Aanya glanced at her phone screen, her stomach twisting into knots.

-₹8,75,000

The number stared back at her, bold and unforgiving. She exhaled slowly, pressing her fingers to her temples. Two years. Two years of brutal shifts, endless overtime, and nights spent curled up in the storage room-yet the debt never seemed to shrink.

Her salary barely covered rent, groceries, and travel. Savings? Non-existent. Every rupee was stretched thin between paying off her student loan and surviving in a city that never slowed down.

A notification popped up.

"Your electricity bill is due tomorrow: ₹3,820."

She locked her phone and shoved it into her pocket, a dull headache forming behind her eyes. She had ₹2,700 left in her account. Not enough. Again.

"Aanya!" The sharp voice of the head nurse cut through her thoughts. "Stop daydreaming and get to the ICU. Dr. Veer is waiting!"

Her stomach clenched. Just what she needed-another round with Dr. Veer Rathore, the hospital's most brilliant yet terrifying surgeon.

She tightened her ponytail, squared her shoulders, and walked briskly through the hospital corridors, past the beeping machines and the faint scent of antiseptic. Another shift, another long night.

And still, not enough.

Aanya had always wanted to be a nurse. Ever since she was a child, she had imagined herself in crisp white scrubs, tending to patients with a warm smile, making a difference in people's lives. She had worked hard-burning through sleepless nights, juggling part-time jobs, and pushing through exhaustion-just to earn her degree.

But this wasn't the life she had dreamed of.

Living in Mumbai, the city of dreams, felt more like a nightmare when you were struggling to survive. She rented a tiny 1RK apartment in a crowded chawl-a single room that served as her bedroom, kitchen, and living space all in one. The walls were damp, the ceiling fan rattled dangerously every time it spun, and the neighbors fought so loudly that it felt like she lived in the middle of their arguments.

Her salary barely kept her afloat. ₹35,000 a month. That was all she earned after taxes and deductions. It disappeared as fast as it came in.

₹12,000 for rent.

₹3,000 for electricity, water, and WiFi.

₹4,000 for groceries-bare minimum, mostly daal, rice, and Maggi.

₹2,000 for travel-local trains, auto fares, and the occasional cab when exhaustion won.

₹10,000 for her student loan.

₹4,000 for random expenses-medicines, toiletries, emergencies.

At the end of the month, she had nothing left. Some months, she even borrowed money just to get through.

And for what?

For 14-hour shifts that drained the life out of her. For running around a chaotic hospital, being yelled at by doctors, dealing with impatient families, and comforting dying patients. For skipping meals, collapsing on empty hospital beds during breaks, and crying in bathroom stalls when everything became too much.

This was not the life she had imagined.

She wanted to help people, but she had never signed up to struggle like this.

Aanya had thought that once she got her degree, once she got a job, things would get easier. But Mumbai didn't care. The city chewed people up and spat them out, and right now, it was swallowing her whole.

She sighed, rubbing her tired eyes as she walked down the cold hospital corridor.

"Nurse Aanya."

She looked up to see Dr. Veer standing near the reception, holding out a file. He didn't look up from the patient's chart as he spoke. "Check the vitals for Room 203 before the next round. The patient had a drop in BP last night."

Aanya took the file and nodded. "I'll do it now."

Veer didn't say anything else. He had already turned back toward the doctors' lounge, completely uninterested in anything beyond his instructions.

With a sigh, Aanya rolled her stiff shoulders and got back to work.

She wasn't living-just surviving.

And surviving wasn't enough.

By the time her shift ended, it was past midnight. Her body ached from standing all day, her head pounded from exhaustion, and she was starving. The hospital canteen had closed hours ago, not that she could afford a meal there anyway.

She had exactly ₹70 in her wallet. Enough for a cutting chai and a plate of Maggi from the roadside stall across the hospital.

Tugging her dupatta over her shoulders, she walked toward the stall, where a few auto drivers and late-night workers stood, chatting lazily. The air was thick with the smell of butter, spices, and cigarette smoke.

"Bhaiya, ek cutting chai aur ek Maggi dena," she ordered, settling on a rickety plastic stool. (one tea and one plate maggi)

She sighed as she pulled out her phone, scrolling through notifications. A rent reminder. An electricity bill due. Her bank balance dangerously close to zero.

She locked her phone and exhaled slowly, feeling the weight of the day press down harder.

That's when she overheard them.

Two men sat at the next table, speaking in hushed but excited voices.

"Bro, last night was insane," one of them said, taking a drag from his cigarette. "She was young. Soft skin, gorgeous lips, big tits... the kind of girl you don't forget."

His friend chuckled. "Expensive?"

"Yeah, but worth it. I paid ₹10,000 for her."

Aanya stiffened, gripping her cup tighter. ₹10,000? For what?

The first man exhaled in satisfaction. "You should come one night."

Her heart thumped.

"What was the name again?"

"The Butterfly cafe. Only for high-end clients. The girls there aren't like the usual ones. Classy, beautiful, expensive." He whistled. "Once you go, you'll never want to leave."

Aanya's fingers tightened around her cup as the conversation blurred around her.

Butterfly Café.

A hidden place. A place where girls made ₹10,000 in a night.

She swallowed hard.

Her Maggi arrived, but she barely tasted it. The men had left, but their words echoed in her head long after.

That night, as she lay in her tiny rented room, staring at the ceiling fan creaking above her, she searched for it on her phone.

A single website. No pictures. No promotions. Just an address and a tagline:

"The wings may be fragile, but the nights are wild."

Aanya shut her eyes.

She wasn't that kind of girl.

But ₹10,000...

It was hard to ignore.

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