The city did not sleep so much as it lingered in a state of permanent, shivering exhaustion. Roisin walked with her head down, the brim of her charcoal-grey baseball cap pulled low to shadow her features. Over her clothes, she wore an oversized, heavy trench coat, belted tight to obscure the curves of her silhouette. To a casual observer, she was merely another anonymous soul drifting through the grey haze of the capital, but beneath the layers, she was meticulously prepared. Her makeup was flawless—a sharp, feline flick of eyeliner and a deep, crimson lip—a secret armoured layer she wore for the only man who could afford her.

As she turned the corner onto the main thoroughfare, the dereliction of the district became more pronounced. Once a hub of culture and nightlife, the streets were now skeletal. Shopfronts were boarded up with rough plywood or plastered over with the stark, monochromatic propaganda of the New Order. Giant screens, perched like vultures atop the concrete ruins, looped footage of ‘purification’ rallies and testimonials from citizens who had ‘saved’ their family members from the ‘degenerate contagion’.

Roisin felt a cold prickle of anxiety at the base of her neck. The city felt ghostly, haunted by the memory of who they all used to be. Five years ago, when the regime first clawed its way into power on a platform of ‘Traditional Restoration’, Roisin had already transitioned. She had been one of the lucky few—or so the law said. The government had passed a reluctant immunity clause for those who had undergone gender-reassignment surgery before the ban, a gesture designed to avoid an immediate, bloody uprising from the established medical community and the existing trans population.

But immunity was a fragile thing in a totalitarian state. Over the last two years, the protections had eroded. The news stories had started small—a ‘clerical error’ leading to the arrest of a trans woman in the north, a ‘public decency’ charge that bypassed immunity laws. Now, the disappearances were common knowledge, whispered in the dark corners of the few remaining safe houses.

Roisin had survived by becoming invisible. She had tried for legitimate work, but her legal status made her a pariah; no firm would hire a woman who existed as a legal anomaly, a living reminder of a ‘disease’ the state sought to eradicate. Escorting was not just a choice; it was the only economy that accepted her. And Josh, with his political lineage and his bottomless pockets, was her lifeline.

Josh was the son of Frank Keystone. In the current hierarchy of power, Frank was a god of the New Order, a Minister whose signature on a piece of parchment could send a thousand people to ‘re-education’ camps. He was the architect of the very laws that made Roisin’s existence a crime. The irony was a bitter pill Roisin swallowed every time she met Josh. She had convinced herself that Josh was different—that he was a captive of his father’s shadow, and that his desire for her was a secret rebellion. She believed he had as much to lose as she did; after all, if the Minister found out his son was spending his weekends in the arms of a transgender woman, the fall from grace would be catastrophic.

As she approached the Grand Regency, the hotel’s gilded facade looked like a gold-plated tomb. She stepped into the lobby, the click of her heels muffled by the thick, crimson carpets. As she approached the concierge, the man looked up. His eyes didn't linger on her face, but they swept down her body with a slow, knowing precision. It wasn't a look of lust, but of recognition. He knew exactly who she was, and he knew exactly why she was here.

Roisin stiffened, her hand tightening on the strap of her bag. She trusted Josh, but the looks from the staff had become more frequent lately. It felt as though the hotel was no longer a sanctuary, but a waiting room.

The elevator ride to the penthouse was silent and suffocating. When the doors slid open, she found herself in a corridor of muted golds and deep velvets. She stopped outside the double doors of the suite, her heart hammering against her ribs. She waited for several minutes, the silence of the hallway amplifying the sound of her own breathing.

Then, the sound of footsteps echoed from the far end of the hall. Roisin glimpsed a man—tall, broad-shouldered, wearing a sharp, black government suit. He didn't look like a guest; he looked like an operative. He stopped a few yards away, leaning against the wall, his eyes fixed on her with a cold, predatory curiosity.

Roisin hurried toward the door just as it swung open. Josh stood there, his frame slightly slumped.

"You're late," she whispered, slipping inside the room and shutting the door with a sharp click. She turned to him, her voice rising in a flutter of nerves. "I’ve been standing out there for ten minutes, Josh. There is a man in the corridor—a suited man—who looks like he’s waiting for a signal. Why is he there? Did you forget to clear the floor?"

Josh didn't answer immediately. Roisin noticed that he looked pale, his skin having a sallow, waxy quality under the chandelier light. There were dark circles under his eyes, and he seemed to be vibrating with a suppressed tension.

"I'm fine, Roisin," he said, his voice sounding thin, almost hollow. "The man is just... security. Don't worry about it."

Roisin stepped back, her instincts screaming. "You don't look fine. You look like you're about to be sick. Josh, if this is becoming too risky... if your father is getting suspicious... I should just leave. I'll go."

"No!" Josh snapped, his reaction far more visceral than usual. He reached into his jacket and pulled out a thick, cream-coloured envelope. He pressed it into her hand, the weight of the cash inside substantial. "Stay. Please. I need this. I need you."

Roisin looked down at the envelope. This was more than their usual arrangement—nearly double. It was enough to keep her in a safe apartment and fed for three months. The fear was still there, but the desperation was louder. She couldn't afford to be afraid. She couldn't afford to be unemployed in a city that wanted her dead.

She took a deep breath, forcing the anxiety down into the pit of her stomach, and stepped back into her persona. She reached for the belt of her trench coat, her eyes locking onto his.

"Alright," she murmured, her voice dropping into a sultry, melodic register. "But you're paying for the stress."

She slowly slid the trench coat off her shoulders, letting it pool on the floor like a discarded skin. Beneath it, she wore a dress that was less of a garment and more of a provocation. It was a deep, midnight-purple silk, cut dangerously low at the neckline to showcase the swell of her breasts, which were pushed up by a structured lace bra. The dress clung to the curve of her hips with a predatory precision, the hem ending mid-thigh. Underneath the sheer silk of the skirt, she wore a pair of matching lace knickers, a sliver of black embroidery peeking through the purple fabric.

The contrast of the deep purple against her pale skin was striking. She moved toward him, the silk whispering against her legs, her movements fluid and practiced. She saw Josh’s eyes darken, his gaze traversing her body with a hunger that seemed almost frantic.

"You look... incredible," he whispered.

Roisin smiled, though it didn't reach her eyes. She reached out, her fingers trailing up his chest to the collar of his shirt. "You seem so tense, Josh. Let me help you with that."

She led him toward the oversized king-bed, the room filled with the scent of expensive cologne and the oppressive stillness of the hotel. She pushed him back onto the mattress, her hands working quickly to unbutton his shirt. As she stripped him, she noticed he was shaking. Not the shake of anticipation, but something closer to terror.

When she reached for his trousers, she found him already hard, a stark contradiction to his pale face and trembling hands. She slid the trousers and underwear down his legs, leaving him completely naked. His erection was full, pulsing, but as Roisin moved to touch him, Josh squirmed uncomfortably. He didn't lean into her; instead, he cast a quick, darting glance toward the bedroom door.

"Josh? What is it?" she asked, her seductive mask slipping.

"Nothing," he gasped, though he was breathing as if he had just run a marathon. "Just... just keep going. Please."

Roisin felt a surge of irritation mixed with dread. She needed the money, so she pushed the feeling aside. She stood up, reaching for the zipper of her purple dress. With a soft hiss of fabric, the dress slid down her body, leaving her standing before him in only her lingerie.

She stood tall, her chest heaving slightly. As a pre-op woman, she possessed a body that was a bridge between worlds—the soft, feminine curves of her breasts and hips contrasted with the presence of her penis. In the dim light of the suite, she felt exposed, not just physically, but existentially.

Josh’s reaction was visceral. He looked at her, his eyes wide, his breathing becoming ragged. He seemed caught in a deadlock between intense arousal and an overwhelming sense of guilt. He was hard, almost painfully so, yet he continued to glance at the door, his body tensing every time the building groaned.

Roisin knelt between his legs, her hair falling over her shoulders. "You're so worked up tonight," she whispered, her voice trembling slightly. "Is there something you're not telling me?"

As she lowered her head to begin pleasuring him, a sound shattered the atmosphere.

It wasn't a knock. It was the sound of a battering ram.

The heavy double doors of the suite exploded inward, the wood splintering with a deafening crack. Roisin screamed, leaping back from the bed, her hands instinctively flying to cover her chest.

"Police! Nobody move!"

The room was suddenly flooded with light and noise. Six armed soldiers in tactical gear stormed the room, their black visors reflecting the chaos. The red dots of laser sights danced across the walls, the ceiling, and then converged, centring precisely on Roisin’s bare chest.

"Get on the ground! Now!"

Roisin’s mind fractured. The world became a blur of shouting and flashing lights. She tried to scramble away, her bare feet slipping on the polished floor, but a soldier lunged forward, grabbing her by the hair and slamming her face-down into the carpet.

The impact knocked the wind out of her. She felt the cold bite of the floor against her cheek and the crushing weight of a combat boot pressing into the small of her back.

"Please!" she shrieked, the sound muffled by the carpet. "I have immunity! I’m registered! Please, I have immunity!"

The response was a brutal, heavy-handed blow to her ribs. Roisin gasped, a sharp, stabbing pain radiating through her side. Another soldier kicked her in the thigh, a vicious, calculated strike intended to incapacitate.

Through the haze of pain and panic, Roisin twisted her head, looking toward the bed. Josh was there. He was sitting up, his naked body exposed, but he wasn't screaming for them to stop. He wasn't pleading for her.

As their eyes met, Roisin saw a flicker of something in his expression—guilt, perhaps, or a twisted kind of relief. Then, with a cold, deliberate motion, Josh turned his back on her. He reached for his clothes and began to dress himself, ignoring her cries as if she were nothing more than a piece of furniture being removed from the room.

"Stop! Stop it!" Roisin wailed, her voice breaking. "Josh, help me! Please!"

"That's enough," a voice commanded.

The soldiers immediately stepped back, though they kept their weapons trained on Roisin. A man stepped through the wreckage of the door.

He was older, with silver hair swept back from a forehead etched with lines of permanent disapproval. He wore a tailored charcoal suit that cost more than Roisin had earned in her entire life. His eyes were like flint—cold, grey, and devoid of any human warmth.

Frank Keystone.

Roisin lay shivering on the floor, her breath coming in ragged, sobbing gasps. She looked up at the man who had designed the laws that were now crushing her. She couldn't speak; her throat felt as though it had been filled with glass.

Frank looked at his son. He didn't offer a word of praise, nor a word of reprimand. Instead, he shot Josh a look of profound disgust, mixed with a chilling sense of delight.

"Get out," Frank said, his voice a low, cultured rumble. "Your job is done. You’ve proven you can prioritize the state over your... appetites. Now leave us."

Josh didn't look back. He gathered his things and walked out of the room, his footsteps echoing in the sudden silence.

Frank Keystone stepped forward, his polished shoes clicking on the floor. He crouched down in front of Roisin, his face inches from hers. He didn't look at her as a human being; he looked at her as one might look at a stain on a white rug.

"You make me sick," he whispered.

Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, Frank gathered saliva in his mouth and spat directly onto Roisin’s face.

Roisin flinched, a sob escaping her throat. The humiliation was more piercing than the physical beatings. She felt the wetness on her cheek, the scent of his contempt.

"Arrest her," Frank commanded, standing up and smoothing his jacket. "And ensure she is processed as a deviant. I want her example made clear."

The soldiers descended on her again. Roisin was hauled upward, her arms wrenched behind her back with such force that her shoulders popped. Heavy steel handcuffs bit into her wrists, cutting off the circulation.

They didn't give her her clothes. They didn't give her the trench coat or the purple dress.

Roisin was manhandled out of the suite, her body trembling, wearing nothing but her lace bra and panties. She was dragged through the corridor, her bare feet slapping against the floor.

As they entered the hotel lobby, the world seemed to stop.

The guests, the staff, the onlookers—all of them froze. Roisin saw the faces of the people she had passed earlier. Some looked on with a fascinated, morbid curiosity, their eyes scanning her body, lingering on the parts of her that marked her as ‘other’. Others looked on with a horrified expression, but none of them moved. None of them spoke.

The silence was the most terrifying part. It was a collective agreement to let this happen.

"Help me!" Roisin screamed, her voice echoing through the opulent lobby. "Somebody please! Help me!"

A woman in a silk dress turned her head away, shielding her children's eyes. A man in a suit stepped back, as if her very presence were contagious.

The soldiers bundled her through the revolving doors and into the biting cold of the city air. The wind whipped against her exposed skin, turning her flesh a bruised, shivering blue. She was shoved roughly into the back of a black military vehicle, the metal interior smelling of oil and old blood.

As the door began to close, Frank Keystone stepped toward her. He didn't say a word. He didn't need to.

With a sudden, explosive movement, he swung his fist, connecting squarely with Roisin’s jaw.

The world exploded into white light, then shifted into a deep, suffocating black. As Roisin’s consciousness faded, the last thing she felt was the cold steel of the handcuffs and the sound of the vehicle’s engine roaring to life, carrying her away into the dark.