Where Shadows Learn To Dream

Veil Of Surrender

Aanya

The night was thick with smoke and shadows, the distant hum of traffic barely cutting through the low murmurs of the women leaning against the walls. Their faces were hardened, painted in reds and blacks, like warpaint for the battlefield they walked every night. One of them had dark, kohl-lined eyes that gleamed under the streetlight; her lips, a deep burgundy, curled into a smirk as I approached. She flicked a cigarette between her fingers, the ember glowing against the dim light. Her skin was tanned, leathery from years in the sun, and her eyes had that look—like they had seen everything and judged nothing.

"What's your name?" she asked, her voice gravelly, each word wrapped in a puff of smoke.

"Aanya," I said quietly, though the name felt foreign in my mouth now.

The woman let out a sharp, mirthless laugh, the sound cutting through the night air. “Aanya? Oh, honey, no one’s gonna remember that.” She turned to the other woman beside her—a taller figure with sharp cheekbones and red hair that glowed like fire in the dim light. “Take her inside,” she ordered, her tone dismissive as if I were nothing more than another stray they’d picked up off the street.

The redhead motioned for me to follow, and I did, my feet feeling heavy but my heart… oddly light. I wasn’t scared. I wasn’t even nervous. Just… empty. This was all I had left. As I followed her down a narrow alleyway and through an old door that creaked open, the air inside changed—thicker, more suffocating. The underground room we entered was small, dimly lit, and reeked of sweat and stale perfume. There were mirrors everywhere, some cracked, reflecting pieces of me I didn’t want to see.

“Strip,” the redhead commanded, throwing a dress at me. It was short, red, and shimmery—like a cheap piece of fabric trying too hard to be something it wasn’t. I peeled off my old clothes without a second thought. I’d been through this before—Mr. Shekhar’s dressing up, his games where I was no more than a doll to be played with. It was all too familiar—the sensation of being packaged and presented for someone else’s pleasure. Déjà vu.

They painted me up, covering the bruises and scars like they didn’t exist. My collar tattoo was smothered under layers of makeup, erased as if it had never been there. They didn’t ask where it came from or what it meant. No one cared. They were all too busy surviving to wonder about my past. As they worked on me in silence, it was clear: no one here asked questions.

When I was done, the woman from outside came in again to inspect me. She circled me slowly, her sharp eyes taking in every detail before she shook her head, unsatisfied. “You can’t go by Aanya,” she said dismissively, flicking the last of her cigarette to the floor. “You need something that sticks. Something men remember when they wake up in a sweaty mess, craving more. Something…dramatic.”

Her lips curled into a sly smile. “Monica. Yeah, that’ll do. It’s loud, craves attention. Men’ll love it.”

Monica. The name felt strange, but Aanya was a shadow now, fading with every passing moment. Monica would be my new armor, the mask I’d wear in this game of survival.

“Monica,” I repeated, feeling the weight of the name settle over me like a second skin.

Satisfied, the woman turned and gestured for me to go outside. “You’ll start tonight. Hope you’re hungry,” she added with a smirk, “because it’s a long night.”

Hunger? The pit in my stomach hadn’t left for days, but it wasn’t food I craved anymore. It was survival. Desperation burned deeper than anything else now.

I stepped outside, the cool night air slapping against my bare skin, but I didn’t shiver. There was no fear, no hesitation. I was already too far gone to feel anything but the weight of this new world. A man waited by a motorcycle, his eyes sweeping over me like I was a piece of meat he couldn’t wait to devour. He didn’t say a word, just nodded toward the bike. I climbed on behind him, my arms loosely wrapping around his waist as the engine roared to life.

The city blurred past us in streaks of neon and shadow, the noise of the world buzzing in the background like a faint, hollow hum. My body was numb, my mind detached from everything happening around me. This was my reality now.

We pulled up to a rundown hotel, its lights flickering like it could barely stay alive. He led me up the creaky stairs to a small, dingy room where the wallpaper was peeling, and the bed looked like it hadn’t been cleaned in years. The man shut the door behind us, and I stood there, staring at the faded walls, my heart… still. I wasn’t afraid of what came next. I had given my body away so many times, it was just muscle memory now.

He didn’t waste time. His hands moved to undress me, tearing at the thin fabric of my dress as though I wasn’t even there, just another doll in a line of many. I stood there, lifeless, as his hands explored my skin, his breath heavy and impatient.

This was my life now, wasn’t it?

The thoughts crept in, but I pushed them away. Monica didn’t have time to think. Monica had a job to do.

As the night wore on, as he left without so much as a glance back, I dressed in silence, pulling on the same red dress, my body no longer mine but something to be used and discarded. I stared at myself in the mirror for a moment, the makeup still caked on my face, the red lipstick smudged from the night’s events.

Monica looked back at me. Not Aanya.