Anne - Act One: The Orphanage

Moonlit shadows cloak the night as a patrol car growls to a halt outside a sprawling, shadowed compound. The driver's door creaks open, spilling out a uniformed cop who tugs at his crotch, striding up the cracked steps with predatory ease. A tarnished sign whispers: The Hands Transition House for Wayward Girls. No response to his pounding fist—he shoves the door wide, slipping into the gloom. CUT TO: The dim corridor stretches like a vein toward Mr. Hands' lair. This state-backed orphanage should spit out its charges at eighteen, per the law's cold decree. But the sleazeball proprietor has carved a hidden den at the rear, a filthy cage where he herds the ripe ones, turning them into playthings for his black-market hustles—kept under wraps from prying eyes. The cop's in on the filth; bribes have greased his palms for years. He barges into the office, catching Mr. Hands in his silk robe, balls-deep in a sloppy suck from one of his wards. The eighteen-year-old stray, grimy and stripped bare from the waist down, kneels like a bitch in heat, slurping greedily without a glance up. Hands smirks, waving the intruder to a chair. 'Didn't peg you for a midnight drop-in!' he chuckles, voice thick with vice. The cop's no stranger to the bastard's brazen rot and snaps for his monthly payoff wad, watching as Hands eases it from a drawer with languid tease.