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She flipped the jackknife open. The blade caught the city light—a sliver of cold truth. She’d made a living showing her body, but never her power. Men paid to see her pretend to surrender. But surrender was the one thing Jasmine Sherni had never learned.

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It was her grandfather’s. A bone-handled jackknife, worn smooth by decades of calloused palms. He’d given it to her the day she left their small Arizona town. "For the roads that get narrow," he’d said. "And the men who try to make you smaller." She flipped the jackknife open

Jasmine Sherni closed the jackknife, slid it under her pillow, and for the first time in months, slept without dreaming of running. Men paid to see her pretend to surrender