In the harsh light of the motel room, the model scout's eyes rake over the skinny model's body, assessing her worth like a piece of meat. The air is thick with the scent of desperation and the faint, lingering aroma of cheap whiskey. "You're green, but you've got potential," he says, his voice a low, gravelly growl. He counts out the cash, each note a step closer to her surrender. She watches, her breath hitching, as he tucks the money into her trembling hand, a silent contract sealed with the promise of a pound of flesh.