Jasmine, female, tourist, 24

You keep to yourself for the rest of the journey, wondering if visiting this place was a mistake that was starting to affect you psychologically. It had only been four days in this morally bankrupt city, yet seeing a woman stroke a stranger in front of you didn't faze you any more. In fact, thinking about this reminds you to be thankful that it wasn't anything worse: an attacker or thief. You pull your bag closer to you and think about how obvious your expensive white sneakers and gold jewellery were in contrast to this dirty train car. They almost illuminat the car when the lights flickered.

When your friends persuaded you to visit "The City That Never Sleeps", you accepted the adventure but didn't expect them to put you in the position to decide between joining them and indulging in sins like and flirting with strangers or occupying yourself each evening.

After the excitement of the film you just watched, by yourself of course, the screeching gray rollercoaster of the subway is an unpleasant contrast. You return to reading the scratches and graffiti around you, particularly drawn to the empty seat to your immediate right, covered in the scrawling of a lunatic. Unlike all of the other vandalism, this is written in your language. You hadn't even seen your language since you arrived in this country outside of your phone.

The soft fabric of your pastel green sweatpants makes it easy to swivel in your seat to read it closer.

You run your finger over the bumps cut into the plastic seats from, presumably, penknives and keys, as, between the flickering of the car's lights, you read the various words: 'REPRESSED,' 'WASTED POTENTIAL,' 'BORE,' 'PRUDE,' all in the same scratchy handwriting. You wonder what could possess a person to make such strange inscriptions, but get distracted when your key gets caught in a tough bit of plastic.

Your heart skips a beat: your key?!

When the light returns, you see the scratches next to your key.

'JASMINE THINKS SHE'S BETTE-'

You feel the blood drain from your face when you see your name. Shrieking, tugging the key free in the commotion, you're to ask yourself if you had just made this, absent-mindedly. It's the same handwriting, and of course, to the best of your knowledge, a language that very few people here speak. You rub at it, trying to smooth over the scratches while you look around to see if anyone had seen and possibly caught you vandalise a train. This is, of course, the last thing you would ever do.

Once you calm slightly, you look down at the key in your hand. The very key that you had packed away in your bag this morning. You have no idea how it got into your hand. Looking around again to see if anyone is watching, you tuck the key back into the pocket of your bag.

Enough is enough, you decide. Despite not being near your destination, you need to get off this train as soon as possible. You resolve that you will travel in taxis for the rest of the trip. And will have a long conversation with your therapist when you get home.

You sit up to read the small map above you to find out where your next stop is going to be when an excruciating pain on your chest practically blinds you. You can't help but scream and curl forwards, clutching your chest through your bra. Surprisingly, even to your own ears, your scream is masked by the scraping from the subway car. You can't even breathe from how painful it is, let alone read a map.

The pain gradually subsides and you're able to pinpoint the source of it to your nipples. Now able to breathe again, you look around and are thankful that nobody heard you draw so much attention to yourself. You gradually release your hands from your chest, as slowly as possible so as to not hurt your still sore nipples. You feel something hard and sharp sitting in your bra, jutting into your breast, but that can wait. You fight the urge to look into your top and check whatever happened in your bra to cause the pain in front of these strangers, so you eagerly anticipate the next stop at the edge of your seat.

The car pulls in to the station, and as the car doors open to the station, the violent sounds and movements are replaced by the welcoming buzz of people in a subway station. Relieved, you stand slowly, still trying not to agitate your painful chest, and make your way to the door, clutching your handbag tightly. You're about to step out when you freeze in panic: you see, in the reflection of the divider, the woman from before, once again staring or perhaps glaring straight into your eyes. Cold fear and instinct takes over and you turn to look for her, but as you do, a rude man bumps into you on his way out and knocks you out of the car onto the platform with him.

You look back in through the window but she's nowhere to be seen.

You slam the hotel door shut behind you and drop your bag. In a hurry to inspect yourself, you rush to the bathroom and peel off your pastel sweater and white top, revealing your soft brown skin in the mirror. You slowly undo your bra behind you, supporting it on your chest with one hand. This is your favourite bra, so to be betrayed by it at such a stressful time is disappointing.

As you unclasp the black bra behind your back, shivers rush down your spine as you feel something cold move across your sensitive skin in both cups. You pause, apprehensively, wondering both what it could be and whether it might be alive before you pull it away from you. As you pull it away, you feel a weight increase on each nipple and a coldness run across your skin between them as what looks like a gold chain hung between them. Certainly, it is now clear what caused your pain earlier.

Tentatively, you hold it in one hand and take the bra off completely, letting your breasts hang naturally, the first small relief of the day. You can see a small gold bar piercing in each nipple, hooking to the chain with a small 'D'.

While you're relieved that something hadn't jumped out of it at you, it did nothing to alleviate your concern about the origin of the chain. Your breathing quickens, in panic. Using the mirror, you hurriedly look for some way to disconnect it, or remove the piercings, hoping to reverse the damage, but the chain looks sturdy and attached directly to each piercing. There is no obvious way to remove the piercing either: no amount of twisting, bending or tugging would work.

Eventually, the pain that fiddling is delivering to your nipples, enhanced by your blood pressure, you to stop and move to your bed. You sit for a second, trying to control your breathing, wondering who you could call. You think about the woman with the eyes, the scratches and the timing of it all.

You question your state of mind, until something yanks hard on the chain.