The debt finally gets paid off and Sophie starts a new life abroad

The flat on the eighth floor of the Wythenshawe tower block had become a mausoleum after the second visit. The door still hung off its hinges, letting in the cold Manchester wind that carried the distant sound of sirens and the stink of the estate’s overflowing bins. Dave had not slept in days. He sat in the same chair, still scarred from the zip-ties, staring at the bloodstains on the carpet that would never come out. Sophie had not left her room in a week. She showered until the hot water ran out, scrubbed until her skin bled, but the smell of cum and piss seemed to cling to her pores. She spoke in whispers, if she spoke at all. Her eyes were hollow, the light gone.
Dave had tried everything. He begged old mates for loans. He sold the last of his tools. He even went to the police, only to be laughed out of the station. “You owe money to Mick? That’s your problem, mate. No crime here.” He was out of options.