I met a familiar face while working bottle service at the VIP lounge. She was lavish with her tips and didn’t demand much from me—she just asked that I sit beside her, sliding a thick stack of hundred-dollar bills across the marble table. “You look about the same age as my son,” she said, her voice soft against the low rumble of bass from the main floor. “You’re already out here making an honest living. Not like him. He still clings to me like a child.” She paused, her gaze drifting toward the ice bucket. “I lost a child years ago. I like to think that whenever I do something good for someone your age, maybe the universe will pass that kindness along to him.” Before I could answer, the heavy mahogany door was kicked open. A young man, dripping in head-to-toe designer clothes, stormed into the room. Without a word, he swung his arm and planted a sharp slap right across my face. “You little leech,” he snarled, his breath hot against my burning cheek. “Trying to slide your way into my mother’s pocket?” The woman sighed, her expression a mix of helplessness and quiet apology. “Brody, stop talking nonsense,” she said softly, before turning to me. “I’m so sorry. I’ve spoiled him rotten.” While she returned to her business conversation, her son leaned back against the plush velvet sofa, crossing his arms and picking me apart with a toxic, sneering arrogance. “I’ve seen trash like you a thousand times,” he sneered, leaning in close so only I could hear. “Thinking you can claw your way to the top. Look in the mirror. You’re nothing.” I knelt on the plush carpet at his feet, my right hand clenching into a tight, white-knuckled fist. “Just get through tonight,” I told myself. “Just tonight.” If I could make it through this shift, I’d finally have enough saved for a bus ticket south to meet the contact who claimed to know where my birth mother was. But then Brody found another excuse to strike me, his palm cracking against my temple. Stumbling slightly, I looked past him toward the woman—watching her shake her head with that familiar, indulgent tolerance—and a bitter laugh caught in my throat. “Mom… do you really not recognize me?” … The private room was thick with a haze of expensive cigar smoke and perfumed air. A cluster of polished, impeccably dressed women were gathered around the velvet sectional, discussing real estate and investment portfolios. I stepped forward to top off a glass of cabernet for the woman at the center of the table. She gently waved her hand, stopping me. “That’s enough, sweetheart. Sit down.” I hesitated, pulling at the stiff collar of my sheer shirt, before awkwardly perching on the edge of the sofa beside her. “Is this work hard on you?” she asked. “It’s… it’s fine, ma’am.” She looked up from her tablet, her eyes sweeping over my exhausted face. Reaching into her handbag, she pulled out an envelope of cash and slid it toward me. “Take it. You don’t have to pour drinks. Just stay and talk to me for a bit.” The ambient chatter in the room lulled, leaving only the faint, melancholy melody of the background track floating through the speakers. “I’ve been searching for my missing son for twenty years,” she said, her voice dropping into a quiet, reflective tone. “Whenever I see young men your age, I can’t help but wonder. I just hope that if I put enough good out into the world, it might somehow find its way to him.” Across from us, my coworker Cooper leaned over, his eyes wide. “That’s crazy, Mrs. Barrett. Our guy here has been looking for his mom, too. He was taken when he was just a little kid—never managed to track his family down.” Cooper smiled warmly. “Kind of feels like fate, meeting here tonight.” Mrs. Barrett froze. Slowly, she raised her head and looked directly at me. It was then that I saw it—a tiny, crimson beauty mark right at the outer corner of her left eye. My breath hitched in my chest. Memory hit me like a tidal wave. I was three years old again, lifted high in my mother’s arms on a crowded, sunlit street, looking down at the sea of faces around us. I remembered leaning my head against her shoulder, looking up to see that exact red mark near her eye and the soft, radiant smile on her face. And then, the memory snapped to black—a rough cloth shoved over my head, cold arms tearing me away, and the terrifying dark that followed. For twenty years, I had never seen anyone with that specific red mark. “Young man,” she said, her voice snapping me back to the dim lounge. “Are you really looking for your family, too?” My throat closed up. I gripped the fabric of my trousers so hard my fingernails bit into my palms. “Yes,” I wanted to scream. “I’ve been looking for you, Mom.” But as my eyes caught my reflection in the dark glass table—wearing a fitted, semi-sheer mesh shirt designed to draw eyes and tips in a venue like this—the words died on my tongue. If she really was my mother… what would she think seeing me like this? A boy selling smiles and presence in a high-end lounge? “Are you…” I rasped, my voice trembling. “Are you—” Before I could finish, the heavy door slammed open. “Mom!” A young man strutted in, draped in an oversized designer jacket and layered gold chains. His gaze landed on me, his pupils contracting for a fraction of a second before twisting into pure, unadulterated disgust. He crossed the room in three sharp strides and delivered a heavy backhand across my cheek. “You cheap little leech,” he snarled. “Slithering your way up to my mother?” The room went dead silent. I cupped my stinging face, a familiar, toxic hum of degradation surging through my veins. Mrs. Barrett pinched the bridge of her nose, letting out a weary sigh. “Brody, stop talking nonsense.” Brody sneered, flopping down heavily on the couch right beside her. He dragged his eyes over me from head to toe, his lip curling. “What kind of trashy clothes are those? Made up like some boy toy. You actually sell yourself for a living?” I kept my mouth shut, squeezing my hands into tight fists. The fragile thread of hope inside my chest snapped cleanly in two. She already had a son. A son who called her Mom, who sat beside her with complete entitlement. She couldn’t be mine. “What are you staring at?” Brody spat. “Crack.” Another slap landed, harder than the first, ringing through the quiet room. My head snapped to the side, my breath catching in my throat. I pressed my hand against my throbbing cheek, keeping my face turned away. “Endure it,” I told myself. “Just endure it for a few more hours.” If I could just finish this shift and collect my pay, I’d have enough for a bus ticket down south to meet the investigator who claimed to have a lead on my mother’s maiden name. That would bring me one step closer. In the next second, Mrs. Barrett stood up. I held my breath, a foolish, quiet part of me expecting her to step between us, to tell him it was wrong. “Brody, sweetheart, did you hurt your hand?” Instead, she bypassed me entirely, taking Brody’s wrist and inspecting his knuckles with maternal devotion. “Why do you always hit things so hard? Don’t come crying to me later when your fingers are sore.” Only after she satisfied herself that his hand was uninjured did she turn her cool, polite gaze back to me. “I’m sorry about him,” she said with a faint, apologetic smile. “I adopted Brody when he was young, and I’m afraid I’ve spoiled him terribly. I suppose… I always hoped that if someone else had taken in my lost boy, they’d pamper him like a prince, too.” Brody pouted, though the bitter jealousy in his eyes flared bright as he glared at me. One of the other women at the table chimed in, trying to smooth over the tension. “It’s true, you know. Catherine built her entire company while searching for her boy.” “Every time she drinks a little too much, she cries about her late husband and her son,” another added gently. “She always says she was so young and clumsy back then. Didn’t even know how to heat up milk properly—accidentally spilled boiling water on her baby’s right arm and left a terrible scar.” My heart slammed against my ribs. My hand moved involuntarily, clutching at my right upper arm. Beneath the sleeve of my shirt sat a long, jagged, pale line of scar tissue. My pulse raced, a deafening roar filling my ears. The truth was screaming right in front of me. Brody seemed to sense the shift in the room. He quickly wrapped his arms around Catherine’s waist, burying his face against her side and whining softly. “Alright, alright,” Catherine said, her voice softening as she used her pinky finger to lightly flick the tip of Brody’s nose. “Let’s not talk about sad things in front of Brody.” “Mom…” The unspoken word screamed inside my chest. Memories I thought had been erased by time came rushing back in blinding clarity. Before I was taken, I hadn’t understood much. But I remembered that tiny red mark. And I remembered “that gesture”. Whenever I was stubborn as a toddler, my mother would hook her pinky with mine, then gently flick my nose with her pinky finger, laughing softly: “I really don’t know what to do with you, sweet pea. Want Mom to get you some candy?” She hadn’t forgotten. She had just given all those tiny, intimate habits to another boy. “Mom, I’m starving,” Brody whined, rubbing his stomach. Cooper quickly stepped forward, offering a laminated VIP menu. Brody flipped through it dismissively before pointing at a dish. “Bring two bowls of scallion oil noodles. Extra green onions.” I looked over at Catherine. She was staring down at her phone, indifferent. My mind spun backward into the haze of early childhood. In our old house, green onions were never bought. Every time our neighbor cooked for us, my mother would repeat the same gentle warning: “Please remember, no scallions or chives. My son and I are deathly allergic.” Before I could process the thought, Brody grabbed a pair of serving chopsticks, lifted a cluster of steaming, onion-draped noodles, and reached toward Catherine’s mouth. “Mom, try some. Say ah—” “She’s allergic to scallions!” The words tore out of my throat before I could stop them. The entire VIP room went dead silent. The steam rose lazily from the noodles. Brody’s chopsticks hovered in midair, frozen. Catherine slowly lowered her phone. She raised her head, her eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that made the air feel thin. “How do you know I don’t eat scallions?” she asked. There was a faint, almost imperceptible tremor in her voice—a sliver of raw, fragile hope. My heart hammered against my sternum. A voice inside me screamed: “Tell her. Tell her right now. Ask for a DNA test. Tell her who you are.” I took a deep breath, throwing my shoulders back, preparing to speak the words I had carried for twenty years. “Smack.” Brody’s hand flew across my face again, sending me staggering sideways. “You dirty little stalker!” Brody barked, a harsh, mocking laugh bursting from his chest. “You really did your homework, didn’t you? Researched that my mom doesn’t eat scallions just so you could pull this dramatic little rescue scene? God, that is so cheap.” “No—no, that’s not it—” I shook my head frantically, tasting iron in my mouth. “I didn’t research anything. I just wanted to ask if Mrs. Barrett might be my—” “My mother.” The words never made it out. A heavy sigh cut through the room. It was a sound steeped in deep, soul-crushing disappointment. “Young man,” Catherine said quietly. I lifted my head slowly. She wasn’t looking at me anymore. Her eyes were fixed on Brody, but her tone carried a tragic, weary judgment. “Trying to take shortcuts in life… it’s just wrong.” A deafening ring buzzed in my ears. She turned to the women at her table, her voice thick with melancholy. “Can you imagine? If my own son had grown up and turned into someone like this… I wouldn’t even know how to live with myself.” The women murmured in sympathetic agreement, casting pitying, uncomfortable glances in my direction. In that single moment, I didn’t know whether to scream or drown in my own shame. Part of me wanted to strip away whatever dignity I had left, to throw myself at her feet and detail every single day of the last twenty years. To tell her how I was sold three times after being snatched at three years old. How I ended up in an off-grid mountain town deep in the backcountry, where there were no roads, no cell signals, and the only way out was through people who owned you. Where my only perceived value was as extra labor until I was old enough to work the fields. To tell her how, when I finally escaped, people offered me “easy” ways out. Men who offered to take care of me if I compromised myself. People who threw stacks of cash in my face to do dangerous, dirty work. I never took the easy way out. On the coldest winter nights, lying on a thin cot in a drafty aluminum shed, the only thing that kept me breathing was the faint memory of a red mark near my mother’s eye. I worked double shifts at convenience stores, washed dishes until my hands bled, worked construction sites until my back bruised—all to save enough money to keep searching for her. I never took a shortcut. Not once. I only came into this VIP room, wearing this degrading, sheer shirt, because someone told me a woman matching her description frequented this club. I wasn’t looking for a payday. I was just looking for my mom. I swallowed down the lump in my throat, opening my clenched fists. “I understand,” I said. My voice was eerily calm, stripped of all emotion. “If you don’t need anything else, I’ll take my leave.” “Sorry for bothering you.” I brushed my hair back from my forehead and turned to walk out. As I turned, the sharp edge of a side table caught the fabric of my sleeve, ripping the sheer material wide open. Catherine’s eyes caught the pale, jagged line of scar tissue running down my bare right upper arm. Her pupils shrank. “Stop right there!” It wasn’t Catherine who spoke. It was Brody. He stepped into my path, his eyes gleaming with malicious delight, like a cat cornering a half-dead mouse. “I’m not finished talking to you. Who said you could leave?” I turned back slowly, meeting his mocking stare. I didn’t resist. I knew that no matter what I said, he would just find another reason to put his hands on me. The women at the couch resumed their low chatter, ignoring the drama at the door. Only Brody kept his eyes locked on me. “I hear guys like you will do literally anything when you’re desperate for cash,” Brody said, reaching into his leather clutch and pulling out a thick band of hundred-dollar bills. He laid it casually on the edge of the table. “Kneel down and bow to me, and this is yours.” I felt a few eyes glance over at us, then quickly look away. “What, still holding out?” Brody smirked, his tone dripping with disdain. “You’re a bottle-service boy. You’ve probably knelt a hundred times for tips. Stop acting like you’re above it.” I stood frozen. Suddenly, a hard boot struck the back of my knee from behind. My legs gave out, and I hit the floor with a heavy “thump”. I bit my lip so hard I tasted copper, refusing to make a sound. Brody let out a soft laugh. He picked up the stack of bills, held it high above my head, and let his fingers fan out. The bills fluttered down through the air, scattering around me like fallen leaves. A few brushed against the back of my hand. One landed right in front of my face—weightless, cheap, and disposable. Just like my life had been. “Now that’s more like it,” Brody purred. “You look much better on your knees.” “Trash like you belongs on the floor, serving people like me. You thought you could seduce my mom? Maybe in your next life, if you’re lucky enough to be born human.” “Brody!” Catherine’s voice cut through the air, sharp and commanding. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw her approach. She crouched down, her silk skirt rustling softly, and picked up the scattered bills one by one. She squared the stack neatly and placed it inside a clean white envelope. “Get up, young man,” she said softly. Her tone carried an unbearable, distant pity. I raised my head slowly, meeting her eyes. We were so close I could see the tiny red beauty mark near her eye. I could see the fine silver threads hiding in her hair at her temples. She slid the envelope toward me. “There’s ten thousand dollars in here,” Catherine said. “It’s not charity. Consider it… an apology for my son’s behavior tonight.” She paused, her voice dropping lower. “Take it and find something respectable to do. You’re still young. Don’t throw your life away like this.” I swallowed hard, my vocal cords straining to produce a sound. Her eyes drifted down to the scar on my right arm, and she let out a long, heavy sigh. “You really did your homework. You even knew my son has a scar on his arm. But… I’ve met too many people trying to scam me over the years. I just can’t bring myself to believe anymore.” She stood up, turning to leave with Brody. Noticing the dark look still lingering in Brody’s eyes, one of the lounge managers quickly stepped in, pressing a heavy hand onto the back of my neck and shoving my face down against the floorboards. “Well? Don’t just sit there! Bow to Mrs. Barrett and Master Brody and thank them for their generosity!” My forehead was slammed against the wooden floor, once, twice, until dark red smeared across my field of vision. Through the blur of pain, I watched her figure recede toward the door. Once she crossed that threshold, she would disappear back into the vast, indifferent city—a stranger who had nothing to do with me. For the rest of my life, my mother would just be someone else’s mom. In my lightheaded haze, a melody began to hum in the back of my throat. It was a little song my mother had made up when I was small. She used to whisper that it was our secret—that only the two of us in the whole wide world knew it. For twenty years, I hadn’t dared to forget a single note. I was terrified that if I forgot it, she would never be able to find her way back to me. “Fly, firefly, fly… drifting through the dark sky… Who are you missing, who makes you cry…” Just as she reached the doorway, Catherine stopped dead in her tracks. She turned back, her face pale, her eyes wide with shock as she stared at me on the floor. “How… how do you know that song?”
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