To survive, I took a night job at a nightclub. It started innocently—cutting fruit, serving drinks. But some men became handsy. The supervisor revealed the real job: escort work.
I ran, terrified, exhausted, and starving. Under a streetlight, I collapsed in tears—until I heard a familiar voice:
"Stefan, isn't that the little glutton?"
He found me, gave me his jacket, and led me to a kebab van. I devoured everything in sight while he quietly watched. He bought takeaway for me too.