(Here, Mia recounts getting back in to her apartment, dropping the coat and capturing the energy release).

"The coat lay in a beige puddle on the hardwood floor of my hallway. I stepped away from it, my bare feet making no sound, leaving the evidence of my journey right where it had fallen.

The rush hit me then—a delayed, tidal wave of adrenaline that made my knees weak. I leaned back against the wall, the plaster cool against my shoulder blades, and slid down until I was sitting on the floor, legs splayed, chest heaving.

I had done it. I had walked through London, a secret nakedness carried like a weapon under a shield of beige silk.

My heart was hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs—thud-thud-thud—mimicking the sound of the train on the tracks. My skin felt hyper-sensitive, pricking with the memory of the cold wind and the terrifying proximity of strangers.

I needed to capture this. The "Afterdrop" was usually a time for blankets and tea, but this... this was different. This was electric.

I crawled—not walked, but crawled like a creature of instinct—into my living room where my camera bag sat. I pulled out my DSLR, a heavy, professional Nikon. I didn't bother with a tripod. I didn't bother with studio lights.

I turned the camera on myself.

I sat in the natural light of my bay window, completely nude, my hair wild from the wind, my skin flushed pink with cold and arousal. I lifted the heavy camera, looking into the lens.

Click.

I took a photo of my face—pupils blown wide, lips parted, no makeup to hide the raw triumph.

Click.

I took a photo of my legs, stretched out on the Persian rug, trembling slightly.

Click.

I took a photo of the empty hallway behind me, with the discarded trench coat lying like a shed skin in the distance.

The sound of the shutter acted like a trigger. It was the sound of being watched, but this time, I was the watcher. I was the Curator of my own body.

The arousal that had been simmering on the tube, kept in check by fear, suddenly boiled over.

I set the camera down on the floor, the lens still pointing at me like an unblinking eye.

My hand moved to my breast, cupping the weight of it, my thumb dragging hard over the nipple.

It was instantaneous fire. I gasped, the sound loud in the empty flat. I wasn't touching Emilia Thompson; I was touching the woman who had stood on a plinth for two hours. I was touching the woman who had ridden the District Line naked.

My other hand slid down, past my navel, into the wet heat between my thighs.

I didn't need fantasy. I didn't need to imagine a scene. I just replayed the last thirty minutes.

The look of the man on the escalator.

The brush of the silk lining against my clitoris.

Leo's voice saying, "Panic is a crack."

I fingered myself with a desperate, rhythmic urgency, my hips bucking off the rug. I was reclaiming the sensation. The fear transmuted into pure, unadulterated pleasure. I threw my head back, my throat exposing the line of my neck where the bronze paint had been, and let out a broken, needy cry.

"Master..."

The word slipped out. Even here, alone, I was his.

The climax hit me hard and fast—a white-hot contraction that curled my toes and made my vision blur. I rode it out, shuddering, clutching my own thighs, feeling the "structure" of my body hold together even as my mind shattered into bliss.

I lay there for a long time, the silence of the flat settling back around me like dust.

Slowly, the breathing returned to normal. The shaking stopped.

I reached for my phone, which was still in the purse by the door. I took one final photo with my mobile—not of me, but of the trench coat lying in the heap on the hallway floor.

I sent it to Leo with two words.

Exhibit Closed."