With many eyes on her.

The order from May had not been a suggestion. It was a decree, cold and precise, like everything that came out of her mouth. "Swim. Float. Turn." Three verbs that delineated the confines of her new prison of glass and salt water.

The circular tank, pompously named "The Abyssal Gallery" for the event, was the center of the main lobby. Magi was the sole exhibit. There were no exotic fish or multicoloured coral. Only her, her body turned into a canvas by the meticulous and humiliating hands of Julián.

The painted algae on her hips coiled like green fingers, heading with obscene intent towards her most intimate parts. The "flowers" surrounding her breasts were not delicate; they were open, fleshy petals, of a too-vibrant pink, which made her nipples, erect from the cold and tension, look like the centers of those grotesque blossoms. The most disturbing thing was the "tail" painted directly onto her skin: iridescent scales covering her buttocks, her groin, the upper part of her thighs, creating the illusion of a mermaid's tail that, by not physically existing, only served to emphasize her complete nakedness. The body paint, which might look like art from afar, was a tourist guide to her vulnerability up close, accentuating every curve, every hollow, every fold of her anatomy.

The dance began. Slow, ****. Every movement was choreographed to show a different part of the "art." A slow turn to display her back, where a stylized dragon coiled around her spine, its tail disappearing into the cleft of her buttocks. An arm extension to stretch her torso and make the flower petals tense. Floating on her back, legs slightly parted, offering the most obscene and calculated view to those looking up from below. Without the physical tail, every movement was a raw exposure of her real anatomy, barely veiled by the thin and deceitful layer of paint that felt more like a varnish than a covering.

And the spectators arrived. First, the curious, pointing with innocent fingers. But soon, innocence was replaced by something else. Their stares were not of awe, but of cold analysis, of lustful evaluation. They raked over every inch of her painted body as if studying a catalogue. They whispered. Some laughed with a complicity that chilled her blood more than the water.

A man in an impeccable suit, wearing a tie that cost more than her rent, was not content just to look. He raised his phone and began to film. It wasn't a quick video, a few seconds long. It was a meticulous filming, lasting minutes, zooming in on her hips, her chest, the place where the painted dragon vanished between her buttocks. His gaze was not one of admiration for the art; it was one of possession. He devoured her through the screen, turning her into an object of fantasy, into a digital memory for his private collection. Magi tried to look away, but May's order was clear: "Eye contact with the public. Professional smile." She **** her lips into something intended to be enigmatic and was only a grimace of agony.

An elegantly dressed woman, in a dress that screamed old money, nudged her companion—a young man easily young enough to be her son—and pointed directly at Magi. Not with amazement, but with a smile of wicked complicity, as if they were evaluating an erotic sculpture in a private museum. The young man smiled, nodded, and his gaze rested on Magi with an uncalled-for familiarity, as if he already knew her.

It was a live dissection. Every air bubble that escaped her lips was not just another aquatic effect; it was a choked gasp of dignity, a silent moan lost in the blue immensity. The pain in her muscles, tense from the unnatural poses and hours of immobility, was a constant lash, a physical reminder of her servitude.

But the worst, what truly broke her spirit, was the silence. The deafening underwater silence, which magnified the distant murmur of the crowd. She could see their mouths moving, their silent laughter, their lustful glances, but she could not hear them. She was completely isolated in her aquarium of shame, condemned to play her role as a decorative siren for an audience that could not—or would not—hear her suffering.

After what seemed like an eternity of six hours, the light in the water flickered twice, the signal that she could exit. Emerging was both a relief and a new ****. The cold lobby air hit her damp skin, causing her to shiver violently. The paint, as it dried, contracted, cracking like a scab on her skin, pulling at the hairs, reminding her of every inch that had been exposed. As she climbed out of the water, the illusion of the painted tail vanished completely, leaving only the reality of her naked, marked body, with pale, wrinkled skin where the paint had not covered, like a perverse negative of her own body.

May waited for her on the service platform, not with a soft towel, but with a rough, small one, like those used to clean glass.

"A resounding success," she said, without an ounce of emotion in her voice, as Magi wrapped herself up. "Visitor numbers spiked by 300% during that time slot. The comments on social media are... enthusiastic." She paused, watching Magi tremble.

Magi pressed the rough towel against her body, feeling that the paint was not washing off with the water, but absorbing into her skin, staining her inside, dyeing her being with the shame of the exposure.

Exiting into the staff area, she had to cross the lobby. It was no longer a thoroughfare; it was the stage of her new and more public form of servitude. A few straggling visitors recognized her. A couple of teenagers cast her glances and little smiles. An older man winked at her.

And through the gigantic glass doors of the aquarium, she saw the city. Cars drove by, people walked quickly, absorbed in their lives. From here, they were just shadows, anonymous figures. But she knew that among them were the man in the suit, the woman in the expensive dress, the young man with the familiar gaze. The city, indifferent and bustling, had become a silent accomplice to her exhibition, holding the spectators of her degradation and taking her secrets home, stored in their phones and in their stares.