Three weeks and god knows how many showers later, I could still smell him under my fingernails. The scent lingered like cheap cologne, musky, sour, clinging stubbornly to the grooves of my cuticles no matter how hard I scrubbed. I pressed my palms to the steamed mirror, wiping a clearing through the condensation with trembling fingers. My reflection stared back, hollow-eyed, the purple smudges beneath them darker than the bruises he’d left on my hips. Those had faded weeks ago, yellowing then vanishing like bad watercolor.

The dress was too tight. That was the point, of course, but the way the seams strained across my ribs made breathing feel optional. I tugged at the neckline, adjusting the plunge until the black lace barely contained what it was supposed to conceal. The mirror showed a woman I barely recognized, lips too red, lashes too thick, pupils dilated even under the harsh bathroom lights. My hands shook as I uncapped the perfume, spritzing it recklessly over my collarbones before catching my own gaze in the mirror.

The lipstick tube clattered against the porcelain sink, rolling in uneven circles like my own unstable orbit these past weeks. I stared at my reflection, the woman who’d let a stranger fuck her raw against a taxi hood, and wondered why every man since had left me cold. Three one-night stands. Three disappointments. None of them had pinned me down with the same bruising desperation, none had made me feel like my body was something to be devoured rather than politely sampled.

The phone buzzed against the bathroom counter like a trapped insect, rattling the lipstick tube I’d just set down. A text notification glowed against the black screen, unknown number. My fingers hesitated, still damp from perfume, before swiping it open.

The lipstick left a smeared half-circle on the sink where my fingers trembled against porcelain. The text pulsed behind my eyelids when I blinked, “taxi has arrived” three words rewiring my nervous system like live wires dipped in gasoline. My reflection’s pupils dilated further, swallowing the hazel until only black remained.

The front door clicked shut behind me with the quiet finality of a coffin lid. The taxi idled at the curb, exhaust curling lazily in the humid air, its windows tinted dark enough to swallow the streetlights whole. My heels sank into the soft grass as I crossed the road, each step slower than the last, my pulse hammering in my throat loud enough that I could hear it over the engine’s growl. The backseat loomed like a predator’s mouth.

The door handle was cold under my fingertips, damp from the night air. It stuck slightly, rusted, maybe, before yielding with a groan that sounded too loud in the quiet street. The interior smelled like stale cigarettes and vinyl cleaner, but underneath it, something darker. Musk. Sweat. Him. My throat tightened.

The dome light flickered as I slid inside, casting uneven shadows across the cracked leather seats. Then it died, plunging me into near-darkness. Only the glow of the dashboard remained, painting his profile in sickly green. I knew the slope of his nose before he turned. Knew the way his stubble caught the light. My breath hitched.

“You wanting another free ride?” His voice was low, roughened by cigarettes and something darker, his fingers drumming against the steering wheel in a slow, uneven rhythm. The cab idled at the curb, engine growling like a hungry animal. The question hung between us, heavy with implication, the words curling around the stale air thick with the scent of old leather and something muskier underneath.

I hesitated, my fingers gripping the edge of the seat, the vinyl cool against my bare thighs. My dress, black, tighter than last time, rode up as I shifted, the hem catching on the worn upholstery. “Not free,” I murmured, my voice steadier than I felt. The lie tasted bitter on my tongue. We both knew what was going to happen. What I’d been thinking about for weeks.

He chuckled, a low, grating sound that sent heat pooling low in my stomach. His gaze flicked to the rearview mirror, catching mine in the reflection. “Bullshit,” he said, blunt as a hammer to glass. His fingers tightened around the wheel, knuckles whitening. “You been thinking about this, haven’t you?”

I didn’t answer. My pulse thudded in my throat, loud enough I was sure he could hear it over the engine. The streetlight outside flickered, casting jagged shadows across his profile, the sharp angle of his jaw, the stubble dark against his skin. My breath hitched.

“Want to go back to mine?” he asked, his voice scraping against the silence like a knife dragged across asphalt. The question wasn’t gentle, it wasn’t supposed to be, but it wasn’t quite a demand either. Something in the way his fingers flexed around the steering wheel betrayed hesitation, like he already knew my answer but needed to hear it anyway.

I swallowed, my throat dry despite the humidity clinging to the cab’s interior. My fingers dug into the cracked vinyl seat, the material yielding under my nails like skin. “You have a place?” The words came out hushed, edged with disbelief. He’d seemed like a creature of alleyways and backseats, something feral that only existed in the dark spaces between streetlights.

His knuckles whitened around the steering wheel. “Everybody’s got somewhere to go.” The cab lurched forward with a groan, tyres scraping against the curb as he pulled away. The sudden motion threw me sideways, my shoulder slamming into the door panel hard enough to bruise. He didn’t apologize, just adjusted the rearview mirror with a sharp jerk until our eyes met in the glass again. His were black in the dim light, no pupils, no whites, just voids reflecting the occasional flicker of passing streetlights.

My phone weighed heavy in my hand, the screen glowing accusingly in the dim backseat. The taxi jolted over a pothole, making my thumbs slip across the keyboard. Three failed attempts to type a coherent lie before I settled on: *Food poisoning. Have a good night.*

The replies came instantly, Jess with concern, Tara with skepticism, Mia with a winking emoji that saw too much. I silenced the notifications, watching his shoulders tense in the front seat as my phone chimed three more times. He adjusted the rearview mirror with a sharp twist, catching my gaze in the glass. “Boyfriend?” The word sounded like a challenge.

His question hung in the air like exhaust fumes, thick, acrid, impossible to ignore. I watched his reflection in the rearview mirror, the way his jaw flexed when I didn’t answer immediately. My phone screen dimmed, then went black in my lap. “No,” I said finally, too quiet. Then louder: “No boyfriend.”

The taxi crawled through a maze of narrow streets, past boarded-up storefronts and crumbling apartment buildings. He drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting casually on the gearshift like he knew these roads by touch. My fingers dug into the cracked vinyl seat as we took a sharp turn down an alley barely wider than the taxi itself. Graffiti-streaked walls scraped against the passenger side mirror, the screech of metal on brick setting my teeth on edge.

“Guys I live with should be out working now,” he muttered, flicking the indicator with more force than necessary as we turned onto a desolate side street. The tyres crunched over broken glass littering the pavement. “We’ll have the place to ourselves.” The words hung between us, not quite a reassurance, not quite a warning, as he killed the engine outside a red-brick tenement that looked like it had been condemned before I was born.

The taxi door groaned like an old man getting out of bed as I pushed it open, the humid night air hitting me like a wet rag. My dress, already too tight, already too short, felt absurdly thin under the flickering streetlight, the fabric clinging to sweat-damp skin as I took in the cracked sidewalk and boarded-up storefronts. Fast food chicken joints littered the street. My heels sank into something soft and unidentifiable as I stepped out, the mud pulling at the soles with each unsteady step.

The front door stuck halfway open, swollen from humidity, and he had to shoulder it hard to make the frame groan in surrender. The smell hit me first, sour beer, fried food, and something metallic underneath. The TV blared from the living room, Eastenders, people shouting at each other in the pub, the flickering blue light painting the peeling wallpaper in erratic strokes.

“Oi,” a voice slurred from the couch, a lump under a stained duvet that shifted just enough to reveal a bleary face half-buried in the cushions. His housemate, presumably. One bloodshot eye blinked at me before rolling toward the driver. “Thought you were working.”

“Something better came up,” the driver growled, not bothering to look at his housemate as he grabbed my wrist and pulled me past the couch. His grip was tight enough to leave marks, I could already feel the heat of fresh bruises forming under his fingers. The lump on the couch snorted, muttered something about “taxi sluts,” then rolled over with a wet cough as we passed.

“Let me know when I can have a go,” the lump on the couch slurred, lifting his head just enough to leer at me with yellowed teeth.