I chatted with a nightclub girl for half the night, and after hearing her words, I felt deeply uneasy.

When she first entered the scene, she was the brightest star in the venue—countless wealthy men lavished money on her, chasing her relentlessly.

Yet she chose 'love'—a scrawny, streetwise young man with a drug habit, someone whose stamina was poor and whose performance lasted only minutes. Still, she insisted it was 'true physical love.'

She felt repulsed by wealthy men who held her in their arms.

Now, even girls with great looks and figures might sit idle all night.

The wealthy construction and real estate clients have vanished. The backbone of the nightclub business has collapsed. Customer traffic has plummeted, and 'more monks than porridge' has become the norm.

She started setting clear prices: 30,000 yuan for a month of sponsorship, with at most four or five meetings, no restrictions on her accepting other wealthy men, and no requirement for her to stop working.

To her, this isn't love—it's a transaction of time and youth.

Finally, she lifted her shirt and showed me the scar left by rib cartilage rhinoplasty.

"For this nose, I still feel pain every time I breathe."

She’s truly ruthless.

But she’s ruthless in all the wrong ways.

Behind the glittering nightlife lies extreme anxiety, missed golden opportunities, a love that lost, and deep, undeniable exhaustion.

Nightclubs are never short of stories—but what’s missing is a good ending. $dolo