Northern Myanmar’s Living Exhibits

Have you ever heard of the White Pear Mansion?

It doesn't hold paintings or antiques.

It collects something far rarer.

Women.

My best friend and I were models.

My face was my meal ticket. My agent always said my sharp nose and deep-set eyes gave me an exotic look—the kind that landed me high-end beauty campaigns and fashion spreads.

Vivian Evans, my best friend, had a different kind of appeal—a killer pair of 36Ds, perky and impossible to ignore.

Every photographer she worked with ended up practically drowning in them.

Naturally, her photos got the most… attentive editing.

When an ad agency from Northern Myanmar wanted her for a lingerie shoot, my agent strong-armed them into taking me too.

Vivian lost a chunk of her cut and wasn't happy about it.

At the shoot, she slipped bleach into my facial mask.

If it weren't for quick medical attention, my face would've been ruined.

Our agency had seen "accidents" before—like the lingerie model who got sulfuric acid thrown on her chest.

She left the industry and went back home to get married.

I was a coward. That night, I told my agent I was going home.

But the moment I stepped into the elevator, strangers shoved a chloroform-soaked rag over my face.

A sickly-sweet smell filled my lungs before everything went black.

I woke up inside a gilded cage in what looked like a palace.

Not just any cage—row after row of iron bars lined a lavish hall, each holding a naked woman.

My clothes were gone. My thighs ached, bruised and tender.

The realization cut deeper than any blade.

They fed us scraps. Sometimes nothing at all.

The only way to eat was to… service them.

At first, I refused. I wouldn't debase myself for a piece of bread.

But after two days, I was on my knees, begging through the bars.

A week later, a man in a tailored suit showed up. Everyone bowed—clearly the one in charge.

A soft-faced doctor trailed behind him.

With one wave, the first cage swung open.

The woman inside lunged out, screaming, "Where am I? Do you have any idea who I—"

They forced her into a barrel.

Not just any barrel—this one had a hole cut out for her head.

The second she tried to speak again, a red-hot coal was shoved into her mouth.

Her scream choked into silence.

Vincent Valdemar nudged her limp head with the tip of his shoe.

"Pity. She was pretty."

Then he turned to the rest of us, his voice like frozen steel.

"I thought you would've learned by now."

"Defy me, and you'll join her."

"Chop her legs off. Toss her into the Pig Pen."

Later, I learned the Pig Pen was the lowest pit in White Pear Mansion—where broken women entertained the guards.

Missing limbs. Mutilated bodies. Living toys for twisted desires.

She wasn't beautiful enough to keep. Just a lesson.

Next came the medical exams.

No one dared protest as Dr. Klein got to work.

When it was my turn, chains yanked my limbs apart, suspending me in midair.

Cold instruments probed every inch of me.

I shut my eyes, tears falling silently.

He scribbled notes.

Vivian was lowered gently.

Vincent's eyes crawled over her curves.