She has to receive a package.

The phone lit up the gloom with a bluish hue, and the vibration resonated on the Formica counter. Jessica, numb in her lethargy of resignation, picked it up reluctantly.

"You need a rest. Stay where you are to receive your next garment."

Was it a relief? The idea of not having to move, of not having to cross another road or hide in another stream, was like a small weight lifted from her shoulders. But the word "garment" shone with an ambiguous promise. A real garment, or another "adornment" like the choker and the net? And staying here, in this abandoned station yet visible from the road, was it really a rest or a new trap of exposure?

She didn't have the strength to analyze it. She slumped into a corner relatively hidden from direct view from the window, leaning her back against the cold wall. The tiredness, accumulated from hours of tension, fear, and humiliation, overwhelmed her. For the first time since her dress had gotten caught in the elevator doors, she allowed herself to think beyond the next message.

Could she go back to school like this? Impossible. It would be the scandal of the century. Could she improvise clothes? She looked around with hopeless eyes. The old newspapers were too fragile and would attract even more attention. Plastic bags didn't exist here. Perhaps… the shower curtain from the bathroom, if there was one. She crawled to the storage room door and checked again. No curtain. Only misery and dust.

She returned to her corner, hugging her knees. The silver paint on her nipples and crotch already felt dry and tight, a false and shiny second skin. The lace gloves itched. The net of the stockings had tangled a bit. She felt like a broken mannequin abandoned on a dusty stage.

An hour passed, or perhaps more. Time had become elastic, irrelevant. The sound of traffic was a constant, alien river. Until a different sound cut through the monotony: the loud, slow squeal of air brakes, followed by the purr of a diesel engine that died right outside.

Jessica went rigid. She heard a door slam shut, and heavy footsteps approaching over the gravel. It wasn't a car. It was something bigger. A truck.

The footsteps stopped in front of the broken glass door. A large silhouette was outlined against the outside light. Then, a male voice, hoarse and practical, called out: "Hello! Service? I have a delivery!"

A delivery. The message took on a terrible and literal meaning. Her package. Her "garment."

Instinct made her shrink further into her corner, making herself as small as possible. Maybe if she didn't answer, he would go away.

"Is anyone here?" the voice insisted. The door screeched as it was pushed harder. "The order says to deliver here, at the station. Signed by…" he paused, "…'Observer'. What a weird name. Hey!"

The delivery man entered. He was a man in his forties, wearing a blue courier uniform and a cap. He carried an electronic tablet in one hand and a rectangular package, about thirty centimeters on each side, in the other. His gaze swept the abandoned premises with skepticism.

Jessica held her breath. From her angle, she could see him, but the gloom and the clutter could hide her.

"This is a joke, right?" the man muttered to himself, taking a couple of steps toward the counter. His gaze passed over the corner where she was. He stopped. He didn't see her clearly, but he must have perceived movement, a pale shape in the darkness. "Huh? Who's there?"

At that moment, Jessica's phone vibrated frantically on the floor, next to her foot. The screen briefly illuminated her ankle and the net covering it.

The delivery man started. "There you are!" His tone shifted from frustration to a brusque curiosity. "Come on, come out. I have to deliver this and get a signature. I don't have all day."

Jessica closed her eyes, a knot of terror and shame in her throat. She couldn't. She couldn't come out like this. But before she could decide, another message arrived, vibrating with a sinister urgency. She peeked at it:

"Receive it. It is part of the game. If you don't come out, the game gets harder."

A veiled, but clear threat. The "difficulty" could mean anything, but surely it wouldn't be better than this.

Trembling, her whole body shaking, she slowly stood up. She clung to the wall so as not to fall. The low afternoon light entering through the dirty windows bathed her in a golden and dusty hue, but also made her visible.

The delivery man saw her emerge from the shadows. His eyes went wide, and his jaw went slack for a moment. He scanned her figure from top to bottom: her disheveled hair, the leather choker, the black lace gloves, the silver and iridescent patches shining grotesquely on her breasts and crotch, the fishnet stockings that left everything exposed up to where they joined her naked thighs.

"Fuck…" he exhaled, more like a sigh of disbelief than a profanity. His look was a mixture of astonishment, instant lust, and deep confusion. "What… what the hell…?"

Jessica couldn't speak. She instinctively crossed her arms over her chest, but the lace gloves and the silver paint made the gesture useless and almost comical. She took a couple of hesitant steps forward, her bare feet making noise in the dust on the floor.

"I-I have to sign," she managed to stammer, her voice barely a hoarse whisper.

The delivery man blinked, as if snapping out of a trance. "Yeah… yeah, sure. The delivery." He seemed to remember his job. But he couldn't help adding, with a twisted smile and a tone that tried to be casual but oozed morbidity: "Quite an… original costume. A party… artistic or something?" His gaze slid back toward the silver patches, unable to look away.

Jessica felt each of his eyes burning her. She grabbed the tablet he offered her almost automatically. With a trembling finger, she signed an illegible scribble on the screen. Then, she held out her hands, waiting for the package.

The man handed it to her, his fingers brushing hers, covered by the black lace. "Here you go… uh, miss." He paused, looking at her again, shaking his head. "I'm… I'm going to tell the guys at the warehouse about this. No one's going to believe me." His smile was now openly lascivious. "Good luck with… whatever it is you're doing."

He turned around and left, but Jessica heard him chuckle under his breath before the door screeched behind him. She heard the truck door open and close, the engine start, and the vehicle drive away.

She remained standing in the middle of the abandoned station, hugging the package against her body, feeling the echo of the delivery man's gaze like a dirty stain on her skin. The "anecdote" he was taking with him was her humiliation, turned into a story he would likely tell in bars and warehouses, adorned with lascivious details.

The promise of a "garment" was now in her hands, wrapped in plain brown cardboard. But after this, after having been seen, evaluated, and commented on by a stranger in her most **** and adorned state, could whatever was inside make any difference?