She doesn't know.

The air inside the booth was static, heavy with the dust of decades and the metallic scent of Jessica’s fear. Her eyes, already accustomed to scrutinizing every detail for traps or instructions, soon fixed on a dark bundle hanging from a rusty hook on the back wall, almost hidden behind the shadow cast by the phone itself.

It hadn't been there before. It couldn't have been.

It was a cape. Or something like it. Short—it would barely reach her waist if she put it on—but wide, with a lot of flare. When she touched it, the material turned out to be black gauze, incredibly fine, as transparent as her fishnets but with a faint, silky sheen. It wasn't meant for warmth. Not even for cover. It was meant to shroud, to create an aura of mystery that, in reality, would only blur the edges of her nakedness without hiding it.

Without a second thought, driven by a deep-seated instinct to seek any glimmer of protection—however illusory—Jessica put it on. The gauze was as light as smoke. She draped it over her shoulders, letting it fall over her arms and back. The black silk scarf, more opaque, still covered her chest underneath, creating an absurd overlap of layers that only served to make her look even more dressed for a ritual and, at the same time, more exposed through the contrast of textures.

She looked at herself in the distorted reflection of the grimy glass. The image was spectral. The mask, the scarf, the black gauze floating around her, and beneath it all, the glints of metal, the silver patches, pale skin, and mesh. She looked like the protagonist of a gothic nightmare.

At that moment, the phone rang.

The ring was strident, metallic, tearing through the oppressive silence of the booth. Jessica jumped, her heart leaping into her chest. She stared at the receiver as if it were a snake. With a trembling hand, she picked it up and brought it to her ear.

“Hello?” her voice sounded small and broken.

On the other end, there was no silence. There was steady breathing, and then a voice. It was a woman. Older, educated, with a warm but impeccably neutral tone, like that of a news anchor or a high-level secretary.

“Jessica,” the voice said knowingly. It wasn't a question. “Are you ready?”

The direct question caught her off guard. Ready? For what? Doubts—the presentation? the first one?—swirled in her mind. She hesitated. The silence stretched for a couple of seconds, but the presence on the other end of the line was patient, expectant.

“Yes,” she finally managed to say, squeezing her eyes shut. It was the only possible answer. She had said she was ready in the message. She had done everything they asked. What else could she be but “ready”?

“Good,” the voice replied, and Jessica thought she detected a slight hint of satisfaction. “Since you were the first to arrive at your contact point, you will have a privilege. The gauze cape you found is for your presentation. Keep it. Use it when instructed.”

First to arrive. Your contact point. The words echoed, strange and full of implications.

“Wait—” Jessica began, but the voice interrupted her gently.

“Full instructions will arrive soon. Wait.” And the line went dead with a soft click.

Jessica stood with the dead receiver in her hand, her head spinning. First? Did that mean there were… others? Others like her? Others carrying out their own tests, their own humiliations, racing toward their own phone booths?

The idea was both terrifying and, strangely, a minimal relief. She wasn't alone in this madness. But it also meant the game was larger, more organized, than she had ever imagined.

Her doubts dissipated abruptly, transformed into icy certainty, when she looked up and saw through the dirty glass of the booth.

A girl was approaching on the sidewalk.

She was about her age, perhaps a little younger. Blonde, thin, with an expression of confusion and absolute panic that felt terribly familiar. She was completely naked—no mask, no gloves, no stockings. Her body was marked only with the same silver paint patches on her nipples and sex. The design was identical. She wore nothing else. Not even heels. She walked barefoot, arms crossed over her chest, looking around like a cornered fawn.

Jessica held her breath. The girl hadn't seen her yet, focused on finding her own destination. She stopped right in front of the booth next door—there was another one, Jessica hadn't noticed—and looked inside with desperation.

At that moment, the phone inside Jessica’s booth rang again.

The sound made the girl outside whip her head around. Her eyes met Jessica’s through the double glass. In the other girl’s gaze, there was a moment of pure shock, a recognition of a fellow sufferer, and then an even deeper shame at seeing that Jessica wore “more” than she did—the mask, the scarf, the gauze, the accessories.

Paralyzed, Jessica watched as the girl entered the other booth and, with a shaking hand, picked up her own phone, which must have also been ringing.

The chapter ended with the two young women locked in their respective glass capsules, connected by a phantom telephone line to the same voice or to different ones, staring at each other through the grimy glass with a mixture of horror, shame, and a glimmer of gruesome camaraderie. Jessica clung to the folds of the black gauze—the “privilege” of the first to arrive—as she finally understood: it wasn't a unique game. It was a selection.

And her presentation—the presentation of all of them—was about to begin.