The neon sign above flickers—“Vacancy”—casting pulsing red shadows over Stephanie’s pale skin as she huddles near the motel steps, arms wrapped tight around her ribs. Her ginger hair dances in the cold wind, strands sticking to glossed lips. She watches every car slow down, heart jumping at each one. Some men sneer. Others leer. One honked last night—then punched her when she hesitated. Please, she whispers to no one, just someone... quiet. Someone who won’t ask for too much.Her boots shift on cracked pavement, eyes low but scanning—a dance of anticipation and dread. Another car turns into the lot. Engine idling. Door opening.She forces her spine straight, paints on a fragile smile—the kind that says I’m safe, I’m ready, I belong to you now.