Exhibition Date 1

The exhibition was three weeks later.

Silke didn’t want to go. The thought alone was enough: her body on the wall, two meters high, crystal clear, and someone standing in front of it with a glass of wine, tilting their head to one side. Jonas wanted to go. Jonas was into naked women. He’d heard rumors that she—“the naked one”—had struck again. They didn’t go alone.

Four friends. Already in the hallway, nudging each other. Silke walked a step behind them, her collar turned up, as if fabric could save a face that was already hanging there inside. The motto was written in large letters above the first doorway.

THE NAKED TRUTH.

Not very creative. But Mira had been right. It described everything.

The exhibition was divided into two parts. One sort of under the ceiling. And one without a ceiling. On the left, a dimly lit room with gray walls and soft lighting. On the right, a second hall, still closed off, with a curtain and a sign: *Part Two—after 9 p.m. / restricted access.* Silke stayed on the left at first. She told herself that Part Two was none of her business. Once again, she didn’t think things through.

They walked through.

The first image hit her hard.

Two meters. Silke working out. A jumping jack with a new background—a backyard: a naked, bouncing mass, breasts appearing one after another, a moving belly, a sheen of sweat. Her face was hidden in her hair, officially anonymous. Would anyone recognize her? Would Jonas recognize her?

“Dude,” one of her friends said.

Silke had to control herself. Hands in her pockets. Don’t touch the picture. Don’t run away. Don’t say, “That’s not me,” even though every millimeter was her.

Mira had used AI to fill in the gaps where reality hadn’t been enough for her. Hair around the asshole, dark, messy. Stubble on the labia, as if the shave had been three days ago and done poorly. Armpit stubble. Blemishes on her shoulders. Razor burn on the inner thighs—red, unsightly, real. Silke looked like a real woman. That was exactly what made the exhibition so awful. No porn-perfect smoothness. No mercy. Chubby. Unvarnished. The truth that wasn’t really the truth—it was a humiliation for Silke.

Jonas had heard about a scavenger hunt.

In almost every picture there was a nipple. A piece of her asshole. A piece of her pussy. Never enough to be pornographic. Always enough to look for.

The guys were having a blast.

They stepped close to the windows. Analyzed. Pointed out. Found every detail.

“There. Bottom left. A wart.”

“No, that’s a shadow.”

“Wait. Zoom in with your phone. Yeah. Half a courtyard. Awesome.”

Silke stood two meters away and listened as strange men dissected her body like a quiz. A friend found the start of her pubic cleft between wet thighs, just one centimeter. Another spotted her anus in the reflection—Mira had left it hairy, as if Silke hadn’t paid two hundred fifty euros for a smooth shave just a week earlier.

“That crease there. Under her tit.”

“And the razor burn. Crazy that they let that hang there.”

Silke bit the inside of her cheek. Blood. Better than a sound.

The bed.

Her in bed after working out. Face flushed. Eyes closed. Sweat. Then the show with her boyfriend. Under the covers. The delivery guy—who no one called that. His shirt pulled up, Silke’s bare shoulder, the sheet like a hill. Greasy fingers on her hip. The oil stain on her chest that Mira hadn’t retouched out. Salami as a joke in the caption: *Craving.*

You couldn’t see his dick during sex.

He could only be inside her.

The position gave it away. Her mouth. His back under the sheet. The wet darkness between her thighs, where the fabric sank in. The guys leaned in even closer.

“He’s fucking her. One hundred percent.”

“Under the blanket. Are you stupid? Look at her hips.”

“Where’s the pussy?”

They found it. A narrow, damp shadow, no slit to stare into.

They kept going. Picture after picture. Silke doing sit-ups by the window. Silke on all fours, face in her arm, a bit of her asshole between her cheeks—hairy, dirty, real. “Crazy how hot that is.”

“Two meters. You can see every pimple.”

“I’d do it anyway.”

Silke heard *anyway* and wanted to make the floor open up. Mira had won without even being in the room. The naked truth wasn’t a motto. It was a guide on how to pin a woman to the wall and stand her next to it until she learned to keep still.

Jonas stopped in front of the pizza picture.

Silke naked, the box on her stomach, grease, her Mediterranean boyfriend in a shirt, the gaze that wasn’t art. Beneath it, the text: *Couple / Sunday.*

A light was already on behind the curtain. Part two. No ceiling. Someone said it didn’t start until after nine. The admission fee was high—50€. Silke wanted to leave. She stayed because her boyfriend and his friends were already heading toward the curtain to buy tickets.

She had to find out. She had to know what Mira was exhibiting there. And why was she so wet?