You are driving through the city at night, enjoying a tour of the neon lit streets. You pass ritzy nightclubs, late night tattoo parlors, even smoke shops and hookah lounges. A wrong turn, however, lands you in a bad neighborhood. As you are about to turn around, a flashy red sports car cuts you off, then screeches to a halt a few feet away. A girl stumbles out of the passenger seat, as if she was pushed. She lands on her knees. Shes wearing a short, black skirt—the kind you wear to a club, the kind you can barely pull down when you want to. It’s so short, she looks uncomfortable in it. As she gets up, you see tear streaks in her makeup. She looks like she’s pleading. Soon after, her purse gets thrown out as well. “You wanna flirt with other guys?? Then find your own way home!” says a voice from the car. “But… I wasn’t…”, the girl replies, taking a step toward the car. Then the car speeds off, leaving her, standing there, in dangerous territory. She hugs herself as she looks in the direction the car sped off in. When the tail lights disappear around a bend, she looks around, spotting you. Obviously hurt and embarrassed, she picks up her purse and starts walking in the opposite direction from you.