It wasn't what she was used to.

The loft was a heartbeat of electronic music and strobe lights filtering through the tall windows. A sea of sweaty bodies moved in unison, an anonymous mass of superheroes, zombies, vampires, and anime characters. The air was heavy with cheap ****, perfume, and machine smoke.

Magi froze at the entrance, clutching the thin material of the top as if it were armor. The vinyl of the miniskirt crinkled with every quick breath, a sound that absurdly reminded her of the rubber gloves on the bathroom floor. Every inch of her skin exposed to the air burned, not from the heat of the party, but from the hyper-awareness of her own exposure.

Valeria, disguised as an equally sexualized version of a mechanic, nudged her.

"Relax! It's a party! No one's going to bite you!" she shouted to be heard over the music, before plunging into the crowd and disappearing almost immediately, absorbed by the chaos.

Magi tried to follow her but felt like a castaway in an ocean of frivolity. She advanced, limping slightly (her ankle still reminding her of its existence), through the people, feeling the stares land on her. They were not the looks of calculated disdain from the academy, but something different, yet equally intense: curiosity, morbid interest, lewd approval.

"Hey, Officer! Are you going to arrest me?" shouted a guy dressed as a striped prisoner, thrusting his face near hers with a drunken smile and a look that traveled over her body from top to bottom.

Magi flinched, looking away and quickening her pace, only to stumble into another group.

"Oops, excuse me, Officer," said a girl with cat ears, giggling as her gaze settled on Magi's long legs, clad in the fishnet stockings that were part of the costume and reminded her of a spiderweb. "Looking for backup? There's a crime of boredom over here!"

Laughter followed her. Every comment, every look, was a distorted echo of the ones she received at the academy, but here, wrapped in the party disguise, they lacked Costa's personal malice... but they didn't hurt any less. They made her the center of attention in a way that made her feel profoundly uncomfortable. It wasn't Magi. It was an object. A joke.

She found a relatively quiet corner near a pillar, far from the dance floor. She leaned against the cold wall, crossing her arms over her exposed stomach in an instinctive attempt to cover up. She watched people dance, laugh, and flow with a naturalness that seemed impossible to her. She felt like an impostor, not just because of the costume, but inside. The seriousness, the anxiety, the humiliation she carried were like a dead weight anchoring her in the middle of the frivolity.

A guy approached, offering her a glass of an electric blue liquid.

"Thirsty? You look like you need it," he said with a smile that was meant to be friendly, but his gaze slid directly to her cleavage.

Magi shook her head with a dry movement, waving the glass away. The guy shrugged and left, looking for easier prey.

Was this the escape Valeria had promised her? Feeling watched and desired for all the wrong reasons? Turning her trauma into a fetish for drunk strangers?

She closed her eyes for a moment, but behind her eyelids, she only saw the dirty bathroom floor, Costa's cold smile, the shreds of the pink uniform. The costume, instead of liberating her, acted as a grotesque reminder. Every vinyl crinkle was a sneering laugh. Every stare at her skin, an echo of those she received in the academy courtyard.

She felt trapped. She couldn't leave; she had no way to notify Valeria and didn't want to seem weirder than she already felt. But staying was a **** of another kind.

Suddenly, a fuller song with a deep bass line filled the loft. The crowd on the dance floor chanted the chorus and moved with more energy. A group of guys, seeing her huddled in her corner, began waving her over to join them, laughing, swaying their hips exaggeratedly in her direction.

Magi shook her head, forcing a tense smile that felt like a grimace. One of them broke away from the group and started walking toward her, dancing in a ridiculous and provocative manner.

It was time to flee.

Spinning on her heels, she pushed her way through the crowd, ignoring the shouts of "Hey, where are you going, Officer?!" and "The fun is over here!" She desperately searched for an exit, a balcony, a bathroom, anywhere she could breathe away from the stares.

Finally, she found a semi-open door that led to a small balcony overlooking a side alley. The cold night air hit her like a saving slap. She stepped out and rested her trembling hands on the metal railing, taking deep breaths, trying to calm the pounding of her heart.

From below, the sound of the party was a dull, distant throb. Here, alone, she could finally think. Or not think. Just feel the cold on her skin, a cold that wasn't Costa's icy water, but one that cleansed, if only momentarily.

She looked at her distorted reflection in the dirty glass of the balcony window. The figure of the sexy cop looked out of place, sad, and **** under the dim light of the alley streetlamp. She adjusted the cap, not out of coquetry, but in an absurd gesture of seeking some dignity in that parody.

The liberation had not come. She had only changed the scenery. The party, the costume, the attention... it was all just another type of exposure, another reminder that, no matter what she wore, her body had become an object for the gaze of others. And tonight, she herself had chosen to put on the mask of her own humiliation.