Behind Amsterdam Central Station, at the IJ waterrfront, the faint hum of city sounds muffled in the background, as a young woman stands with a worn expression, her short skirt hiked up to reveal a glimpse of pale skin. A dirty tanktop clings to her petite frame, a old  khaki army jacket slung over one shoulder, its earthy tone a stark contrast to the desperation etched on her face. Her eyes, once bright and full of life, now seem dulled by the harsh realities of addiction. She stands with a sense of resignation, her gaze pleading as she attempts to negotiate a sale, her voice barely above a whisper. Trying to sell her body to pay for her next fix.

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