You Mi followed the women running to the kitchen with boxes of condoms in their arms.
They made their way to a secret door near the refrigerator and slipped into a dank basement of the adjoining apartment building, filled with bags of rotting garbage and broken furniture.
Off the kitchen there was a changing room with lockers.
You Mi put on a long, sleeveless Korean dress that sex traffickers had made her wear in Los Angeles.
It was in the heart of the Tenderloin, the end of the line for San Francisco's most desperate: the addicted looking for a street-corner fix, the homeless looking for a cheap motel, the men looking to buy sex.
It's here where the bulk of San Francisco's 90 illicit massage parlors are concentrated, identifiable by double metal security doors, surveillance cameras and windows that are blocked out with aluminum foil, plastic garbage bags or paint.
You Mi squeezed in with the pack behind a huge metal fan, and trembled in the sticky heat.
She and five other sex workers would share a dingy apartment on O'Farrell Street across from the Mitchell Brothers O'Farrell Theatre.
She'd spend her waking hours at Sun Spa, having sex with more than a dozen men a day, six days a week, and scurrying into secret hideaways during police raids. But first, she would have to surrender her last shred of dignity.
This was bad for two reasons: Newcomers sometimes didn't understand they had to tip at least 0 for sex.
It also was risky, because an unfamiliar visitor could be an undercover cop.