The next morning.

The darkness pierced by an internal alarm warning you that you've now slept for the optimal length of time, you return to consciousness with a start, rolling out of the soft bed into a standing position in a supernaturally graceful movement. It takes a second for you to recover your senses and remember where you are, and the situation you're in.

You frown, and sit back down on the bed. It seems the circumstances haven't somehow changed. You're still a fugitive whose being blackmailed to work in a brothel.

One week. That's all it is. One week. Some people do this for a career. Some people even enjoy it!

It's not consolation at all. You stand up and exit the bedroom, glancing around to make sure the coast is clear, before hustling to the bathroom to wash yourself.

Half an hour later, you're back in the room, trying to decide what to wear. None of them suit you. You're much more of a ballistic coat woman. Eventually you settle on a translucent v-neck black nightgown. Its protective capabilities are negligible, and it wouldn't even stop a heated gaze let alone a rifle round, but given your options, it's the best thing available to you. At least it doesn't restrict your mobility.