The atmosphere in the room curdled from "exclusive party" to "high-end depravity" in the span of a single heartbeat. My intuition had been screaming it since we walked past the meat lockers, but seeing it was different. This was some "Diddy-level" insanity—a playground for the untouchable, where the laws of the outside world simply ceased to exist at the door.

​It was Epstein Island without the plane ride, a windowless sanctuary where the world's most recognizable faces shed their public personas like dead skin.

​Across the room, the "Disney" starlet was already pressed against the velvet wallpaper, her mask discarded, as two men in tailored suits explored her with a frantic, public hunger. There was no shame here. No one was looking for a private bedroom because the entire room was their private theater. The scent of expensive cologne began to mix with the heavy, salt-and-copper musk of a room losing its inhibitions.

​"What the actual fuck is going on?" I rasped, my hand instinctively tightening on Sasha's waist. I felt her trembling—not with fear, but with the pure, electric shock of seeing the world's elite unmasked.

​Evelyn didn't flinch. She just leaned back against the plush leather of the booth, a slow, dark giggle vibrating in her throat as she watched a famous rapper pull two socialites into a tangled heap of silk and skin on the central dais.

​"It's starting," she whispered, her voice sounding like a secret being told in a confessional.

​"What's starting?!" I demanded, my eyes scanning the room as a waitress in nothing but a lace mask began handing out gold-plated vials to the guests.

​"The orgy, Druski," Evelyn said, her eyes locking onto mine with a terrifyingly calm intensity. "The masks are just the beginning. By midnight, names don't matter. Only the friction matters. This is how the real deals are sealed—in the dark, when everyone is equally guilty."

​She reached out, her fingers grazing the cuff of my suit. "The question is: are you an pornstars who just builds the sex empires, or are you the kind of man who wants to see what happens inside them?"

The scene transitioned from a high-society gala to a bacchanalian nightmare. It was a chaotic, heaving ocean of limbs where status was stripped away along with the clothes. These people were fucking with a desperate, random hunger, a blur of anonymous skin and expensive jewelry.

​One of the men in a silver fox mask—an old, withered power-player—reached out and snared Evelyn. He didn't ask; he simply claimed her, his weathered hands gripping the firm, tan curves of her ass through her robe. I expected her to recoil, but she leaned back into his touch, her head snapping back as she kissed him with a primal, glassy-eyed intensity.

​Through the haze of Sage and sweat, I spotted two women near the butchery's central meat hooks. They were stripping with a slow, synchronized grace that felt like a trap. One was a tall, ebony-skinned Amazon with muscles like silk and hair cropped short, her body shimmering under a coat of iridescent oil. The other was a porcelain-skinned redhead with heavy, natural breasts that swayed as she stepped out of her lace slip, her hips wide and inviting. They were flawless, living statues of lust, and they were staring directly at us.

​As they began to glide toward us, their eyes locked on me and Sasha, a man in a heavy bear mask lunged from the shadows. He didn't see Sasha as a guest; he saw her as a prize. He wrapped a thick, sweaty arm around her waist, pulling her flush against his suit.

​"Let go of me!" Sasha screamed, her voice cracking the heavy thrum of the music as she struggled against his grip.

​The professional in me died. I didn't think; I reacted. I stepped in and drove a piston-like right cross into the side of the man's jaw. The impact echoed—a sickening crack—and he crumpled to the floor, his mask skidding across the polished concrete.

​He groaned, trying to push himself up, but I wasn't finished. I stepped over him and delivered a heavy, tactical kick into his ribs. The air left his lungs in a wheeze, and he stayed down, curling into a ball. I looked around, ready for a fight, but the room was too far gone. People were moaning and thrusting just inches away, too buried in their own depravity to notice a man being beaten on the floor.

​"Sasha, we're done. Now!" I growled, grabbing her hand. Her palm was cold and shaking.

​We fought our way back through the maze of bodies, pushing past masked socialites and tangled limbs. We reached the heavy steel meat-locker door—our only way out—and I slammed my shoulder against it.

​It didn't budge. I grabbed the industrial handle and yanked. Locked.

I spotted Bruno a few yards away, the professional facade he wore at the estate completely incinerated. He was pinned against a butcher's block by two women—one a blonde with legs that seemed to go on forever, the other a dark-haired beauty with a serpent tattoo winding up her spine. They were all stripped bare, a chaotic tangle of pale skin and frantic movement. One of them was focused entirely on him, her hand a rhythmic blur as she jerked his cock, while the other was plastered against his chest, their tongues locked in a desperate struggle.

​I lunged forward, grabbing Bruno by the shoulder and ripping him away from the girls. He stumbled, his eyes glassed over with a lethal cocktail of top-shelf bourbon and chemical euphoria. His cock was a turgid, pulsing rod, and he looked at me like he didn't even recognize me.

​"Bruno! Look at me!" I roared over the pounding industrial techno. "Open the damn door. We're leaving!"

​Bruno let out a jagged, hysterical laugh, leaning his weight against me. "Leaving? Druski, you don't leave so early. The locks are on a timer, man... deadbolted from the outside. Security doesn't turn the keys until 3:00 AM. It's the rule... total immersion... no escapes."

​He turned back to the women, his hands already searching for their curves again, completely lost to the room.

​I turned to Sasha. She looked smaller than I'd ever seen her, her back pressed against the cold, vibrating steel of the exit door. Her eyes were wide, darting from the heaving piles of bodies to the locked handle, then back to me. A wave of cold, sharp regret washed over me. I'd brought her here to celebrate the heights of the empire we were building, but I'd accidentally dragged her into the bowels of a high-society slaughterhouse.

​"Druski," she whispered, her voice barely audible over the bass. "They're looking at us. They're all looking at us like we're... like we're the only things left to eat."

​She was right. The music slowed, turning into a deep, visceral throb. The two women from before—the oiled Amazon and the porcelain redhead—were now only feet away. They weren't dancing. They were stalking. Behind them, the old man in the silver fox mask was watching us, his hands still anchored on Evelyn's hips as she moaned against him.

​We were the only ones still dressed. The only ones still "human." And in this room, that made us the main course.

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