Ami had stopped counting the days. Time blurred when you lived on the streets—when every sunrise meant another battle for safety, food, and dignity. Her parents had seen her a burden, a disappointment, and finally, a disgrace. One morning, without ceremony, they cast her out. No money. No goodbye. Just the echo of a slammed door and the weight of rejection.
Well, she didn't beg them to let her stay.
Her parents' eyes had long stopped seeing her as their daughter. They looked at her like she was a stain—something to be scrubbed out of their lives. Every time she ate, slept, or even walked past them, she felt their shame pierce her skin like needles.
Her first day on the streets was a brutal awakening.
She tried every food stall, every dingy restaurant, every alley-side vendor. "I'll work for free," she pleaded. "You don't need to wage me money. Just food is enough." But they all turned her away. No ID, no papers, no trust. One man shoved her so hard she scraped her palms on the pavement. Another laughed and called her a stray.
She wandered into a spot under a bridge, hoping to rest—but it was already claimed. A group of street dwellers surrounded her, their eyes wild and territorial.
"You got the nerve to enter our territory? You bitch, here's for you!"
A fist flew. She ducked. Another kick grazed her ribs. She ran, heart pounding, tears blurring her vision. She dove into a bush and curled up, trembling. Her stomach growled violently. She hadn't eaten all day. She'd forgotten. But she endured the hunger. She thought maybe it's her end. She then walks and looks for any clean, safe water station to feed her hunger with water. But they want her to pay for it.
She crawled to a dumpster and rummaged through the filth. Her fingers found a half-eaten sandwich, soggy and cold. She stared at it, dead-eyed, then took a bite. She didn't taste it. Didn't care. She chewed like a machine, her body on autopilot.
That night, she found a quiet corner behind a shuttered shop. She checked for signs of ownership—no blankets, no trash piles, no markings. Safe. She curled up and drifted into a fragile sleep.
Until hands touched her.
She jolted awake to find a group of men crouched beside her, their eyes gleaming with intent. One reached for her again.
She screamed.
Not just a scream—an ear-splitting, soul-tearing shriek that echoed down the alley. The men recoiled, clutching their ears. She kicked one in the shin and bolted, sprinting until her lungs burned. She collapsed outside a convenience store, gasping for air. People stared. She welcomed their stares. Better that than the shadows behind her.
Days blurred into weeks. She didn't give up—because she already had. She was waiting for someone to finish the job. She slept in dumpsters, ate scraps, and avoided everyone. She learned the city's map by instinct: which alleys were safe, which gangs ruled which corners, which places smelled like danger.
She trusted no one.
It had been one of those nights when the cold felt personal—like the wind had teeth and the concrete had a grudge. Ami had tucked herself behind a row of trash bins, knees to chest, trying to disappear into the shadows. That's when she met them.
Two girls, maybe a year younger, with soft voices and cracked smiles. They offered her half a loaf of bread and a blanket that smelled like mildew and lavender. They talked about survival, about the streets, about how they looked out for each other. Ami, starved for warmth—any kind—let herself believe.
For three days, they shared stories and scraps. Laughed, even. Ami began to think maybe she wasn't alone.
Then came the van.
"We know a place," one of the girls whispered. "Warm beds. Real food. No strings."
Ami hesitated. Her gut stirred.
But the girls smiled, linked arms with her, and led her down a quiet alley where a white van waited, engine humming like a lullaby. The back doors swung open. Inside: blankets, pillows… and ropes. Duct tape. A man in the driver's seat didn't even look at her.
Her gut screamed.
She stepped back. One of the girls grabbed her wrist.
"Don't be stupid," she hissed.
Ami twisted free, heart pounding. She ran. Fast. Her breath tore through her throat, her legs burned, but she didn't stop. She didn't look back.
She ducked into a convenience store, collapsed behind a shelf of canned goods, and froze until her eyes got teary.
That night, something inside her hardened.
She never trusted another street girl again.
She never spoke to another homeless person again.
But then came the underground arena.
She stumbled into it by accident, drawn by the sound of fists and cheers. The coach—a grizzled man with a scar across his cheek—saw something in her. He let her train. Let her sleep in the gym. He taught her how to fight, how to read opponents, how to win.
And she did.
For seven months, Ami was undefeated. Bruised, bloodied, but never broken. She was fast, clever, ruthless. The coach called her his golden girl. She brought him money, fame, and respect. She received many threats. At first, it was just letters, saying she should quit the arena or her family will be in danger; they know her family. She ignored it, thinking it was just an empty threat. She never mentioned it to the coach because she didn't want to burden him anymore; he had already done so much for her. But then the letters included added pictures, which were of her cousins and sister.
So Ami wanted out.
"I need to leave," she told him one night, her voice quiet but firm.
His face fell. "Why? You have food and shelter in this place, why the sudden change of heart?"
"It's just I need a break," she said.
But he knows that break wasn't the usual break. Ami wanted to quit.
He promised to use her winnings to buy her a place. Groceries. A fresh start. Her gut twisted, but she wanted to believe him. He had been kind. He had given her shelter.
So she waited.
He packed her things. Told her to stay put. Said he'd be back in an hour.
He never came back.
She waited until nightfall. Then morning. Then another day.
Gone.
She returned to the gym. Empty. Her name was erased from the board. Her winnings--vanished.
She stood in the center of the ring, fists clenched, heart hollow.
And then she walked away.
Back to the streets. Back to the silence. Back to the fight.
For nearly two years, she wandered.
The street was quiet, unusually so. The air hung heavy, as if holding its breath.
Then came the car.
It rolled in like a shadow—matte black, sleek, and silent. A Rolls-Royce Phantom, its tinted windows reflecting the broken skyline. The engine didn't roar. It purred, like a predator that didn't need to announce itself. The doors didn't open immediately. The car sat there, humming with quiet menace.
Ami didn't notice at first. She was crouched near a lamppost, trying to stay invisible. But when one of the guards approached her, she blinked in confusion.
"Madam wants to speak with you."
She looked behind her, expecting someone else. Just a wall.
"Oh… they're talking to me," she muttered.
She didn't move. The guards didn't wait. They lifted her gently but firmly and placed her in front of the car.
"What do you need?" Ami asked, her voice defensive. "If you're asking for directions, then you've got the wrong person."
She turned to leave.
Then the car door opened.
A leg stepped out—wrapped in silk, ending in a stiletto heel that clicked against the pavement like a metronome of power. The woman emerged slowly, deliberately. Her perfume hit first—jasmine, oud, and something darker, like secrets bottled in crystal. Her hair was pinned in a perfect chignon, her sunglasses oversized and opaque. She didn't look at Ami. She assessed her.
"I have a job for you," she said, voice smooth as velvet dipped in ice.
Ami froze. Her instincts screamed caution, but her curiosity leaned in.
The woman smirked. "Before that, I believe you need to clean up first."
She handed Ami a paper bag. Inside: shampoo, soap, lotion, and clothes—soft pinks and whites, far too delicate for Ami's taste.
She gestured to her guards. "Take her to the station. Make sure she's allowed in."
The guards nodded. Ami followed, still dazed.
The guards moved like clockwork—rigid, synchronized, and eerily silent until they spoke. One stepped forward, voice clipped and commanding.
"She will use your facility. No questions."
The gasoline boys hesitated, eyes flicking to Ami's dirt-caked skin and tangled hair. One opened his mouth to protest, but the second guard leaned in, voice low and sharp.
"Don't you want trouble?"
That was enough. The boys nodded, fumbling with keys and unlocking the restroom door.
Inside, Ami was hit by the stench of industrial cleaner and something sour beneath it. The tiles were cracked, the mirror fogged with grime. But she didn't care. Relief flooded her chest. For the first time in nearly two years, she could wash.
She stripped quickly, avoiding her reflection. The water was cold, but she scrubbed like she was shedding a second skin. Her fingers pruned, her scalp burned from repeated shampooing. She didn't stop. Not until her skin felt raw and her hair hung clean and heavy down her back.
Five hours passed.
She wrapped herself in a thin towel and turned to the paper bag. Her breath caught.
A cropped pink top. White shorts—so short they looked like doll clothes.
She stared at them, heart thudding. A memory surfaced: her aunt forcing her into frilly dresses, pinching her cheeks, calling her "cute" while she squirmed in lace and shame.
"Are they mocking me for being short?" she muttered.
But there was no choice.
She dressed, tugging at the hem, trying to make herself smaller.
Outside, the guards waited, faces blank, eyes unreadable.
When she stepped out, the guards ushered her into the car. The leather seats were cold against her skin. As the vehicle glided through the city, Ami's thoughts spiraled. What if they're organ traffickers? What if I'm being sold? Her face remained calm, but inside, panic clawed at her throat.
Eventually, the car pulled into a warehouse lot. Ami's eyes widened. A group of girls stood in formation—clean, dressed, composed.
The warehouse loomed like a forgotten cathedral—high ceilings, rusted beams, and the scent of oil and dust hanging thick in the air. The light filtered through broken windows in fractured beams, casting long shadows across the concrete floor.
Ami stepped out of the car and saw them.
Twelve girls stood in a line, shoulder to shoulder, backs straight, eyes forward. She recognized some of them—faces she'd seen in alleyways, under bridges, behind dumpsters. Girls who had sold their bodies for food, stolen wallets to survive, fought tooth and nail for scraps. Now they looked… polished. Clean. Dressed in soft fabrics and subtle makeup. But their eyes told the truth.
One girl stared at the floor, her lips trembling. Another gripped her shoulders like it was a lifeline, knuckles white. A few smirked, eyes darting around the warehouse like predators sizing up prey. Ami knew that look—opportunists. The kind who'd rob you blind if you blinked too long.
She was told to join the line. Thirteenth.
She didn't speak. Didn't make eye contact. Mind your own business, she reminded herself.
Then Madam entered.
She didn't walk—she glided. Her heels clicked with precision, her tailored coat swaying like it had its own rhythm. The guards flanked her like shadows. She stopped in front of the line, removed her sunglasses, and let her gaze sweep across the girls.
Her voice rang out, smooth and sharp.
"You are here because you were chosen. Not because you are special. But because you are desperate."
Ami felt her stomach twist.
"You have lived in filth. You have suffered enough. You know what it means to survive. That is why you are valuable to me."
She paced slowly, her perfume trailing behind her like a warning.
"You will be caretakers and maids in my properties. You will serve my guests. You will do whatever they ask of you. No exceptions. If you refuse, you return to the streets. And I assure you, the streets will not welcome you back."
A girl near Ami sniffled. Silent tears ran down her cheeks.
"You will be given food, shelter, and clothing. You will be paid. You will have Saturdays and Sundays off. But if a guest requests your company on those days, you will oblige. You will be compensated accordingly."
Madam stopped. Her eyes locked onto Ami.
"You will not speak unless spoken to. You will not ask questions. You will be invisible when needed, and unforgettable when required."
"You are here because you were chosen. You will serve in my properties across the city. You will be caretakers and maids. You will do whatever the guests ask of you. No exceptions. If you refuse, you return to the streets. And I assure you, the streets will not welcome you back."
Ami swallowed hard.
"You will have everything you need—food, shelter, clothing. Your days off are Saturday and Sunday. However, if a guest requests your company on those days, you will oblige. You will be compensated accordingly."
Then came the list of duties:
Maintain cleanliness and order in all rooms, including guest suites, kitchens, and lounges.
Monitor inventory of household supplies and restock when needed.
Report damages or irregularities immediately.
Assist with meal preparation and service.
Handle laundry and wardrobe management.
Ensure guest privacy and comfort at all times.
Never speak unless spoken to. Never ask questions.
She turned to her guards. They handed out keys—one by one.
Each key had a tag. A location. A mansion.
Ami's tag was red.
The secretary glanced at her, then at Madam. "She's short. Some guests prefer long-legged girls. That place barely gets visitors. She'll do."
Ami said nothing. Her fingers curled around the key.
The girls were escorted to their cars—two per vehicle. Except Ami.
She was alone.
Her car drove through winding roads, past the city's edge, into the jungle.
Her car ride ended at the edge of a jungle. From there, she was handed a helmet and told to ride pillion on a motorcycle.
The motorbike roared through the jungle trail, kicking up damp leaves and clouds of earthy mist. Ami clung to the seat, her fingers gripping the edge like her life depended on it. The jungle was alive—buzzing, chirping, whispering. Crickets sang in shrill harmony, frogs croaked from unseen puddles, and the occasional rustle of branches hinted at creatures watching from the shadows.
The air was thick with moisture, heavy with the scent of moss and decaying wood. Ami wrinkled her nose. "Smells like a swamp had a baby with a compost bin," she muttered.
Then the trees parted—and the bridge appeared.
It stretched across a deep ravine, wooden planks weathered and warped, ropes fraying like old shoelaces. The motorbike slowed, then rolled onto the bridge. Each board groaned under the weight, creaking like it might snap at any moment.
Ami's heart pounded. She stared down through the gaps—nothing but mist and rocks far below.
"If anyone falls here, I guess it's the end," she whispered, clutching the seat tighter.
The bridge held. Barely.
And then—like a mirage—the mansion emerged.
It was massive. Gothic. Regal. The kind of place you'd expect vampires to host dinner parties. Towering spires, arched windows, ivy crawling up stone walls like fingers reaching for the sky. The gate alone was taller than any building she'd ever slept under.
Ami's jaw dropped. "Oh shoot… this ain't a house. It's a damn kingdom."
She turned to thank—or curse—the driver, but the motorbike was already speeding off.
"Rude," she hissed.
She approached the metal gate. It was heavy, but she was stronger than she looked. She pushed it open, stepped through, and closed it behind her.
The walk to the front door felt endless.
Inside the gate, the grounds stretched endlessly. A cobblestone path led to the mansion's entrance, flanked by manicured gardens bursting with roses and lilies. A grand fountain stood in the center, water cascading from the mouth of a marble lion. Statues lined the walkway—Greek gods, maybe. Or just rich people showing off.
Ami groaned. "That damn bastard. At least he gave me the bike, so I wouldn't have to walk this long-ass wide walkway to the entrance door."
She trudged forward, muttering curses with every step. Her backpack bounced against her spine, her shoes squelched from jungle mud.
"Who needs this much space anyway? You could fit a whole barangay in here!"
Walked for a while and then,
"Damn, why is this place so damn spacious? Just walking from the gate to the door is like trekking from the jungle to the gate. Oh my goodness, why did I even sign up for this?" she groaned, dragging her backpack behind her.
Finally, she reached the door. Towering, ornate, carved with swirling patterns that looked like they belonged in a museum.
"Finally!!!" she gasped, slumping her back against the door, arms dangling like noodles.
.....
The door creaked open with a groan that echoed through the cavernous space beyond. Ami stepped inside, and the air hit her like a wall—stale, cold, and thick with dust. Light filtered through tall, arched windows, catching the swirling motes in the air like glitter suspended in time.
"Okay… this place is haunted," she muttered, her voice bouncing off the marble walls.
Inside, the mansion greeted her with silence and dust. The floor beneath her feet was polished but dulled by neglect. Cobwebs clung to the corners of the ceiling like forgotten lace. White sheets draped over furniture gave the room a ghostly feel, like the mansion was holding its breath, waiting for someone to wake it up.
Her footsteps echoed with every step, lonely and sharp.
She wandered through the grand living room, past a fireplace big enough to roast a cow. The kitchen was industrial-sized, with gleaming counters buried under a layer of dust. She peeked into a hallway and found a door—ornate, carved, and locked.
She jiggled the handle. Nothing.
"Of course. The creepy door's locked. Classic horror movie setup," she grumbled, backing away.
Upstairs, she counted seven bedrooms. Seven. For who? Royalty?
"What am I, a cleaning army? This is a mansion, not a hotel!"
Still, she rolled up her sleeves. She grabbed a rag from her backpack, tied her hair back, and started wiping down the banister.
She dusted.
"Do I really need to clean all of this alone? I'm so exhausted already from coming here, and to be greeted by the fact, I'm going to do all of these, ALL ALONE to BOOT!! Just great! At least they cleaned this up before putting me in here."
She swept. She cursed under her breath.
"What the actual poop. No damn way I'm going to clean all of this alone. nooooooo...."
She looked at the furniture like it were their fault that she had to clean the dusty place.
Then—the doorbell rang.
Ami froze mid-swipe.
She turned slowly, heart thudding.
Outside the gate, silhouetted by the fading light, stood a group of people.