Page 41 of Beautiful Agony

"After more pictures," Taliya continues in Tuvan. "He gave me a dress. It was..." She gestures at herself, struggling to find the words. "You could see everything through it. Like I was wearing nothing at all. I didn't want to wear it, but the way he talked to me… I was scared to say no."

"What happened next?"

"He made me sit like this," Taliya demonstrates, positioning herself with one leg tucked under her and the other folded in front. Even now, weeks later, her movements are hesitant, uncertain.

"I didn't understand," she says, her voice small. "The shoes were barely visible. When I tried to tell him this..."

Her hand rises to her cheek, fingers trembling as they trace where the photographer struck her.

"He hit me so hard I thought I would pass out."

My jaw clenches so tightly that it hurts.

I've seen this pattern too many times, heard this story again and again with every rescue—the gradual escalation from seemingly innocent modeling shots to increasingly revealing poses, followed by violence when the girls start questioning things.

The footage cuts to Demyon's voice-over, showing a webpage for Opaline and Co. of an exclusive pair of shoes named "The Darzhaa" for $150,000.

The product page is a picture of Taliya in a revealing dress, and the exact pose that she just demonstrated. Her face is turned to the side to hide the evidence of the photographer's violence and her eyes are looking down.

Just like she said, the shoes are barely visible.

I watch as Taliya wring her hands, knuckles white with tension, as she continues her story.

"After that last photo..." She pauses, swallowing hard. "Three men came in." Her voice cracks. "They grabbed me and pulled me up."

Through Demyon's translation, I hear how she tried to fight back. My grip tightens on Lacey's hand as Taliya describes the beating that followed—brutal, methodical strikes meant to subdue without leaving visible marks.

Lest Kirsan ruin his merchandise.

"One of them..." She touches her throat. "He had a knife. He pressed it here."

Beside me, Lacey's breath catches. I feel her trembling.

"They told me I had two choices." Her voice grows smaller with each word. "Do what they tell me to, or they'll kill me."

Through tears, she describes being dragged to the docks where the container looming before her like a metal coffin. "They pushed me inside with the others. And there were so many others..."

Taliya breaks down completely then, her slim shoulders shaking with deep, wracking sobs.

"Thank you," Demyon says gently off-camera. "For your courage in sharing this."

The screen fades to black, white text appearing: "This is the first in a series of interviews conducted by the Seattle Voice with survivors of human trafficking in the Pacific Northwest."

Megan pauses the video, the silence in my office broken only by Lacey's uneven breathing.

"How many views so far?" I ask.

"Two hundred thousand and counting," Megan says, her eyes fixed on her laptop. "And it's only been two hours. Every time I refresh..." She taps the key again. "See? Another thirty-thousand views."

Lacey shifts uneasily. "Are you sure you're keeping yourself safe? These aren't the kind of people who'll just let this slide."

"Everything's going through the Seattle Voice," Megan assures her. "My name isn't attached to any of it."

I study the comments section filling up beneath the video. Most express outrage, horror, calls for justice. Exactly the reaction we need to force Kirsan's operations into the light.

But scattered among them are other comments—ones that make my blood run cold. People asking where they can "place orders" and how they can "contact sellers."

These are Kirsan's buyers, crawling out of their holes like cockroaches drawn to rotting meat.

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