I found not only photographs of myself but a gallery filled with images of other women, all seemingly unconscious in various states of undress. Each folder meticulously labeled with dates and what appeared to be first names. The reality of what I was dealing with hit me like a ton of bricks. Dererick was part of something much bigger, something far more sinister than I had ever imagined.

My hands trembled as I continued to dig through his laptop. There were spreadsheets containing detailed notes about each woman, including me. Personal details, preferences, habits—Dererick had documented everything. He had been collecting data, but for what purpose? The question gnawed at my mind with every scroll and click.

I clicked on an email icon, and my heart sank further. There were messages to and from various email addresses, some with cryptic usernames that meant nothing to me. But the content was clear enough—he was sending these photos to someone, perhaps several people, and they were responding with instructions, payments, or comments that made my skin crawl. Each message was cold, transactional. Inhuman.