In a room of an abandoned apartment building, she sells her neck as a commodity. Men drawn by the rumors come one after another, tormenting her throat with their hands, ropes, and stockings, then vanish without a trace. The only rule: don't take her life. Yet this rule is never written anywhere. Tonight, as always, her slender neck undoubtedly writhes and gasps for air. If such a woman truly existed, you'd find yourself whispering, "I wish she really existed." And that whisper, surely, would be the right answer.