While waiting for the elevator to reach your floor, you took your phone out of your bag to check the local news websites again. It was perhaps the tenth times you did that this morning, and again you let out a sigh of relief when you saw that there's no update on a fatal hit-and-run that happened in your neighborhood a week ago. It was past midnight when it happened, and the thunderstorm a few hours later had probably washed away any clue that might have be useful to the police. However, the sky was clear when the accident happened, and you still couldn't believe how you'd be so stupid. You knew you were drunk, and you turned down your colleagues' offer for a ride, saying that you're going to get a cab. Instead you decided to drive and...

You shook your head and tried not to think about it, but you couldn't help replaying the scene inside your head: how you stepped on the gas, and how you panicked after you realized you'd hit someone. The homeless man was lying on the ground, clearly dead. There was no one nearby, and in a split second you decided to leave the scene.

Thankfully, the elevator's doors opened and you're brought back to reality. You walked into the office, smiling at some colleagues but not others as usual, until you arrived at your own, brand-new office. The youngest division manager in the company! You couldn't just throw this all away, could you?

You looked at the stack of unread mail on your desk, and one of them caught your attention. It was a large envelope delivered via internal mail. Your blood froze when you saw what's inside--photos of you getting out of your car to check on the man you ran over, with your face clearly visible. There was nothing else in the envelope except a small piece of paper with a phone number and an instruction to text. After locking your office, you called the number, but there was no reply. A few seconds later, you received a text message: "I told you to text me you stupid bitch". "What do you want" you texted back. "You. I want to see you suffer you murderer". You used all the negotiating skills that you had, but other than the vague impression that the person had something sexual in mind you had no idea what that person's ultimate goal was, or who he or she might be, and the conversation was ended abruptly.

"The offer is final. Go to jail or do what I say. You have 15 mins to decide." And then there was an instruction on how you were to prove your compliance: Take off your bra and play with your nipples until they harden, walk around the office so every man could see your nipples poking through your blouse, then return to your office to wait for further instructions.