To the police station.

The inside of the patrol car smelled of cheap disinfectant and stale coffee. I was curled up on the back seat, trying in vain to cover my breasts with my arms handcuffed behind my back, while the friction of the hard, cold plastic against my completely bare skin was a constant reminder of my utter helplessness. Without a single piece of clothing to protect me, my vulnerability in this situation was absolute.

Suddenly, the silence in the cabin was broken by the sound of a voice message being recorded. Officer Ramirez held his phone close to his mouth, his eyes fixed on the rearview mirror, searching for my terrified eyes through my dirty, fogged glasses.

“Attention Guard Group,” Ramirez said, his voice dripping with malicious glee. “We’re arriving at the secondary entrance with a gift to share that we picked up on patrol. She’s a very cooperative, purple-haired ‘student’ who’s coming... ready for the exam. We’re taking her straight to the Block B cells. Anyone who wants to come welcome her, you know where to find us.”

A cold shiver of panic ran down my spine. They weren't taking me in for processing or following standard procedure; they were bringing me to a dark corner of the station where the rules of protocol didn't exist.

“Please!” I pleaded, slamming my shoulders against the polycarbonate partition separating us. “Take me to the main entrance! I want to see a lawyer! You can’t do this to me!”

The officers didn't answer. They just turned up the volume on the radio as the car pulled down a side alley by the station, finally stopping in front of a heavy, rusted metal door, far from the security cameras at the main entrance.

“Get out, doll,” Miller said, opening the back door and yanking my arm with a harshness that nearly dislocated my shoulder.

I tried to cling to the plastic seat, but his strength inevitably dragged me out onto the asphalt. The chilly morning air hit my exposed body. They forced me to walk unsteadily in my stiletto heels through a dimly lit hallway that smelled of dampness and confinement. As I crossed through the door to the secondary cells, my nightmare became reality.

Three more officers were standing there, waiting. When they saw me enter—handcuffed, my purple hair disheveled, and completely naked from head to toe—a heavy silence fell over the room, broken only by catcalls of approval that made me cringe with disgust and humiliation.

“Damn, Ramirez... you outdid yourself,” one of the new officers said, a heavily built man who didn't take his eyes off my exposed bust and pale skin. “She really looks like a present brought just for us.”

Suddenly, one of the officers leaning against the table with his phone in hand straightened up. He looked at his screen and then looked back at me, narrowing his eyes under the harsh fluorescent light overhead.

“Hold on a second...” he said, stepping toward me slowly until I could feel his breath. “I know you. You’re in the college messaging group. You’re the girl from those cheerleader photos—the one in the parking lot.”

The officer let out a dry laugh and held the screen up to his colleagues. It was the image of my previous humiliation: vulnerable and ashamed, my purple hair plastered to my face, exposed in front of the girls from my university. The rumor Clara had warned me about had spread everywhere.

“It’s her. The university’s ‘good girl,’” the officer declared with contempt. “Looks like today’s your lucky day, Lola. You’re already famous out here, too. And now that we know how much you like putting on a free show, you’re going to have to try a little harder for those of us who serve the law.”

I squeezed my eyes shut, feeling hot tears stream down my cheeks. I was in the basement of a police station, completely defenseless, exposed as an object of public mockery, and surrounded by men who had no intention of following the law.