Three years ago, I became a "thirst-trap" streamer—a digital plaything for the bored and the wealthy—all for the sake of my sister’s medical bills. It all started on the day I moved into my college dorm. That night, the girl next door, the one I had loved in secret for a decade, lured me into her bed. I thought it was the start of my life; instead, it was the end of it. By the next morning, I was branded a predator. My most intimate, private photos were plastered across every billboard and social media feed in the city. The university expelled me. My reputation was incinerated. When my sister, Jane, found out, she slapped her. But she—Callista—didn’t flinch. She didn’t show a shred of remorse. "Now you know what it feels like to watch someone you love be destroyed, don't you, Jane?" Callista had said, her voice like ice. "Your debt will be paid by your brother." She walked away without looking back, leaving my sister coughing up blood in a fit of rage and leaving me with a heart that had finally stopped beating while I was still alive. I never thought I’d see her again. But today, three years later, her name flickered across my screen in the middle of a live stream. … The viewer count hit 2,337. The chat was a blurred frenzy of emojis and demands. I adjusted my camera, pulling my waistband down just low enough to tease the edge of my pelvic bone, and began to move rhythmically, mechanically. I was a puppet, and the internet held the strings. “This guy is the hardest working thirst-trapper on the app. Ten hours a day, easy.” “He looks young. Is he a college kid?” “College? You’re new here. This kid’s been doing this for three years. He’s a pro.” I ignored the lurkers who just wanted a free show and kept my eyes on the gift notifications in the corner. C. Free sent a Porsche x1. A new account. Not a regular. The name sent a phantom shiver down my spine for a split second, but the sight of the Porsche—a five-hundred-dollar tip—snapped me back to reality. It wasn’t a fortune, but it wasn't pocket change for a first-timer either. This was someone with deep pockets. I leaned into the camera, softening my gaze, letting my voice drop into that breathless, intimate register that drove the tips higher. “Thank you for the Porsche, C. Free. What would you like to see me do, sweetheart?” [Take off the shirt.] The command was blunt. I flashed a practiced, dimpled smile and began unbuttoning my dress shirt. I let it snag on my shoulders before letting it slide down, revealing the sheer, black mesh tank top underneath. Every muscle was highlighted by the ring light. “Is that better, darling?” The chat exploded. C. Free sent a Private Jet. One thousand dollars. [The mesh, too. Take it off.] Direct. Cold. I laughed, hooking my fingers into the delicate black fabric and, with a sudden, violent tug, I ripped it down the center. The fabric gave way, exposing my chest and abs, pale and defined like marble. The comment section turned into a cesspool of filth. The viewer count surged past three thousand. C. Free sent a Golden Cathedral. Five thousand dollars. The most expensive gift on the platform. [Pants. Underwear. Everything. Take it off.] I froze for two seconds. The screen was a chaotic mess of text. “Is he chickening out? Don't take the money and run!” “He’s done it before. He’s got a reputation for following through.” Six thousand five hundred dollars total. The platform would take half, leaving me with over three grand. That was two weeks of Jane’s medication. I forced the smile back onto my face. I reached for my belt, my fingers grazing the denim as I unzipped it. I slid my hands under the waistband of my boxers— [Wait.] My hands stopped. C. Free: You really will do anything, won’t you? C. Free: Remy, how did you become so pathetic? So cheap? Before I could breathe, the account logged off. It was her. Callista. I let out a dry, self-deprecating laugh. Cheap? Pathetic? I didn't know the difference anymore. When she leaked those photos three years ago, did she think I was cheap then? Or was this just her finishing what she started? As I sat there, stunned, ten Porsches flashed across the screen. My "Top Fan," a woman who went by Lonesome Bloom, had entered the chat. “So your name is Remy. What a beautiful name.” “Are you short on cash lately, Remy?” “I’m at a private party tonight. Come keep me company. Usual rates apply.” A private booking. Offline work. It was a routine I knew by heart. After three years in this gutter, there wasn't a line I hadn't crossed. These "parties" were usually just a polite way of saying I was being hired as a high-end escort or a trophy for these women to show off—and eventually, pass around. I put on my "innocent boy" persona, whispering into the mic, “Message me privately, Miss Bloom. You’re making me blush.” Then, amidst a chorus of mockery from the chat, I cut the feed. I tightened the black leather choker around my neck before pushing open the door to the VIP lounge. Inside, I saw Lonesome Bloom—or rather, Mrs. Gable, a woman I’d "accompanied" several times. She was currently hovering over the woman in the center of the room, pouring her a drink with an almost frantic subservience. My heart stopped for a beat. Callista. The girl who used to pinch my cheeks when we were kids was gone. In her place was a woman draped in an obsidian silk gown that probably cost more than my apartment. She didn't even look up. “Gable, where did you find this piece of fresh meat?” Mrs. Gable practically pushed me toward her. “He’s a huge streamer! Thousands of people watch him every night. It cost me a fortune just to get him here. What do you think, Callista? Is he your type?” Callista finally raised her head. Her eyes pinned me to the spot, sharp and predatory. “Oh, a big star, is he?” Her voice was dripping with sarcasm. “I’ve seen his show. You can get him to drop his pants for three thousand dollars. Hardly what I’d call high-class.” The room erupted in laughter. I kept my head down, my fists clenched so hard my nails drew blood. When did she become this person? Where was the girl who used to sneak me candy? The girl who took me to see the stars and covered my eyes with her warm palms, telling me they’d look brighter if I waited? The girl who had whispered against my lips, “Remy, we’re going to be together forever.” Why was she the one who posted my ruin on every public screen in the city the next morning? Mrs. Gable, sensing Callista’s disdain, tried to pull me away. “If she’s not interested, I’ll find someone else—” “No, let him stay,” Callista said, swirling her red wine. Her face was a mask of indifference. “I have a fiancé now. He’s handsome, cultured, and most importantly… he’s clean.” She looked at me then, and everyone in the room felt the venom. The socialites whispered. They knew Callista—the "Ice Queen of the West Coast"—had a history with this gutter-boy. I stood there, glued to Mrs. Gable’s side, drinking whatever she poured me, glass after glass of stinging gold. Finally, Callista had enough. She stood up and walked toward me. The scent of her perfume—a cold, sharp floral she never used to wear—filled my lungs. “Three years, and you don't even recognize me, Mr. King?” she asked, tilting her head. “Or have you slept with so many women you’ve lost track?” The room went silent. She reached out, her long fingers gripping my chin, forcing me to look up. “Callista, please…” I tried to pull away, but her grip tightened. “Are you really that desperate for money?” She pulled a checkbook from her clutch and slid a slip of paper into my waistband. “Is Jane dead? Is that why she lets you sell yourself like this?” The paper was cold against my skin. Before it could slide out, I pressed my hand over it. “Thank you for the tip, Miss Callista,” I said, flashing my most professional, charming smile. I pulled the check out, folded it slowly, and tucked it between my teeth. The atmosphere turned suffocating. Mrs. Gable was sweating; the others wouldn't even breathe. Callista’s disgust was palpable. “You’ve certainly mastered the trade,” she sneered. She sat back down in the shadows. “Since you love money so much, Mrs. Gable, why don't we give the ladies a real show?” Mrs. Gable stammered, “What do you mean?” Callista lit a thin cigarette, the flame dancing in her eyes. “Doesn't he have a price list on his stream? Tonight, the rules are the same. For every woman in this room he services, I’ll pay him ten thousand dollars.” She blew a cloud of smoke toward me. “Let’s see how much you’re really worth, Remy.” The silence broke into a ravenous frenzy. The women’s eyes roamed over me like wolves. Ten thousand. Ten thousand could buy the electric wheelchair my mother needed after my father broke her legs for trying to protect me. Ten thousand could buy Jane another year of life. I swallowed the last of my drink, my voice trembling but certain. “Ten thousand? Is that a guarantee, Miss Callista? Paid tonight?” Her hand tightened around her wine glass until I thought it would shatter. She hadn't expected me to say yes. “Tonight,” she spat. “Then I’m all yours.” I stood up and, right in front of her, I unbuckled my belt. The lights were dim. I felt the sweat-slicked hands on my shoulders, the smell of expensive gin and tobacco clogging my throat. Someone’s hand moved over my stomach. Someone else reached for my zipper. I closed my eyes and counted. Ten thousand. Twenty thousand. Callista sat there the whole time. She didn't move. She just watched the circus from the shadows, her eyes shifting from disgust to a raw, burning fury. An hour later, the room was empty. The women had left, satisfied and giggling. The floor was littered with broken glass and crumpled napkins. I was collapsed on the carpet, my clothes torn, one shoe missing. My skin was a roadmap of red marks and bite wounds. I looked like a bag of trash ready for the curb. But my hand was clamped tight around a stack of cash and checks. Callista was the only one left. She walked over to me, looking down at my broken form. “You really are a piece of work, Remy.” She raised her heel and ground it into my hand—the one trying to pull my pants back up to cover myself. “Stop pretending you have shame. You lost that a long time ago. When I posted those photos three years ago, I actually felt a flicker of guilt. I thought maybe I had gone too far.” She laughed, a harsh, jagged sound. “What a waste of regret. A pathetic, hollow thing like you doesn't deserve a second thought.” She removed her foot and tossed one final bill onto my face. “Take your blood money and get out.” The door slammed shut. I was alone. I picked up every bill, one by one. One hundred thousand dollars. I reached into my bag and pulled out a fresh black shirt—a habit I’d picked up in this line of work. I stood before the mirror, straightening my collar, hiding the marks on my neck with a scarf. I looked at the cash. One hundred thousand. It smelled like smoke and cheap perfume, but it was heavy. It was life. Thinking of the way Callista looked at me, my body began to shake. I sat on the floor and finally, I let myself scream. I cried until my throat was raw. You call me cheap, Callista. But if I weren't cheap, how would we survive? I wiped my face, stuffed the money into my bag, and walked out. The hospital always smelled like bleach and slow death. I pushed open the door to Jane’s room. She was leaning against the window, her breathing labored even without the ventilator. “Remy? You’re off work early.” Her voice was a ghost of what it used to be. I kept my head down, pouring her a glass of water. “Yeah. Slow night.” She didn't know the truth. I told her I was a "trainee" at a talent agency, that the pay was high because I was a "rising star." She took the glass, her hands shaking so violently she could barely hold it. The woman who was once a piano prodigy couldn't even hold a cup of water. Her hands had started shaking the day my photos were leaked. The stress, the shame, the rage—it had triggered a chronic heart condition. Our savings vanished into the ICU. My father, a gambling addict, blamed me for losing our meal ticket. “You little freak! Your filth is all over the city and you have the nerve to show your face?” He had swung a lead pipe at me. My mother had thrown herself over my body. One crack, and her leg was gone forever. He ran away, leaving me with a paralyzed mother and a dying sister. The sound of a glass shattering broke my reverie. Jane had dropped the cup. It hit the floor along with a framed photo she kept by her bed. I picked it up. The glass was cracked, but the boy’s smile was still bright. Jane scrambled to pick it up, her fingers bleeding from the shards. She clutched it to her chest. The boy in the photo was Caspian—Callista’s younger brother. He was Jane’s first love. Her "White Moonlight." The boy who stayed in the light while we fell into the dark. Jane grabbed my head and began to sob. “Remy… it’s all my fault. I couldn't protect Caspian, and I couldn't protect you!” Her tears were scalding against my neck. I held her, feeling my heart being flayed inch by inch. “It’s okay, Jane. It’s over. I’m fine. Look at me—I have a great job. Everyone loves me. I’m going to be a star.” She wiped her eyes, her face softening. She stroked my forehead. “I was so scared I was dragging you down. But if you’re happy, Remy… then I can rest.” I gave her my best "rising star" smile. “I love my work, Jane.” At that moment, the door burst open. “Is the money you made at the party not enough, Remy?” Callista’s voice cut through the room like a blade. “Are you trying to pick up clients in a hospital now, too?”
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