Brads answer

The camera flashes are like strobe lights, clouding my vision as I push through the crowd. "Wiggle your feet, Jette!" they call. I **** my legs in the tight sandals, which make a soft, crunching sound with every step, and wiggle them as best I can. A broad man in a tank top, showing off his abs, catches me by the upper arm with one hand. Then he places his other hand loosely on my hip, his palm resting directly on the glittering fabric of my costume. He pulls me closer to his body, and I feel his heat through the fabric. For a moment, I forget who I am. I look at him, and he grins broadly, the camera clicking incessantly.

"Where are you from, anyway?" asks a woman with a hairstyle that looks like it's from the eighties, as she tries to take a photo of me and her, in which she looks almost twice as big as me. "Germany?" she guesses. I nod, nervously playing with my fingers in my white hair. "Yes, from the northwest. I'm traveling around here in my Mitsubishi bus, you know?"

"A Mitsubishi!" another man calls out excitedly. "Those are the toughest. How old are you?"

"Eighteen," I reply, the number feeling foreign and fragile in this moment. A murmur goes through the small group that has formed around me. "Eighteen and already so far from home. Brave." The man who has his hand on my hip presses lightly. "And you're doing this? That's... a special kind of job."

I **** a smile. "Brad talked me into it. He said the costume would be perfect for me." That's an excuse, but it's easier than telling the truth: that I need the money and thought it would be harmless.

"And have you done this before? Cosplay, I mean," the woman asks.

I shake my head. "No, this is the first time. I usually play soccer."

"Soccer?" the man next to me laughs, and his hand slides a little lower, until it's almost on my ass. "Real female soccer players are something else. But you... you look like an elf. A very... athletic elf."

My smile freezes. I feel as if I'm trapped in a cage of glitter and foreign hands. Every photo is a small invasion, every touch a transgression of a boundary that I seem to silently endure. The hours blur into a single, long blur of bright light, loud music, and the same greedy glances over and over. I am a machine, smiling, posing, and repeating the same sentences over and over: "Thank you," "Yes, the costume is from Brad," "No, I'm not really a fairy."

When the last guests leave the shop and Brad turns the music down, I take a proper breath for the first time in hours. The silence that follows is deafening. My body aches. My feet burn from the sandals, my cheeks are stiff from the constant smiling, and my shoulders feel as if they've been carrying the weight of all the evening's stares.

"You were incredible, Jette. Just incredible!" Brad's voice comes from behind me. He puts a hand on my back, and although the touch is gentle, I flinch. "I mean it. The people loved you. I've already uploaded all the Reels, the likes are literally exploding right now."

He helps me gather a few empty bottles and cups. His praise is incessant. "Your way with people, the way you move... that's pure gold. You're a natural." As he speaks, he counts the money from the register. His eyes light up as he counts the stacks of bills. A broad, satisfied grin spreads across his face. "That was the best night in months. By far."

I lean against a shelf and look at him. The exhaustion makes me bold. "Brad?" I ask, my voice quieter and more brittle than I intended. "What about the door?"

His grin dies. He looks up from the money. "Which door?"

"The one in the back. The heavy one. A few men went through it tonight. They didn't buy anything, they just... disappeared."

He looks surprised, almost caught. His eyes dart to the door and back to me. "Oh, that. That's... uh... that's just the storage room. For... special orders. Yeah."

I look at him, my gaze firm. "I've been in the storage room, Brad. There was no door there."

He clears his throat and gets nervous. "That's... the basement. For... supplies. Old comics. They're not for the public, you know. Moisture problem, the air down there isn't good. Don't you want to go to bed? It's been a long night."

I stay persistent. "A man asked me to get something for him. He planned it, Brad. He wanted me to bend over. He wanted to be able to... see me." The words come out, and with them the anger and shame I've been suppressing all evening. "And then he went through that door. Tell me the truth."

Brad blushes. It's not a gentle blush; it's a deep, visible red that creeps up his neck. He stares at the stacks of money in his hands and then sighs heavily. "Okay. Okay, you're right. I didn't tell you everything." He looks at me, his gaze a mix of guilt and... excitement? "The shop... it has two sides. The one out there," he gestures into the empty sales floor, "is what the world is supposed to see. Comics, action figures, nerd culture. But... that's not all people want."

"What do you mean by that?" I ask, though I have a suspicion that scares me.

"The basement..." he says quieter. "The basement is for adults. For the... other side of fantasy. It's 18+."

Disappointment and a cold anger flood me. He used me. Me, the shy Jette from Germany, as bait for his dirty shop. "Show it to me," I demand. My voice is no longer trembling. It's hard and cold.

"Jette, I don't think that's..."

"Show. Me. The. Basement. Now."

He swallows, then nods slowly and leads me to the heavy door. A loud click as he turns the key in the lock. The air that meets us is different. It's cool, heavy, and smells of a mix of old paper, something sweet, and a hint of chemicals. We go down a steep flight of stairs, and the light becomes dim. What I see makes my breath catch.

The walls are full of shelves, but there are no Spiderman comics on them. There are mangas, open to pages with explicit drawings. Hentai. Next to them are stacks of DVDs with titles like "Cosplay Cuties" or "Fairy Tail Fantasy." In the corners are small, separated booths—video booths—with dark curtains. Clothing hangs on the wall. Fetish wear. Latex dresses that look so tight they'd restrict breathing, and then... the toys. An entire wall is full of sex toys. But they're not normal. They are unnaturally large dildos, some shaped like tentacles, others like the limbs of horses. And among them, in a particularly prominent row, are black, oversized penises.

I'm shocked. My mind refuses to process what I'm seeing. This is the world the men upstairs belong to. The world for which my Tinkerbell costume wasn't just cute, but a provocation.

Brad stands next to me, talking quietly as if to himself. "Most of them... they're harmless nerds, you know. But they have their fetishes. Cosplay is a huge one. Young women who are petite like you. Who like to show off their bodies. They dream of cosplayers who are often pierced and tattooed. They see you and see the embodiment of their fantasies."

I look down at my hands. The green clip-on nails suddenly feel ridiculous. My six-pack, which I was so proud of, feels like a feature in a catalog. I'm angry. I'm angry at Brad for luring me here. I'm disappointed in myself for being so naive. But beneath the anger and shame is something else. A strange, tingling heat in my stomach. An arousal I've never felt before.