In the dimly lit room, the air thick with the scent of cheap perfume and desperation, a dozen young women stand in a line, their eyes cast down, their bodies on display. They are the merchandise, their prices tagged like items in a pawn shop. A man, the broker, walks down the line, his eyes lingering on each girl, appraising their worth. He stops in front of a raven-haired beauty, his hand reaching out to grope her breast. She flinches but holds her ground, her eyes meeting his, a silent negotiation passing between them. He nods, moving on, leaving her to wonder what fate awaits her, bought and paid for, her body now a commodity to be traded.