You catch the market grounds out of the corner of your eye: a ragged strip of desert shoulder where the floodlights once buzzed and the neon fought against the dust. The trail leads into an empty lot littered with tire tracks gone brittle under the sun, the air still carrying traces of cigarette smoke, cheap cologne, and scorched rubber long after anyone has been there.
Near the entrance sits an abandoned folding table warped by heat. Dusty ticket remnants litter the ground. Beyond it, the market has collapsed into silence: a few vendor awnings still cling to their frames, snapping softly in the wind. Here and there, something remains where it was dropped- a whip coated in dried blood, an empty box of condoms, a length of rusty chain disappearing beneath the hard-packed dirt.
But no one is selling anything tonight. The men are gone, the terrified screams of pleasure have drifted elsewhere, and the only thing left to buy is the feeling that you arrived a little too late.