Evelyne invited us to a party to celebrate her successful video shoot.

The transition from the clinical luxury of the Sun Estate to the grit of the city was jarring. By 9:30 PM, the canyon air had been replaced by the smell of rain and old brick. The address Evelyn gave us led to a nondescript, dimly lit street where a faded neon sign for a wholesale butchery flickered intermittently.

​"A butcher shop, Druski?" Sasha whispered, adjusting her silk dress as we stepped out of the car. "Are we sure we're at the right place?"

​"In this world, the more boring the front, the more twisted the back," I replied, checking my cuffs.

​We bypassed the front entrance, walking down a narrow alleyway where a massive, scarred man in a tailored tuxedo stood guard by a heavy steel meat-locker door. He didn't speak. I held up the gold-embossed invitation cards. He gave them a cursory glance, then reached into a wooden crate and handed us two onyx-black half-masks.

​As the steel door groaned open, a wall of pressurized sound and heat hit us.

​The interior was a total sensory hijack. We weren't in a basement; we were in a subterranean cathedral of sin. Heavy industrial chains hung from the ceiling, draped in velvet, and the air was thick with the scent of expensive oud and burning sage. The music wasn't just loud—it was a deep, rhythmic thrum that vibrated in your bone marrow, sounding like a high-end ritual.

​The crowd was a sea of high-society ghosts. Men in bespoke tailoring and women in sheer, architectural gowns, all hidden behind intricate masks. It was the elite of the elite—the kind of people who ran banks and film studios by day and surrendered to their darkest impulses by night. It felt less like a party and more like an Illuminati initiation.

​"Eyes up, Director," I leaned into Sasha's ear, my hand firm on the small of her back. "This isn't just a celebration. This is the inner circle. Don't look at the masks—look at the power behind them."

​In the center of the room, on a raised dais, I saw a familiar flash of gold. Evelyn was there, back in her element, surrounded by a court of masked admirers. She spotted us and raised a crystal chalice, her eyes gleaming through the slits of a gold filigree mask.

As we moved toward the VIP sanctuary, the crowd parted like a dark sea. The air here was cooler, filtered through hidden vents, and the music dimmed just enough to hear the clink of crystal and the low, conspiratorial murmurs of the elite.

​Evelyn was the center of a tight circle of masked power players—men in midnight-blue velvet jackets and women draped in diamonds that caught the strobe lights like jagged ice. She was mid-sentence, her voice carrying that effortless authority she'd regained the moment the cameras stopped rolling.

​"...it's not just a video," she was saying, her eyes dancing behind her gold mask. "It's a structural collapse. We've turned my onlyfans brand into something... primal. It's going to melt the servers the second it drops."

​As we stepped into the light of her booth, she broke into a wide, predatory smile. "And here they are. The visionaries behind the carnage."

​I expected to have to introduce ourselves—to play the hungry newcomers—but as Evelyn turned to the group, a tall man with a silver fox mask nodded toward me. "The upcoming king of porn," he said, his voice a refined rasp. "And the woman from the oil massage scene. We've been watching your 'Banghouse' metrics, Druski. Very impressive growth for such a... raw operation."

​"You're a topic of conversation in certain boardrooms," a woman in a lace mask added, her gaze lingering on me a second too long. "People are curious if the 'King' is a character or a lifestyle."

​Sasha squeezed my arm, her poise perfect despite the shock. These weren't just fans; they were the silent stakeholders of the industry. They knew our numbers, our style, and our value before we'd even ordered a drink.

​"It's a lifestyle that pays well," I said, my voice cool and steady. "And Evelyn just raised the market price."

​Evelyn laughed, sliding a glass of dark, amber liquid toward me. "To the $200,000 masterpiece," she toasted, her eyes locking onto mine with a look that said our work in the kitchen was only the beginning of this partnership. "And to the people who realize that power is the ultimate aphrodisiac."

The moment the high-level vultures drifted away to the bar, Sasha leaned into me, her voice a sharp whisper beneath the thrum of the bass. She was scanning the room, her eyes darting toward a group of men in heavy hooded robes standing near a flickering wall of candles.

​"Druski, this is getting weird," she breathed, her hand tightening on my forearm. "The masks, the butchery front, the sage... what is this? Are we in some 'Eyes Wide Shut' satanic cult shit? I feel like someone's about to bring out a goat."

​Evelyn, who had been overhearing us while sipping her drink, let out a low, melodic laugh that sounded dangerously like a purr. "Oh, darling," she said, tilting her head so the gold filigree of her mask caught the red light. "We already sacrificed the goat at 8:00 PM. You just missed the main ritual."

​Sasha's face went pale for a split second before Evelyn reached out and patted her cheek.

​"I'm joking. Mostly," Evelyn said, her expression turning conspiratorial. "It's not a cult, Sasha. It's better. It's the most exclusive, discreet swingers' club on the West Coast. The 'butchery' is just to keep the tourists and the paparazzi out. In here, the only sin is being boring."

​I shifted my focus, looking past the theatricality of the decor. I began to peel back the layers of the room, looking at the jawlines, the tattoos, and the unmistakable posture of the "masked" guests.

​Under a flickering strobe, I spotted a rapper whose last album had just gone triple platinum, currently whispering into the ear of a woman who looked suspiciously like a Disney starlet turned rebel. To my left, a tech billionaire who usually appeared on talk shows in hoodies was now draped in silk, his hand resting familiarly on the waist of a high-ranking senator's wife.

​This wasn't a cult. It was a clearinghouse for elite desires.

​"Look at the corner booth, Druski," Evelyn whispered, leaning in close so her jasmine scent filled my lungs. "The man in the lion mask? That's the head of the biggest talent agency in the world. The girl on his lap? She's the 'innocent' lead in that new Netflix drama. In this room, everyone is exactly who they want to be, because no one is allowed to tell."

​I looked around the room, realizing the gravity of the invite. We weren't just guests; we were being vetted to see if we could handle the weight of the secrets kept behind these mahogany doors.

"This is some Diddy freak off shit."

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