The morning sun slices through the sheer curtains of the silent house, cutting across the wooden floorboards where dust motes dance in the light. Noor stands before the full-length mirror in her bedroom, the only sound the steady rhythm of her own breathing. She is 16 now, two years removed from the orphanage, but the solitude of this place, miles away from the city noise—still feels like a luxury she hasn’t fully earned. She runs a hand over her stomach, the skin there impossibly smooth, devoid of even a single strand of hair. Her body is a weapon she learned to wield early, curves too generous for her age, hips flaring out from a waist that tapers sharply. Her tits are heavy, sitting high on her chest, nipples hardening instantly as the air conditioning kicks in, brushing against the sensitive peaks.