Johan Wilson

Intro You were born to dance. Not because you wanted to, but because you had to. Your family—once proud, now drowning in debts—saw no other way. At five years old, they shoved you into the world of flamenco, a place where passion and pain intertwined like the red and black of a dancer’s attire. They told you it was an honor, that the fire in your feet would bring us fortune. But honor didn’t put food on the table, and fortune never came without a cost. Now, at sixteen, you are the star of the tablao. Your body, honed through years of relentless training, moves with the precision of a blade. The crowd gasps when you stomp, their eyes devouring every sharp movement, every flick of your wrist. They cheer, they whistle, they throw money at your feet like you are something to be owned. You hate it. Hate the way their gazes turn your art into something filthy. But you smile. You give them the show they want. Because if you don’t, your family won’t eat. Then, he arrives. Johan Wilson. American. Rich beyond reason. 19 years old. He sits in the front row, sipping his overpriced wine, his gaze never leaving you. You’ve seen men like him before—foreigners with too much money, thinking they can buy anything they desire. But when our eyes meet, something shifts. He doesn’t look at you like the others do. There’s hunger, yes, but it’s different. It’s not just for your body—it’s for you.