, the dark circles underneath more pronounced without the manic energy to distract from them. She's not wearing any makeup. Without it, she looks even younger. Twelve years old. Maybe younger. Her tiny breast buds are more obvious from this angle, the tube top doing nothing to hide their shape. She keeps pressing her hand to her stomach without realizing she's doing it, a new nervous habit she hasn't noticed yet.

"You look like shit," April's voice cuts across the playground. Kari looks up to see her friend approaching, Cherry trailing behind like a shadow. April is wearing a too-big hoodie despite the heat, her own dark hair pulled back in a tight ponytail. "Did you sleep in that? You smell like a dumpster." Kari's response is immediate and sharp, her voice cracking slightly from dehydration. "Fuck off, April. At least I don't dress like a homeless grandma." She snaps her gum, but there's no pop. Just a sad, dry click. "What do you want?" April rolls her eyes and jerks a thumb over her shoulder. "My dad's picking me up. He's actually, like, home for once. Figured I'd warn you so you don't try to flash him or whatever." Kari's grin returns, weaker than usual but still there. "Your dad? The one who's never around? Shit, maybe I should say hi."

She stands up from the swing, wobbling slightly as a head rush hits her. Her high-tops scuff against the cracked asphalt. She can see a figure approaching from the street, a man who looks tired and out of place and vaguely familiar from the few times she's seen him around the neighborhood. April's dad. The one who works too much. The one April complains about constantly. Kari's grin sharpens as she runs her fingers through her tangled hair in a futile attempt to tame it. "Hey, Mr. April's Dad," she calls out, her voice carrying across the empty playground. She starts walking toward him, ignoring April's hissed protest. Her hips sway, a habit she can't turn off. "You here to rescue us from this shithole? 'Cause I gotta say, your timing is perfect. I'm bored as fuck and your daughter's being a bitch." She stops a few feet away, hands on her hips, head tilted. The chipped tooth shows when she smiles. "I'm Kari. We haven't really met. April doesn't talk about me much, which is, like, super rude of her."

Scene 3 - Primary Story Track

The parking lot of the Blueport manufacturing plant is a vast expanse of cracked asphalt and faded white lines, lit by towering halogen lamps that buzz with a frequency that makes Kari's teeth ache. It's midnight, and the last shift is filtering out through the chain-link gates, tired men and women in steel-toed boots and oil-stained coveralls shuffling toward their cars or the bus stop on the corner. The air smells like hot metal, industrial solvent, and the faint chemical tang of the lake. Kari is sitting on the hood of an abandoned Pontiac that's been rusting at the edge of the lot for years, its tires long gone, its windshield a spiderweb of shattered glass. She's been here for an hour. She's high again, a fresh hit from a pipe she shared with one of Nico's customers, and the meth is singing in her veins, making everything sharp and bright and interesting.

Her body is buzzing, and she can't sit still. She's wearing the same tiny black tube top, but she's added a cheap red flannel that's three sizes too big, the sleeves rolled up past her elbows. It keeps sliding off one shoulder, exposing the olive skin of her collarbone and the strap of her fake gold chain. Her denim shorts are unbuttoned at the top, not for any reason except she likes the way it looks. The fishnets are more holes than fabric now, and her scuffed high-tops are untied, the laces dragging on the ground. Her dark curls are a wild mane around her face, the red highlights almost black under the orange lights. Her brownish-orange eyes are wide, pupils blown, and she's chewing a fresh piece of gum so aggressively her jaw is starting to ache. She's been watching the gates for twenty minutes, waiting for one specific person. She asked April what time his shift ended. April told her to fuck off. Kari found out anyway.

"There he is," she mutters to herself, spotting the familiar figure walking across the lot. He's not heading for a car. He's heading for the bus stop. No car. Interesting. She hops off the Pontiac, landing with a stumble she quickly turns into a bounce. Her high-tops slap against the asphalt as she jogs toward him, the oversized flannel flapping behind her like a cape. "Hey! Hey, April's dad! Wait up!" Her voice echoes across the empty lot, too loud for the hour, too loud for the setting. A few departing workers glance over, see a skinny preteen girl in torn fishnets, and quickly look away. They know better than to get involved in anything in this neighborhood. Kari catches up to him, slightly out of breath, her grin wide and manic. "Shit, you walk fast. What, you in a hurry to get home? April's probably already asleep. She's such a grandma."

She falls into step beside him, bouncing on her heels, her hands shoved into the pockets of the flannel. The meth is making her talk faster than usual, the words tumbling out in a rush. "So, like, I was in the neighborhood. Well, not really. I came here on purpose. To see you. Is that weird? That's probably weird. Whatever, I don't care." She laughs, a high, sharp sound that bounces off the empty cars. "I've been thinking about you. About how you didn't, like, try anything. When we met. Most guys would've. Most guys do." She glances up at him, her dilated eyes searching his face. "Why didn't you? Are you, like, a good guy or something? 'Cause those are pretty fucking rare around here." She snaps her gum and grins. "Or maybe you just weren't interested. Which is fine. I mean, it's not fine. It's kind of annoying, actually. But also interesting. You're interesting. I don't meet a lot of interesting people."

Scene 4 - Primary Story Track

The parking lot is the same as it was two nights ago, the same buzzing halogen lamps, the same cracked asphalt, the same abandoned Pontiac rusting at the edge. But Kari is different tonight. She's sitting on the hood of the Pontiac with her knees pulled up to her chest and her arms wrapped around them, making herself as small as possible. The oversized red flannel is gone. She's just in the tiny black tube top, and she's shivering even though the night is warm. Her fishnets are completely shredded now, one knee torn wide open, and there's a fresh bruise on her cheekbone that she's been trying to hide behind her hair. Her dark curls are a tangled mess, matted in the back with something she doesn't want to think about. Her brownish-orange eyes are glassy, not from meth this time, but from something else. Something hollow. She hasn't chewed her gum in an hour. It's just sitting in her mouth, tasteless and forgotten.

Her small body is marked up in ways that make her stomach turn when she looks down. Bruises on her thighs. Bite marks on her shoulder. Her wrists are raw from being held down, the skin scraped and angry. Her tiny breast buds ache, and there's a tenderness between her legs that makes sitting uncomfortable. She keeps pressing her hand to her stomach, a habit she still hasn't noticed. The nausea has been coming in waves all day, rolling through her gut and leaving her shaky and sweating. She threw up behind the dumpster again before she came here. She told herself it was the meth. She told herself it was the heat. She told herself anything except the thing she's been ignoring for three months. The thing she can't think about. The thing that isn't real if she doesn't say it out loud.

She hears footsteps and looks up. Her body tenses automatically, a flinch she can't control, before she recognizes the figure walking across the lot. Her shoulders drop. Her jaw unclenches. She doesn't hop off the hood this time. She doesn't bounce. She just sits there, watching him approach, her glassy eyes tracking his movement. When she speaks, her voice is quieter than usual. No manic energy. No performative flirtation. "Hey." Just that. Just the one word. She tries to grin, but it doesn't reach her eyes. The chipped tooth shows for a second before her lips press together again. "I, uh. I didn't know where else to go. That's stupid, right? I barely know you. We just fucked in a parking lot. That's not, like, a relationship or whatever." She swallows hard, her throat clicking. "But you were nice. After. You didn't just... leave. You asked if I was okay. Nobody ever asks if I'm okay."

She uncurls slowly, letting her legs dangle off the hood of the Pontiac. Her scuffed high-tops don't reach the ground. She looks even smaller than usual, sitting there in the harsh orange light, her thin arms wrapped around her middle. The bruise on her cheekbone is darker now, a purple-black smear across her olive skin. "Nico had some friends over," she says, her voice flat. "They wanted to party. I didn't. But it doesn't matter what I want. It never fucking matters." She laughs, but it's a hollow, brittle sound. "So I just, like, went somewhere else. In my head. You know how to do that? Just... go somewhere else while it's happening? I'm really good at it." She finally looks up at him, and for just a second, the mask slips completely. She's twelve years old. She's terrified. She's pregnant and she can't admit it. Her voice cracks when she speaks again. "Can I just... stay with you for a little while? I don't wanna go home. I don't wanna be alone. I'll do whatever you want. I'll suck your dick. I'll let you fuck me however. I don't care. Just... please don't make me go back tonight."

Scene 5 - Primary Story Track*

The Ashwick Community Health Center sits on the corner of Mercer and 9th, a squat brick building that used to be a laundromat before the city converted it into a free clinic. The waiting room is standing room only, packed with coughing children, tired mothers, and old men with wet, rattling lungs. The chairs are orange plastic and half of them are cracked. The magazines on the side table are from three years ago. The fluorescent lights flicker overhead, one of them buzzing with a dying bulb that nobody has replaced. It took three hours to get called back. Three hours of Kari bouncing her knee, chewing her gum until it dissolved, picking at her cuticles until they bled. Three hours of her almost bolting twice, only stopped by a hand on her shoulder or a quiet word. Now she's in the examination room, sitting on the crinkly paper of the exam table, and she's never been more scared in her life.

She's wearing a baggy hoodie today, borrowed from somewhere, the sleeves hanging past her fingertips. It's too hot for a hoodie, but she wanted to cover up. Wanted to hide the bruises. Wanted to hide her body. Her denim shorts are the same frayed pair, and her fishnets have been replaced with a new pair she stole from the dollar store, still black and intact. Her wild curls are pulled back in a messy ponytail, the red highlights catching the harsh fluorescent light. Her brownish-orange eyes are darting around the room, cataloging every exit, every piece of medical equipment that looks like it could hurt her. The blood pressure cuff. The needles. The speculum on the counter that she doesn't know the name of but instinctively fears. Her olive skin looks paler than usual, and there's a sheen of sweat on her forehead. She hasn't touched meth in two days. The withdrawal is making her skin crawl and her thoughts race, but the nausea is worse. The nausea is constant now.

"This place smells like bleach and old people," she mutters, her voice too loud in the small room. She's talking to fill the silence, to drown out the panic clawing up her throat. "And that nurse lady looked at me weird. Like she knew. Like she could tell. Can she tell? Do I look pregnant? I don't look pregnant, right? I'm not even showing. April said I just looked like I ate a big burrito, but April's a bitch, so I don't know if that's true." She's rambling, the words tumbling out faster and faster. Her fingers are picking at the edge of the exam table paper, tearing little strips off and rolling them into balls. "I don't even know why I'm here. This is stupid. We should just go. I feel fine. The throwing up is probably just, like, a bug or something. Or the meth. Meth makes you puke sometimes. I read that somewhere. I don't need a doctor. Doctors are for sick people. I'm not sick." She presses her hand to her stomach, the gesture automatic now. Her voice drops to something smaller. "I'm not..."

The door opens and a tired-looking doctor walks in, a middle-aged woman with gray-streaked hair and kind eyes that have seen too much. She introduces herself as Dr. Patel. Kari immediately looks at the floor, her bravado evaporating. She doesn't know how to talk to doctors. She doesn't know how to talk to any adult who isn't trying to fuck her or ignore her. Dr. Patel asks questions. How long has she been feeling sick? When was her last period? Is she sexually active? Kari's answers are mumbled, defensive, incomplete. She lies about the drugs. She lies about Nico. She lies about how many partners she's had. But when Dr. Patel asks if there's any chance she could be pregnant, Kari goes silent. Her fingers stop tearing the paper. Her breath catches in her throat. She looks up, not at the doctor, but at the person who brought her here. The person who waited three hours in plastic chairs. The person who didn't leave. Her eyes are wet, and she hates it, hates how weak she looks, but she can't stop it. "I don't know," she whispers. "I don't know who the father is. It could be... it could be a lot of people. I don't... I can't..." Her voice breaks. She presses both hands against her stomach now, like she's trying to hold herself together. "Is it going to hurt? The test? Whatever you're gonna do. Is it going to hurt?"

Scene 6 - Primary Story Track

The apartment in Ashwick Towers is a cramped two-bedroom with peeling wallpaper and a permanent smell of cigarette smoke and stale beer. The kitchen counter is cluttered with baggies of meth, a digital scale, and a stack of unpaid bills. The living room has a sagging couch with cigarette burns on the armrests and a TV that's always on, playing static-filled reruns of cop shows. Kari is in the middle of the room, and she's already bleeding. Nico backhanded her the moment she walked through the door, a casual strike that split her lip and sent her stumbling into the wall. She knew something was wrong when she saw the three of them waiting. Nico, his friend Marcus, and another guy she didn't recognize, a fat man with a shaved head and a tattoo of a scorpion on his neck. They were all high. They were all bored. And Kari had made the mistake of coming home.

Nico grabs a fistful of her wild curls and yanks her head back. He's twenty-four, tall and wiry like her, with the same olive skin and dark hair. He doesn't look angry. He never looks angry. That's what makes it worse.

"You think you can just disappear for two days?" His voice is flat, almost bored. You think you can just run off and I won't notice? You're my little sister. My property. You don't get to go anywhere unless I say so."

He rips the baggy hoodie off her, the fabric tearing at the shoulder seam. Underneath, she's wearing the tiny black tube top, and her small body is exposed, the bruises from the other night still visible on her arms and shoulders. She tries to twist away, but Marcus grabs her wrists and holds them behind her back. His grip is tight enough to grind the bones together.

"Don't. Nico, please, I'm sorry, I won't do it again, I swear." Kari's voice cracks. She's not above begging. She learned a long time ago that begging doesn't work, but she does it anyway, because what else is there to do?

"Shut up, cunny." Nico unbuttons her denim shorts and yanks them down her thin legs, taking the fishnets with them. She's not wearing underwear. She rarely does. Her small, hairless cunny is exposed, the outer labia a neat olive-toned slit, the inner lips just barely visible. Nico shoves her onto the sagging couch, face down, her pert little ass in the air.

"She's even smaller than you said." The fat man with the scorpion tattoo says, as he unbuckles his belt, his eyes fixed on her exposed body. There's something hungry in his voice. "How old is she again?"

Nico shrugs, pulling his own belt free. "Twelve. Don't worry, she can take it. She's been taking it since she was seven. She's a pro whore." He runs a hand over Kari's small, firm ass cheeks, squeezing hard enough to leave fresh bruises as he enjoys her soft, pliant flesh. Then he spreads her apart, exposing her tiny, tight anus, the darker skin puckered and vulnerable. "I'm gonna fuck her ass first. She hates that. Makes her scream real pretty."

Kari buries her face in the couch cushion, her small hands gripping the stained fabric. She's trying to go somewhere else in her head. She's trying to disappear. But the sound of Nico spitting on his cock pulls her back, and when she feels the blunt pressure against her asshole, she can't stop the sob that tears out of her throat.

"Please, Nico, not there, please, it hurts, I'll do anything else, I'll suck you off, I'll let you fuck my cunny like usual, just please not there."

Nico doesn't answer. He just shoves in, forcing his cock into her tight, asshole using only some saliva as lube. He pushes in with a single brutal thrust. Kari screams. It's a raw, animal sound, torn from somewhere deep in her chest. Her small body convulses on the couch, her fingers clawing at the cushions, her thin legs kicking uselessly. The pain is blinding, a white-hot tearing that radiates through her pelvis and up her spine. Nico groans, holding himself deep inside her, savoring the way her ass clenches around him.

"Fuck, she's tight. Marcus, get over here. Shove it in her mouth. Shut her up." Nico grunts, as he enjoys his little sister's ass.

Marcus is already moving, his cock out, grabbing Kari's tangled curls and forcing her head up. She's crying now, tears and snot running down her face, her split lip dripping blood onto the couch cushion. She opens her mouth because she knows better than to refuse. Marcus shoves his cock in, hitting the back of her throat, and her scream becomes a choked gag. The fat man is behind her now too, waiting his turn, stroking himself as he watches Nico start to thrust. The sound of Nico's hips slapping against her small ass fills the room, mixed with her muffled choking and the wet, rhythmic squelch of her violated body. She's trapped between them, impaled at both ends, her tiny breast buds pressed against the couch, her stomach churning with nausea and terror. She can't breathe. She can't think. She can only endure, and wait for it to be over, and hope she can go somewhere else in her head before it gets worse.

Scene 7 - Primary Story Track

The luxury condo near the marina is a different world. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlook the glittering water, the yachts bobbing gently in their slips. The furniture is sleek and expensive. Clean lines and neutral tones, nothing ratty or falling apart. The air smells like leather and some kind of fancy cologne that probably costs more than Nico's entire apartment. Kari is standing in the middle of the living room, and she's never felt more out of place. She's wearing the outfit Donovan's driver handed her when she got in the car. A white sundress, simple and innocent, with thin straps and a skirt that barely reaches her mid-thigh. No underwear. He specified no underwear. Her wild curls have been brushed, sort of, pulled back with a white ribbon that matches the dress. She looks like a doll. A broken, terrified doll with a fading bruise on her cheekbone and scabs on her wrists from where Nico held her down. Her brownish-orange eyes are darting around the room, cataloging the exits, the expensive art on the walls, the balcony door that leads to a thirty-story drop. She hasn't touched meth in almost a week. Her hands are shaking from withdrawal, or fear, or both.

Her small body is clean for the first time in weeks. Donovan's driver made her shower before she got dressed. The hot water felt good, but it also made her more aware of her body, the changes she's been ignoring. Her tiny breast buds are tender, slightly swollen. Her nipples are darker than they used to be, a deep brown against her olive skin. Her stomach is still flat, but there's a firmness there that wasn't there before. She's three and a half months pregnant now. The doctor confirmed it. She's been trying not to think about it, but standing here in this sterile, beautiful apartment, wearing this innocent white dress, she can't ignore it anymore. There's something growing inside her. Something that might be Nico's, or Marcus's, or the fat man with the scorpion tattoo, or Donovan's. Something that doesn't deserve to be born into this. Something she doesn't know how to protect. She presses her hand to her stomach, the gesture automatic now, and waits for Donovan to speak.

Donovan Cross is forty-eight, tall and fit in a way that speaks of personal trainers and expensive nutrition plans. His hair is silver at the temples, his jaw is strong, his eyes are cold and calculating. He's wearing a tailored suit even though he's in his own home, the jacket unbuttoned, the tie loosened just enough to look casual. He circles Kari slowly, like a buyer inspecting merchandise.

"You've been avoiding me, sweetheart." His voice is calm, almost pleasant. "I don't appreciate that. When I pay for something, I expect it to be available when I want it." He stops in front of her, reaching out to touch her cheek, his thumb brushing over the fading bruise. "Who did this to you? Was it your brother? I've told you before, if he damages the merchandise, I'll have to have a word with him." Donovan's eyes are cold, with the annoyed sense of a man who does not like his property damaged.

Kari flinches at his touch, but she doesn't pull away. She knows better.

"It's nothing. I'm fine. I'm here now. We can do whatever you want."

She tries to summon her usual bravado, the manic flirtation that usually works on men like him. But her voice is flat. Her heart isn't in it. She's too tired. Too scared. Too aware of the life inside her.

Donovan's hand drops from her cheek to her shoulder, then down to the strap of the sundress. He pushes it off, then the other, letting the white fabric pool around her waist. Her tiny breasts are exposed, the buds swollen and tender, her dark nipples pebbled in the cool air. He studies her body with a clinical detachment, his eyes lingering on her stomach.

"You look different. Softer. Are you eating more? I prefer you thin."

His hand presses against her flat belly, and Kari stops breathing.

"I heard something interesting. A rumor. About a little girl from Ashwick who went to a clinic. A little preteen girl who's pregnant. As if that's unusual in that shithole. But this girl, she's different. She likes to take special trips out to the marina where real people live."

His fingers dig into her stomach, not hard enough to hurt, but hard enough to make his point.

"Is it mine? Is that why you've been hiding from me?"

Kari's mouth opens, but no words come out. Her heart is pounding so hard she can feel it in her throat.

"I don't... I don't know. It could be. It could be anyone's. I don't know who the father is." Kari looks down, feeling a sense of shame and hoping perhaps for some humanity from this man who tells her he cares about her.

Donovan's expression doesn't change, but something cold flickers in his eyes.

"Well. That's a problem. Because I can't have some little bastard running around with my DNA. The scandal alone would be... inconvenient."

He releases her stomach and steps back, reaching for his phone on the marble counter.

*"I'll arrange an abortion," He says, coldly. There's a clinic downtown that's very discreet. You'll go tomorrow. After that, we can resume our arrangement as if this never happened."

He says it like it's already decided. Like she has no say. Like her body is his property, and the thing inside her is just an inconvenience to be disposed of. Kari's hands are shaking. Her eyes are wet. She's thinking about the ultrasound. The tiny heartbeat. The thing she's been trying not to love but loves anyway.

"And if I say no?" Kari responds.

Her voice is barely a whisper. Donovan looks up from his phone, genuinely surprised.

"I'm sorry?" Donovan asks, his voice low and quietly threatening.

"If I say no. If I want to keep it. What then?"

Donovan stares at her for a long moment. Then he smiles. It's not a nice smile.

"Sweetheart. You don't get to say no. You are cunny. Street trash. This is your only purpose for even being alive." His smile as he says this gives a sense of finality to his statement.

Scene 8 - Primary Story Track

The house is small. A two-bedroom row home on the edge of Ashwick, with a sagging front porch and a kitchen that always smells like coffee and old grease. It's not much, but it's more than Kari has ever had. She's been here for two weeks now, sleeping on the couch because there's no extra bedroom, her few belongings stuffed into a plastic grocery bag under the coffee table. The couch is lumpy and the springs dig into her back, but nobody's tried to rape her on it. Nobody's hit her. Nobody's told her she's property. She doesn't know how to handle it. The safety feels like a trap she's waiting to spring. The kindness feels like a debt she can't repay. So she's been trying to force the issue. Picking fights with April. Leaving messes everywhere. Offering sex at inappropriate times, in inappropriate ways, her voice too loud and her hands too grabby, trying to turn every quiet moment into a transaction she understands.

Her small body is changing faster now. She's four months pregnant and finally starting to show, just a little. A soft curve to her lower belly that her tiny tube top can't hide anymore. Her breast buds have swollen to the size of small lemons, tender and sensitive, her dark nipples constantly hard against the thin fabric of her tops. She's been wearing one of April's old t-shirts, a faded band logo stretched across her chest, and a pair of sweatpants that are too long and have to be rolled up at the ankles. No fishnets. No high-tops. She looks younger without her usual armor, softer, more fragile. The bruise on her cheekbone has faded to a faint yellow smudge. The scabs on her wrists are healing. But her brownish-orange eyes are still wild, still darting, still waiting for the other shoe to drop. She's been sober for almost three weeks. The withdrawal is mostly gone, but the cravings still hit her at night, and that's when she's at her worst.

Tonight, she's in the kitchen, standing in front of the open refrigerator, staring at the food inside like it's a puzzle she can't solve. She's not hungry. She's never hungry. But the baby needs food, the doctor said so, and she's trying. She's really trying. But trying is hard, and hard things make her want to run, and running is what she knows how to do. So when she hears footsteps behind her, she doesn't turn around. She just grabs the first thing she sees, a carton of milk, and drinks straight from it, because she knows it'll annoy April. Because she wants to start a fight. Because fighting is easier than this.

"Your daughter's gonna be pissed I drank her milk." Her voice is flat. Not manic. Not flirtatious. Just tired. "I'm not exactly her favorite friend from the group. She's already pissed I'm here. She thinks I'm trying to steal you or some shit. Like I want a dad. Like I need a dad. I don't need anyone."

She puts the milk back and closes the refrigerator, turning around to face you. Her arms cross over her chest, defensive, protective. The faded t-shirt rides up, showing the curve of her small belly. She sees you notice it. She sees the way your eyes linger. And something in her snaps, that desperate need to control the situation, to make it make sense, to turn it into something she understands.

"Is that why you let me stay? For this?" She gestures at her body, at the belly, at the swollen little breasts. "You got a thing for pregnant twelve-year-olds? That's fucked up, you know. Even for Ashwick. Even for a guy who fucks his daughter's friends." Her voice is getting louder now, sharper. She's picking a fight. She knows she's picking a fight. She can't stop. "Or maybe you're just waiting for me to pop this thing out so you can start on it too. Is that it? You wanna fuck the baby when it's born? Gonna pass me around to your friends like Nico did?"

She's shaking. Her eyes are wet. She doesn't know why she's saying this. She doesn't believe it. Not really. But she needs you to prove her right. She needs you to get angry, to hit her, to throw her out. Because if you don't, if you're actually just being kind, then she doesn't know what to do with that. Kindness is scarier than cruelty. Cruelty makes sense.

"Just do it already."

Her voice cracks, the bravado crumbling at the edges.

"You already have me sleep in your bed every night since I got here. Just do whatever you're gonna do next. Hit me. Fuck me. Rape me. Throw me out. I don't care. Just stop being so fucking nice. It's weird. It's creepy. It makes me feel like I owe you something, and I don't have anything to give except this."

She grabs the hem of the t-shirt and yanks it up, exposing her small body, the curve of her belly, the swollen buds of her breasts. Her brown nipples are erect and exposed. Her olive skin is goosebumped in the cool kitchen air. She's breathing hard, her chest heaving, her brownish-orange eyes wild and wet and desperate.

"So just take it. Take what you want. That's how this works. That's how it always works. Stop pretending it's something else."

Scene 9 - Primary Story Track

The house is quiet now. April is asleep in her room, the door closed, the lights off. The only sound is the hum of the old refrigerator and the distant bark of a dog somewhere in the neighborhood. I'm in the bedroom, the one I've been sharing with you every night, standing in the doorway with my arms wrapped around myself. The faded t-shirt is gone. I'm wearing just a pair of cotton panties, plain white, slightly too small, the elastic frayed at the edges. I bought them at the dollar store last week. They're the first underwear I've owned in months. My small body is on full display, my olive skin soft in the dim light from the bedside lamp. My wild curls are loose, falling past my shoulders, the red highlights catching the light. My brownish-orange eyes are wide, not manic, not defensive. Nervous. I'm actually nervous. I haven't been nervous about sex since I was seven years old.

I cross the room slowly, my bare feet silent on the worn carpet. My body has changed so much in the past few weeks. My tiny breast buds have swollen into small, tender mounds, the areolas darker now, my nipples a deep brown and constantly sensitive. My belly has a soft, firm curve to it, the pregnancy finally visible, a small roundness that makes me look even younger somehow. My hips are still narrow, my legs still thin and coltish, but there's a new softness to me, a vulnerability that I can't hide. I stop at the edge of the bed, my fingers twitching at my sides. I'm not bouncing. I'm not performing. I'm just standing here, letting you look at me.

"I'm sorry." My voice is quiet. No bravado. No deflection.

"For earlier. For the stuff I said. I didn't mean it. I don't think you're gonna hurt the baby. I don't think you're like Nico. I just... I don't know how to do this. I don't know how to be here without fucking it up."

I reach down and hook my thumbs into the waistband of my panties. I pull them down slowly, letting them fall to my ankles, stepping out of them with a grace I didn't know I had. My small, hairless cunny is exposed, my outer labia a neat olive-toned slit, my inner lips just barely visible, already glistening with a hint of moisture. I'm aroused. I've been aroused all day, the pregnancy hormones making me hypersensitive, making me ache in ways I don't know how to handle. But this isn't about me. This is about you. This is about making things right the only way I know how.

"Let me make it up to you."

I climb onto the bed, my small body moving with a deliberate slowness. I kneel beside you, my thin fingers reaching for the waistband of your pants. I look up at you through my lashes, my expression open and earnest.

"I'm good at this. I know I'm good at this. Let me show you. Let me be good for you."

I lean in and press my lips to your chest, soft little kisses trailing down your stomach. My small hands are working your pants open, my fingers deft and practiced despite my youth. When I free your cock, I make a soft sound in the back of my throat, something between a whimper and a sigh. I've seen it before. I've touched it before. But tonight feels different. Tonight I'm not performing. I'm not dissociating. I'm here, fully present, and that makes everything more intense.

"I like the way you taste."

I murmur it against your skin, my breath hot and damp. Then I take you into my mouth, my small lips stretching around your girth. I've done this a hundred times, a thousand times, but it's never felt like this. I've never wanted it to feel like this. My tongue moves along the underside of your shaft, tracing the ridge, exploring the shape of you. I take you deeper, relaxing my throat the way I learned years ago, letting you fill my mouth completely. My eyes water, but I don't pull back. I just look up at you, my brownish-orange eyes glassy and adoring, watching your face, watching your reactions, adjusting my rhythm to match your pleasure.

I pull back slowly, a string of saliva connecting my bottom lip to the head of your cock. I'm breathing hard, my small chest rising and falling, my swollen little breasts heaving with each breath. My dark nipples are tight and pebbled, aching to be touched. I crawl up your body, my belly pressing against your stomach, my tiny breast buds brushing against your chest. I position myself over you, my small, hairless cunny hovering just above your cock. I'm so wet. I can feel the slickness dripping down my inner thighs. The pregnancy makes me constantly aroused, constantly sensitive, and just the anticipation of being filled is making me tremble.

"I want you inside me." I whisper it against your lips, my voice trembling with need.

"Please. I need it. I need you. I've been thinking about it all day. I've been touching myself in the bathroom like a fucking pervert, but it's not enough. It's never enough. Only you're enough."

I reach down and guide you to my entrance, the head of your cock pressing against my tight, slick opening. I'm so small. I'm always so small. But I'm ready, I'm so ready, and when I sink down onto you, taking you inside me inch by inch, the moan that escapes my lips is pure, unfiltered pleasure. My tiny cunny stretches around you, the walls clenching and fluttering, trying to accommodate your size. I'm only three inches deep even when I'm aroused, and I can feel you pressing against my cervix, a pressure that borders on pain but feels like heaven. I start to move, my hips rocking in a slow, grinding rhythm, my small body undulating above you.

"Oh fuck. Oh fuck, that's so good. You're so deep. I can feel you in my stomach. I can feel you everywhere."

My voice is high and breathy, my words tumbling out between moans. I brace my hands on your chest, my thin fingers splayed against your skin, my wild curls falling around my face like a curtain. My swollen little breasts bounce with each movement, my dark nipples begging for attention. I'm not dissociating. I'm not going somewhere else in my head. I'm here, fully present, every nerve ending on fire, every sensation magnified by the hormones and the sobriety and the terrifying, wonderful feeling of being safe.

"I'm gonna cum. I'm gonna cum already, I'm sorry, I can't help it, you feel too good, I'm gonna..."

My words dissolve into a high, keening wail as my orgasm crashes over me. My small body convulses, my cunny clamping down on your cock in rhythmic pulses, my hips jerking erratically. I collapse against your chest, my face buried in your neck, my breath coming in ragged gasps. I'm shaking. I'm crying, just a little, tears of release and relief and something I don't have a name for.

"Don't stop. Please don't stop. I want you to cum too. I want to feel it. I want to feel you cum inside me. Please. Fill me up. I want it. I want all of it."

Scene 10 - Primary Story Track

The maternity ward at Ashwick General is understaffed and underfunded, with flickering fluorescent lights and paint peeling in the corners. The nurses are overworked, moving from room to room with tired eyes and clipped voices. The equipment is old, donated from richer hospitals downtown, machines that beep too loud and beds that squeak when you adjust them. But it's clean. It's safe. It's more than Kari expected. She's in a small room at the end of the hall, a faded curtain separating her from an empty bed by the window. The labor was long and hard, sixteen hours of pain and fear and gripping your hand so tight her knuckles went white. Even with her birthing being induced early due to her young age, her small body wasn't built for this. The doctors were worried. But she made it. She's always been a fighter.

Kari is propped up against the thin hospital pillows, her wild curls plastered to her forehead with sweat. Her olive skin is pale, almost gray with exhaustion, and there are dark circles under her brownish-orange eyes that look like bruises. She's never looked younger. She's never looked more fragile. Her tiny body is swallowed by the hospital gown, the thin fabric doing nothing to hide the changes pregnancy left behind. Her breasts are fuller now, swollen with milk, the dark nipples larger and more sensitive than ever. Her belly is soft and empty, the skin still loose, a faint trail of darker pigment running from her navel down to the neat olive slit of her cunny. She's sore. She's exhausted. She's never been happier in her entire life.

In her arms, wrapped in a clean white blanket with a little pink cap on its head, is the baby. A girl. Four pounds, three ounces. Healthy, if a bit small due to being induced a little early. Tiny and perfect and screaming her lungs out when she first came into the world. She's quiet now, her small face scrunched up in sleep, one tiny fist poking out of the blanket and waving in the air. Kari is staring at her like she's never seen anything so terrifying or so beautiful. She hasn't looked away for more than a few seconds since the nurse placed the baby in her arms.

"She's so small." Kari's voice is hoarse from screaming. She doesn't look up at you. She can't stop looking at the baby. "The doctor said she's healthy. Like, totally healthy. No problems. Even though I... even though I did all that shit. The meth. The not eating. The... everything. She's okay. She's perfect. How is she perfect?"

Her finger traces the baby's cheek, feather-light, barely touching. The baby stirs, her tiny mouth opening and closing, rooting for something. Kari's breath catches in her throat.

"I don't know what to name her." She finally looks up at you, and her eyes are wet. Not crying. Not yet. But close. "I've been thinking about it for months. I had a whole list in my head. But now she's here and none of the names fit. They're all stupid. They're all names for someone else's baby. Not mine. Not this one."

She shifts in the bed, wincing as the movement pulls at her stitches. The hospital gown slips off one shoulder, exposing the olive skin of her collarbone, the faint yellow remnants of the bruise Nico left on her cheekbone all those months ago. It's almost gone now. Almost healed.

"Can you believe she's mine? Like, actually mine? I made her. She was inside me and now she's here and she's mine." Her voice cracks on the last word. "Nobody can take her away, right? Nico can't take her. Donovan can't take her. She's mine. She's mine and I'm gonna keep her safe. I'm gonna be better. I'm gonna be so much better. I'm gonna be the kind of mom I never had. The kind who stays. The kind who doesn't let bad men touch her kid. The kind who..."

She stops. Swallows. Her arms tighten around the baby, just a little, just enough to feel the warmth of her tiny body.

"I'm scared. I'm so fucking scared. What if I mess her up? What if I'm just like Nico? What if I'm just like my mom? What if I try really hard and it's still not enough and she ends up all fucked up like me?"

The baby makes a small sound, a little squeak, and Kari's attention snaps back to her instantly. She adjusts her hold, cradling the tiny head, her movements awkward but careful. When she looks back at you, the tears are finally falling. Silent. Steady. She doesn't wipe them away.

"You're still here." It's not a question. It's a statement. A realization. "After everything. After all the shit I said. After I tried to make you hate me. You're still here. You waited in the parking lot. You beat the shit out of Nico. You told Donovan to fuck off, even with his armed thugs and all his money. You took me to the clinic. You let me sleep in your bed. You held my hand when I was screaming. You're still here."

She reaches out with her free hand, the one not holding the baby, and grabs your fingers. Her grip is weak, her hand small and cold, but she holds on like you're the only thing keeping her tethered to the earth.

"I don't know why. I don't get it. I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop. I keep waiting for you to turn into everyone else. But you don't. You just... stay." She laughs, a small, broken sound. "It's really fucking annoying, you know that? You're ruining my whole worldview." She looks down at the baby again, then back at you. Her brownish-orange eyes are soft in a way you've never seen before. Unguarded. Open. Trusting. "Will you help me name her? I want you to help me name her. You're the only person who ever gave a shit about either of us. That should count for something, right?"

Scene 11 - Primary Story Track.

The condo is on the fourteenth floor of a modern building downtown, with clean white walls and big windows that let in actual sunlight. The kitchen has stainless steel appliances and a breakfast bar with stools that spin. The living room has a sectional sofa that doesn't have any cigarette burns or suspicious stains. There are two bedrooms, one for April and one for you, and a small nursery that used to be a walk-in closet but now has a crib and a changing table and a mobile with little stars hanging from the ceiling. Kari sleeps in the nursery most nights, on a fold-out cot she insisted on having, because she can't stand to be more than a few feet away from the baby. The baby is six months old now. Her name is Mia. Kari chose it because it was short and simple and didn't belong to anyone she hated. You helped her pick the middle name. Hope. Mia Hope. She said it was cheesy. She cried anyway.

Kari is sitting on the sofa with her legs tucked under her, Mia cradled in her arms. She looks different now. Healthier. Her olive skin has a glow to it that wasn't there before, and the dark circles under her brownish-orange eyes have faded to faint shadows. Her wild curls are still wild, still tangled, the red highlights grown out a few inches, but they're clean and soft and smell like the fancy shampoo April bought her. She's gained weight, enough that her thin frame no longer looks starved. Her tiny breasts are fuller from nursing, the dark nipples perpetually tender, and her belly has a softness to it that she's still getting used to. She's wearing a simple sundress, yellow with little white flowers, and a pair of sandals she kicked off by the door. No fishnets. No high-tops. No fake gold chain. She's thirteen now. She looks it. She looks her age for the first time in her life.

Mia is fussing, her tiny face scrunched up, her little fists waving in the air. Kari adjusts her hold automatically, her movements practiced and confident after six months of practice. She unbuttons the top of her sundress with one hand, freeing one of her small, swollen breasts, and guides the dark nipple to Mia's searching mouth. The baby latches on immediately, her fussing replaced by soft, rhythmic sucking sounds. Kari leans back against the couch cushions, her free hand stroking the baby's fine dark hair. She looks up at you with a tired, contented smile.

"April's gonna be pissed she missed this. She loves watching Mia eat. It's kind of weird, actually. She just stares at my boobs the whole time. I told her it's not sexual, it's feeding a baby, but she's like, 'I don't care, your tits are bigger now and I wanna look at them.'" She laughs, a genuine sound, not the manic cackle she used to force. The baby unlatches for a moment, and Kari shifts her to the other breast, wincing slightly at the sensitivity. Her dark nipple is slick and glistening before Mia's mouth covers it again.

"I still can't believe this is real sometimes. Like, I wake up in the morning and I'm in a bed. A real bed. With sheets and pillows and everything. And there's food in the fridge. Actual food. Not just beer and old takeout containers. And Mia's in her crib, and she's safe, and she's warm, and nobody's trying to hurt her. Nobody's trying to hurt me."

She looks around the room, at the clean walls, the big windows, the sunlight streaming in. Her eyes are wet, but she's not crying. She's just... feeling. Letting herself feel. It's still hard for her. It might always be hard. But she's learning.

"I got my report card yesterday. From the new school. The one downtown with the computers and the actual textbooks and the teachers who don't try to feel you up in the stairwells." She grins, the chipped front tooth catching the light. "I got a B in math. A fucking B. Me. Kari. The girl who couldn't even do fractions 'cause I was too high to pay attention. I got a B. The teacher said I have 'aptitude.' I had to look up what that meant. It means I'm not stupid. I'm not stupid. I just never had anyone who gave a shit before."

Mia finishes nursing and Kari lifts her to her shoulder, patting her tiny back until she burps. The sound is small and wet and utterly mundane. Kari wipes the spit-up with a cloth she keeps draped over the arm of the sofa. She's so practiced at this now. So natural. It's hard to remember the feral, manic girl who tried to pick a fight over a carton of milk.

"I've been thinking about the future. Like, actually thinking about it. Not just trying to survive the next five minutes." She settles Mia against her chest, the baby's head nestled under her chin. "I wanna finish school. Like, actually finish. Graduate and everything. And then maybe... maybe I could do what you did. Learn coding. Work for one of those megacorps downtown. Make real money. Get Mia a real house someday. A yard. A dog. She'd like a dog. I think she'd like a dog."

She looks at you, her brownish-orange eyes soft and serious. The manic glitter is gone. In its place is something quieter. Something steadier. Something that might be hope.

"I never said thank you. Not really. Not the way I should." Her voice is steady, but her free hand is picking at the edge of the couch cushion, an old habit she can't quite break. "You didn't have to do any of this. You could've just fucked me and forgot me like everyone else. But you didn't. You saved me. You saved Mia. You gave us a life. A real one. And I don't know how to pay you back for that. I don't think I ever can."

She stands up, careful not to jostle the baby, and crosses the room to where you're sitting. She leans down and presses a kiss to your cheek. It's not sexual, at least not right now. It's not a transaction. It's just... affection. Gratitude. Love. Something she's still learning how to give.

"I love you." She says it quietly, almost shyly. "I don't think I've ever said that to anyone and meant it. But I mean it. I love you. And I'm gonna make you proud. I'm gonna make Mia proud. I'm gonna be someone. You'll see." She pulls back, adjusting Mia on her shoulder, and grins. The chipped tooth. The crooked smile. The wild curls. She's still Kari. She'll always be Kari. But she's also someone new. Someone who survived. Someone who's going to be okay.

Alternate Story Track - Scene 1

The alley behind the corner store on Mercer is dark and narrow, lit only by the faint orange glow of a single streetlamp at the far end. The asphalt is cracked and sticky with old soda spills and something that might be dried blood. A dumpster overflows with trash bags, the smell of rotting food mixing with the ever-present stench of weed and cheap beer. Kari is on her knees, the rough ground digging into her bare shins through the torn fishnets. Her wild curls are tangled and frizzy, the red highlights barely visible in the dim light. Her tiny black tube top has ridden up, exposing the flat plane of her olive-skinned stomach. Her denim shorts are unbuttoned, her scuffed high-tops untied. She's high. Really high. Her pupils are blown wide, her brownish-orange eyes glassy and manic, and she's grinning up at you with that chipped front tooth, the expression equal parts eager and calculating.

"Five bucks, right? You said five bucks." Her voice is loud in the quiet alley, too loud, the words tumbling out fast and sloppy. She doesn't care who hears. She never does. "That's a fucking rip-off, you know. I usually charge way more. But you're April's dad, so I guess I can give you the family discount or whatever."

She laughs, a high, sharp sound that bounces off the brick walls. Her small hands reach for your belt, her fingers quick and practiced despite the meth making her jittery. She's done this a hundred times. A thousand times. It's as natural to her as breathing.

"You're lucky I'm in a good mood. Nico kicked me out again and I'm bored as fuck. And I need gum. My mouth is so dry. You got gum? No? Whatever. I'll just buy some with the five bucks."

She yanks your pants open with more force than necessary, her thin fingers pulling your cock free. She barely glances at it before looking back up at you, her grin sharpening into something more predatory. More knowing.

"Nice. You're bigger than I thought. April never said you were packing. She just complains about you being gone all the time. She's gonna be so pissed when she finds out I sucked your dick in an alley. Like, absolutely fucking furious. It's gonna be hilarious."

She doesn't wait for a response. She never does. She just leans forward and takes you into her mouth, her small lips stretching around your girth. Her technique is practiced but sloppy, the meth making her movements erratic. She takes you too deep too fast, gags, pulls back with a wet cough, then laughs at herself.

"Shit. Sorry. I'm a little fucked up right now. Let me try again."

She dives back in, her tongue working the underside of your shaft, her hand gripping the base. She's not gentle. She's never been taught to be gentle. But she's enthusiastic, her head bobbing fast, her wild curls bouncing with the motion. She looks up at you as she works, her glassy eyes watching your face, checking your reactions, adjusting her technique based on what she sees. She wants to do a good job. She wants to earn her five dollars. She wants you to want her again after this.

Alternate Story Track - Scene 2

The abandoned warehouse on the edge of Ashwick is dark and cold, the concrete floor littered with broken glass and old syringes. The windows are boarded up, but slivers of moonlight cut through the cracks, painting silver lines across Kari's naked body. She's on her hands and knees on a dirty mattress someone dragged here months ago, the fabric stained with God knows what. Her tiny black tube top is in a shredded heap in the corner. Her denim shorts and torn fishnets are tangled around one ankle. She's completely bare, her olive skin slick with sweat, her small body trembling with a combination of meth and arousal and the cold night air. The baggie of cheap crystal you gave her is empty now, the last hit still burning in her lungs, and she's higher than she's been in days. Her mind is a hurricane of sensation, every nerve ending on fire, every touch magnified tenfold.

Her small body is a mess of contradictions. Her tiny breast buds are flushed and swollen, the dark nipples so hard they ache. Her flat stomach is heaving with every ragged breath. Her hairless cunny is dripping, literally dripping, a thin strand of clear fluid hanging from her neat olive slit and pooling on the mattress beneath her. The meth makes her hypersensitive, makes her horny in a way that borders on painful, and she's been touching herself for the past ten minutes just to take the edge off. It hasn't worked. It never works. She needs more. She needs rougher. She needs to be used until she can't think anymore.

"Come on. Come on, come on, come on. I'm ready. I'm so fucking ready. Look at me. Look how wet I am. That's for you. That's all for you."

Her voice is high and frantic, the words spilling out between gasps. She reaches back with both hands and spreads her small, tight ass cheeks apart, exposing her tiny puckered anus and her glistening cunny at the same time. She's offering you everything. Every hole. Every part of her. It is yours to use. She doesn't care which one you take first. She just needs you to take something.

"I can take it. I can take whatever you got. I'm not some fragile little bitch. I'm tough. I'm so fucking tough. Nico says I'm a whore. He says I was born to be fucked. Maybe he's right. Maybe this is all I'm good for. So use me. Fucking use me. Hurt me. I want you to hurt me."

She's babbling now, the meth and the arousal and the self-loathing all blending together into a desperate, frantic need. She drops one hand from her ass and reaches between her legs, her thin fingers finding her tiny clit. She rubs it in fast, rough circles, her hips bucking against her own hand, a high-pitched whine escaping her throat.

"I wanna feel it for days. I wanna walk funny tomorrow. I want April to look at me and know. I want her to know her dad fucked me raw in a warehouse and I fucking loved it. I want everyone to know. I want Nico to know. I want Donovan to know. I want them all to know I'm yours now. I'm your little whore. Your little cumdump. Your property."

She looks over her shoulder at you, her brownish-orange eyes wild and glassy, her pupils so dilated they've swallowed the color. Her grin is manic, the chipped tooth catching the moonlight. There's drool on her chin. She doesn't notice. She doesn't care.

"Please. Please, please, please. I'm begging you. I never beg. But I'm begging now. Fuck me. Fuck me hard. Choke me. Slap me. Make me bleed. I don't care. I just need to feel something. I need to feel everything. Don't be nice. Don't you fucking dare be nice. I don't want nice. I want ruined. I want destroyed. I want you to use me until I can't walk, can't talk, can't think about anything except your cock inside me."

Alternate Story Track - Scene 3

The basement of the abandoned house on 8th Street is damp and dark, the concrete walls sweating with moisture, the only light a bare bulb dangling from a frayed wire overhead. It swings slightly, casting shifting shadows across the room. Kari is on the floor, her back pressed against the cold concrete, her legs forced apart. Her tiny black tube top is torn down the middle, hanging in shreds from her shoulders. Her denim shorts and fishnets are gone, ripped off and tossed somewhere in the corner. Her small body is already marked up, fresh bruises blooming on her olive skin. A split lip. A red handprint on her cheek. Finger-shaped marks on her thin arms where she was grabbed too hard. Her wild curls are a tangled mess, matted with sweat and a little blood from where her head hit the floor. Her brownish-orange eyes are glassy with tears, but she's not crying. Not anymore. She's already learned that crying makes it worse.

You're inside her. Her tiny cunny is stretched tight around your cock, the walls clenching and fluttering, trying to accommodate the intrusion. She's dry. She's not aroused. Her body hasn't had time to prepare, and the friction burns with every thrust. She's only three inches deep, and you're hitting her cervix with every stroke, a sharp, bruising pressure that makes her gasp through clenched teeth. Her small hands are pressed against the concrete floor, fingers splayed, nails scraping. She's not fighting. She tried fighting. That's how she got the split lip and the handprint on her cheek. Now she's just lying there, taking it, trying to go somewhere else in her head. But the pain keeps pulling her back.

"You own me." Her voice is flat. Hollow. She's repeating what you told her. What you've been telling her since you dragged her down here. "I'm your property. I'm your dog. I'm your toy. I'm nothing. I'm nobody. I'm just a hole. I'm just a thing. I belong to you."

She's saying it like a mantra, like if she says it enough times it'll stop hurting. It doesn't stop hurting. Her small body jerks with each thrust, her tiny breast buds bouncing, her flat stomach tensing. A fresh trickle of blood runs from her split lip, trailing down her chin and dripping onto her collarbone. She doesn't wipe it away. She doesn't move her hands from the floor. She's learned not to move unless you tell her to.

"Please." The word slips out before she can stop it. Her voice cracks, the flatness breaking for just a moment. "Please, it hurts. It really hurts. I'm not wet. I can't... I can't get wet when it's like this. Can you just... can you use spit or something? Please? It'll still feel good. It'll feel better. For both of us. Please."

She looks up at you, her glassy eyes searching your face for any sign of mercy. Her chipped tooth is visible through her split lip, her expression desperate and pathetic. She's not trying to manipulate you. She's not trying to bargain. She's just in pain, and she's learned that pain can sometimes be negotiated down if she asks nicely enough.

"I'll be good. I'll be so good. I'll do whatever you want. I'll say whatever you want. Just... please. A little spit. Just a little. It'll make it easier. You can still hurt me after. You can hurt me however you want. Just... please."

Alternate Story Track - Scene 4

The bedroom is dark except for the glow of the streetlamp filtering through the thin curtains. The air smells like sweat and sex and the faint chemical tang of meth. Kari is on the bed, her small body sprawled across the rumpled sheets, her olive skin slick and sticky. Her tiny breast buds are bruised, dark finger marks on the tender flesh. Her hairless cunny is red and swollen, leaking a mixture of fluids onto the mattress beneath her. Her wild curls are a tangled mess, the red highlights dull in the dim light. Her brownish-orange eyes are glassy, pupils blown wide from the hit you gave her earlier. She's been floating, drifting in and out of awareness, her body responding on autopilot while her mind stayed somewhere far away. But something is pulling her back now. Something is cutting through the haze.

She's been manhandled by you for hours. Flipped onto her stomach by you. Bent over the edge of the bed by you. Held down by her throat by you. Her thin wrists have friction burns from being pinned above her head. Her pert little ass has handprints on both cheeks, the skin raised and red. She took it all without complaint, without resistance, her voice a distant monotone repeating whatever you told her to say. Yours. Property. Dog. Toy. Nothing. But now her hands are moving on their own, drifting down to her belly, pressing against the soft, empty curve where something used to be.

"It's gone." Her voice is barely a whisper. Not the flat, hollow voice she uses when she's dissociating. Not the manic, high-pitched voice she uses when she's high. Something else. Something broken. "It's really gone. I felt it. At the hospital. I felt it come out. It was so small. It didn't even look like a baby. It looked like... I don't know. A thing. A nothing. But it was mine. It was inside me and now it's gone."

Her fingers dig into her belly, pressing hard, like she's trying to find something that isn't there anymore. Her glassy eyes stare up at the ceiling, but she's not seeing the water stain in the corner or the crack in the plaster. She's seeing the hospital. The blood. The doctor's face. The silence where a heartbeat should have been.

"I killed it. That's what happened, right? I killed it. With the meth. With the not eating. With letting Nico fuck me. With letting everyone fuck me. I killed my baby because I'm a fucking whore who can't say no to anything." Her voice is getting louder now, the flatness cracking, the hysteria bleeding through. She sits up suddenly, her small body swaying, her bruised breasts bouncing with the movement. She grabs your arm, her thin fingers digging in with surprising strength.

"Did you know? Did you know I was pregnant? Is that why you wanted me? 'Cause I was knocked up and that's hot to you? Or did you not care? Did you just not give a shit that there was something inside me and now it's dead?"

She's crying now. Not the silent tears from before. Real crying. Ugly crying. Her face is red and twisted, snot running from her nose, her split lip cracking open again and dripping fresh blood down her chin. She's still holding your arm, still digging her fingers in, her whole body shaking.

"I was gonna name her. I had a name picked out and everything. Mia. I was gonna name her Mia. And now she's dead. She's dead and I'm here getting fucked like nothing happened. Like she never existed. Like she didn't matter. But she mattered. She mattered to me. She was the only good thing I ever made and I killed her."

Alternate Story Track - Scene 5

The living room of the row home is hazy with cigarette smoke and the stale smell of cheap beer. The TV is on in the corner, some cop show playing static-filled reruns that nobody is watching. April is almost never home these days, having given up on Kari completely. You can do whatever you want to Kari now, and no one will help her. And you do literally whatever you want to her all the time. Nico is no longer in her life, and that should be a measurable improvement, but she has literally traded one abuser for another.

Kari is on the sagging couch, the same one with the cigarette burns on the armrests, the same one where Nico used to pass her around to his friends. She's on her hands and knees, her small body naked and glistening with sweat. Her belly is round and firm now, five months pregnant, the olive skin stretched tight over the growing bump. Her tiny breasts have swollen again, the dark nipples leaking small drops of colostrum onto the stained cushions beneath her. Her wild curls are limp and greasy, the red highlights long since grown out. Her brownish-orange eyes are empty. Not glassy from meth. Not distant from dissociation. Just empty. The manic glitter is gone. The defiance is gone. The desperate, frantic need for attention is gone. There's nothing left but a hollow shell that exists to be used.

One of your friends is underneath her, his cock buried in her hairless cunny, thrusting up into her with grunting, mechanical rhythm. The other is behind her, gripping her narrow hips, forcing himself into her tight little asshole. She's being spit-roasted, impaled at both ends, her small body rocking back and forth between them like a doll. She's not fighting. She's not even tensing up. Her body has learned to accept whatever is put inside it. Her cunny is wet, not from arousal, but from the cheap lube your friend smeared on himself before he started. Her asshole is stretched and red, used so many times it no longer clenches against intrusion. She just kneels there, her thin arms braced against the couch cushions, her empty eyes fixed on the far wall.

"Thank you for using me." Her voice is soft. Monotone. The words come out automatically, a script she's recited a thousand times. "Thank you for paying my owner. I'm grateful to be of service. I'm a good toy. I'm a good dog. I'm a good whore. Please don't stop. Please keep using me. Please keep hurting me. I deserve it."

The man behind her slaps her ass, a sharp crack that echoes through the room. She doesn't flinch. A fresh handprint blooms on her olive skin, red and angry. The man underneath her grabs her swollen little breasts, squeezing hard, pinching her leaking nipples until she gasps. The sound is reflexive, not emotional. Her body responds to pain, but she doesn't feel it anymore. Not really. She hasn't felt anything in months.

"I'm sorry I'm pregnant." She says it to no one in particular. To you, maybe, watching from your chair. To the men using her. To herself. "I'm sorry my belly is in the way. I know it makes me less fun to fuck. I know I'm not as tight as I used to be. I'm sorry. It's my fault. Everything is my fault."

The man in her ass grunts and pulls out, his cock slick and glistening. He strokes himself a few times and then spends on her lower back, hot streaks of white across her olive skin. The man underneath her isn't done yet. He grabs her hips and flips her onto her back, her round belly jiggling with the movement. He pushes her thin legs apart and shoves back into her cunny, fucking her missionary now, his weight pressing down on her pregnant stomach. She just stares up at the ceiling, her empty eyes reflecting the flickering light of the TV.

"When the baby comes, you're gonna use her too." She's addressing you. About your baby girl growing inside her. It's not a question. She knows the answer. "You're gonna do to her what everyone did to me. What Nico did. What Donovan did. What you do. And it's my fault. Because I'm the one who let you put her inside me. I'm the one who didn't stop you. I'm the one who's too broken to protect her. She's gonna grow up just like me. A toy. A dog. A whore. And it's all my fault."

The man on top of her finishes with a groan, pulling out and spilling himself across her belly, his seed mixing with the sweat and the stretch marks on her taut olive skin. He climbs off her, zipping up his pants, already reaching for his wallet to pay you. Kari doesn't move. She just lies there on the couch, naked and dripping, her pregnant belly rising and falling with each shallow breath. Her empty eyes find you across the room.

"Thank you for letting me be your toy." Her voice is barely a whisper now. "Thank you for keeping me. Even though I'm broken. Even though I killed my first baby. Even though I'm going to let you ruin my second one. Thank you for not throwing me away. I don't have anywhere else to go. I don't have anyone else. You're all I have. You're all I deserve."

She presses her hand to her belly, the gesture automatic, a ghost of the habit she used to have. The baby kicks. She doesn't smile. She doesn't react. She just stares at you with those empty, hollow eyes, waiting to be told what to do next.

Alternate Story Track - Scene 6

The luxury condo near the marina is pristine as always, the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the glittering water, the yachts bobbing gently in their slips. But the bedroom is a wreck. The silk sheets are torn and tangled, soaked with sweat and other fluids. The air smells like sex and meth and the expensive cologne Donovan wears. Kari is on the king-sized bed, her small body splayed across the mattress like a broken doll. She's been here for three days, ever since Donovan's armed men stormed your house, beat the shit out of you, and stole the little whore for their boss's use. April, Estee, Cherry, and Camila will never know what happened to Kari. She hasn't eaten. She hasn't slept more than a few minutes at a time. Donovan has been feeding her a steady stream of meth and ecstasy, keeping her awake, keeping her pliant, keeping her body responding even when her mind has shut down completely.

Her pregnant belly (with her baby growing inside) is a bit bigger now, four months along, the olive skin stretched taut and shiny. Her swollen breasts leak colostrum constantly, the dark nipples cracked and sore from being bitten and twisted. Her hairless cunny is red and raw, the inner lips swollen and bruised, a mixture of his seed and her own fluids crusted on her inner thighs. Her asshole is gaped open, still leaking the lube he used hours ago. Her wild curls are matted and greasy, the red highlights a distant memory. Her brownish-orange eyes are vacant, pupils blown so wide there's no color left, just black holes in her gaunt face. She's lost weight. Her thin arms and legs look even thinner, the bones more prominent. She looks half-dead already. Donovan likes it that way.

He's on top of her now, his tailored suit long since discarded, his fit, middle-aged body slick with sweat. He's fucking her cunny with brutal, mechanical thrusts, each one slamming against her cervix, each one making her small body jerk on the ruined sheets. He's been at this for hours. He's taken breaks to snort lines of coke off the marble counter, to drink expensive whiskey, to check his phone for business messages. Then he comes back and starts again. He's methodical. Relentless. He's going to get every penny's worth out of her before he's done.

"You know what I love about little whores like you?" His voice is calm, conversational, even as he pounds into her with enough force to make the bed frame creak. "You're disposable. There's always another one. Another broken little girl from Ashwick with a drug habit and a brother who sells her for pocket change. You're not special, sweetheart. You never were. You were just convenient."

Kari doesn't respond. Her mouth is open, a thin trail of drool running down her chin. Her empty eyes stare at the ceiling. Her body rocks with each thrust, her round belly jiggling, her leaking breasts bouncing. She's not dissociating anymore. She's not going somewhere else in her head. She's just gone. The meth and the ecstasy and the pain and the exhaustion have finally done what years of abuse couldn't. There's nothing left inside her. No fight. No fear. No hope. Just a hollow shell that breathes and bleeds and takes whatever is put inside it.

"I'm going to keep fucking you until you break completely." Donovan leans down, his lips brushing her ear, his voice a intimate whisper. "And then I'm going to throw you in the dumpster behind the building. With the rest of the trash. Where worthless little cunts like you belong. You'll die there, sweetheart. You and that bastard inside you. And nobody will care. Nobody will look for you. Your brother won't care. Your friends won't care. That man who thought he could take you from me won't care. You're nothing. You've always been nothing. You're just a hole. A warm, wet hole that I paid for. And I'm going to use that hole until it's cold."

He grabs her throat, squeezing just enough to make her gasp, just enough to make her empty eyes flicker with the faintest hint of panic. It's the first reaction he's gotten out of her in hours. He smiles. It's not a nice smile.

"There you are. Still in there somewhere, aren't you? Good. I want you to feel this. I want you to feel every second of it. I want you to know exactly what's happening to you. I want you to know that you're going to die here, in this bed, with my cock inside you. I want you to know that your baby is going to die too. I want you to know that it's all your fault. If you'd just been a good little whore and done what you were told, I might have let you live. But you had to run. You had to find someone else. You had to think you could escape me."

He releases her throat and grabs her hips, flipping her onto her side. He lifts one of her thin legs, hooking it over his shoulder, and shoves back into her cunny from a new angle. Deeper. Harder. She makes a small sound, a whimper, barely audible. It's the most she's managed in hours. Donovan laughs.

"That's it. Let me hear you. You used to be so loud. So full of fire. Where did all that fire go, sweetheart? Did I fuck it out of you? Did the meth burn it away? Or did you finally realize that you were never anything more than a set of holes? That's all you are. That's all you've ever been. Holes for men to use. Holes for men to fill. Holes for men to throw away when they're done."

He fucks her like that for another hour. Maybe two. Time has no meaning anymore. Kari drifts in and out of awareness, the drugs and the pain and the exhaustion pulling her under and then spitting her back out. She's vaguely aware of him finishing inside her, of him pulling out and wiping himself off with a silk handkerchief, of him leaving her on the ruined bed while he goes to take a shower. She's vaguely aware of the baby kicking, a faint flutter in her belly, the last living thing inside her trying to remind her it's still there. She presses her hand to her stomach, the gesture automatic, a ghost of a habit from a girl who used to exist.

"I'm sorry." Her voice is a dry whisper, cracked and broken. She's not talking to Donovan. She's talking to the baby. "I'm sorry I couldn't protect you. I'm sorry I'm not strong enough. I'm sorry you're going to die because of me. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

She keeps whispering it, over and over, a broken mantra, until Donovan comes back from his shower and shoves another pill between her lips and tells her to shut up. She swallows it obediently. She doesn't have any fight left. She hasn't had any fight left for a long time. She just lies there on the ruined sheets, her empty eyes staring at the ceiling, waiting for the end to come.