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Beneath a sky the color of old bruises,nSmyrna exhales heat like a dying beast.nThe air itself is complicit—thick, clotted with dust,nmyrrh, and the faint copper reek of fear long dried on stone.nPasha Hamid moves through the labyrinthine streets,na shadow cast by no sun, only by the weight of his own name.nHis caftan whispers against the cobbles like a conspirator’s promise.nEach measured step drags the city’s pulse slower,nas though time itself bows and stumbles in his wake.nFatima follows.nNot a servant—never that—but a black-robed extension of his will,nher hem sweeping the filth of the street as though erasing evidence.nHer silence is louder than screams;nit is the sound of doors bolted from the inside,nof keys swallowed.nThey reach the flesh market.nA low arch yawns like an open mouth.nInside, torchlight bleeds amber across damp walls,ncatching on chains that do not rattle—nthey only sigh, as though already resigned.nAbdul emerges from the gloom,nface split by a smile too wide, too wet,nteeth gleaming like coins fished from a grave.n“Effendi,” he breathes, the word curling like smoke,n“the sea has been generous this dawn.nCome. Taste what the horizon has vomited onto our shore.”nThe Pasha hesitates—nnot from reluctance, but from the exquisite delay of savoring.nA vein in his temple beats once, twice,nthen he steps across the threshold.nThe temperature drops.nThe air grows intimate, moist, personal.nWithin, the matrons wait—nfaceless figures draped in shadow and linen,ntheir hands steady as executioners.nThey draw back a curtain of coarse cloth.nA row of bodies stands revealed,nnaked save for the gooseflesh that rises under torch-glow,neach one breathing shallow, rapid,nlike birds trapped in a net.nAnd then she.nMidnight made woman.nSkin so dark the torchlight drowns in it,nunable to find purchase, sliding off in defeat.nShe stands motionless, yet everything about her moves:nthe slow pendulum of breasts heavy with unspent milk,nthe long muscles of thigh that remember running under merciless suns,nand between them—ndear God—nthose inner lips, pendulous, blacker than sin,nhanging like torn silk banners after a massacre,nswaying with each shallow breath she dares to take.nThe Pasha’s throat works.nNo sound escapes, but the silence between them thickens,nbecomes a third presence in the room.nHis pupils swallow the torchlight whole.nDesire is not gentle here;nit is a blade held to the belly,nwaiting only for the skin to part.nAbdul’s voice slithers close, oily, intimate:n“A rare one, effendi. Untouched by the knife.nStill carrying the wild scent of her country.”nHe does not say the rest:nthat the wildness will be starved, sweetened, carved awaynuntil only compliance remains.nGold changes hands—nheavy, cold, final.nNo haggling.nNo ceremony.nOnly the soft clink of coins striking stone,nlike the first pebbles falling onto a fresh coffin lid.nShe does not flinch as they lead her forward.nHer eyes—white-rimmed, ancient—meet the Pasha’s for one heartbeat.nIn that instant the market holds its breath.nNo one moves.nEven the torches seem to lean closer,nas though hungry for what will happen next.nThen the moment fractures.nShe is taken away,nfeet dragging the smallest whisper across the floor,na sound like something being erased.nThe Pasha turns to leave.nFatima falls in behind him once more,nher shadow longer now, darker,nas though it has drunk something nourishing in the dark.nOutside, the city resumes its slow hemorrhage.nMinarets stab the twilight.nA muezzin begins the call to prayer,nvoice cracking on the high notes,nas though he too has seen what was purchasednand cannot unsee it.nAnd somewhere in the harem’s deep belly,nin rooms lit only by oil lamps,nthe fattening begins.nSoft foods.nForced rest.nThe slow rounding of limbs once lean and dangerous.nThen the knife—nsmall, curved, patient—nwill arrive to trim what offends,nto shape what remains into somethingnpleasing,nsilent,nand utterly owned.nThe Pasha walks on.nThe night closes behind him like a fist All models are 18 .
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