I pressed the phone to my ear, the silence on the other end lasting just a second too long before a voice cut through—refined, melodic, and chillingly calm. It wasn't Evelyn, and it certainly wasn't Cami. This was the voice of old money, the kind that never has to raise its volume to be heard.

​"Your performance at the butchery was... illuminating, Druski," she said. I could hear the faint clink of ice against a glass in the background. "My husband and I haven't been that entertained by 'talent' in years. We've spent the last hour looking into your operation—The Banghouse. You have a vision that's remarkably... unburdened by morality."

​I felt a chill that the shower couldn't wash away. "Who is this?"

​"Potential," she replied smoothly. "We're looking to diversify our portfolio, and your brand of 'chaos' is currently undervalued. We'd like to discuss a formal investment. Say, lunch today at Bel-Air?"

​I looked at Sasha's sleeping form, her face finally peaceful after the trauma of the night. I had what I came for, and I wasn't about to let these West Coast vultures pick at my bones any longer.

​"I'm flattered," I said, my voice cold and final. "But I'm heading back to New York. My bags are packed, my Director is exhausted, and I'm done with the LA circus. Find another show to fund."

​There was a pause. The air on the line felt heavy.

​"New York is a very small island, Druski," she whispered, the honey in her voice turning to acid. "And we don't usually ask twice. We were hoping for a partnership, but if you won't give us an audience..." She let out a soft, tittering laugh that didn't reach her eyes. "Well, I suppose we'll just have to find you ourselves. See you soon, Mr Hart."

​The line went dead with a sharp, digital click.

​I stared at the screen for a long time, the "Unknown Number" staring back like a hollow eye. I had come to LA to make a video, but I was leaving with a target on my back. These people didn't take 'no' for an answer, and they clearly didn't care about state lines.

​I tossed the phone onto the nightstand and slid into bed beside Sasha. She instinctively moved toward my warmth, her head resting on my chest. I held her, but my eyes remained fixed on the hotel door. We were going home, but I knew deep down that the butchery was just the beginning of a much larger, much darker game.

...

The rest of the day was spent in a gilded trance within the walls of the Peninsula. We stayed cocooned in the penthouse, the heavy velvet curtains drawn tight against the aggressive California sun. It felt like we were decompressing in a pressurized chamber, trying to keep our souls from imploding after the heights—and depths—of the night before.

​Sasha moved through the suite like a ghost, quiet and soft. We didn't talk about the butchery. We didn't talk about the masks, the "dogs," or the way the steel door felt against her back.

Some things are too raw to put into words while the bruises are still fresh. I kept the mystery woman's phone call locked away in the back of my mind, a dark secret I wasn't ready to share. To Sasha, the nightmare was over. I knew better; the nightmare had just upgraded its zip code.

​Around noon, my phone buzzed. It was Cami.

​"Hey, stranger," her voice came through, sounding light and blissfully ignorant. "I just wanted to check in. Evelyn said the shoot went... 'transformative.' Is that code for 'I made a lot of money,' or should I be worried?"

​I looked at Sasha, who was curled up on the sofa staring out at the hazy skyline. "It was a success, Cami. Your friend got exactly what she paid for."

​"Good. She's been acting a little manic today, even for her. Anyway, I'm glad you guys are okay. She can be... intense when she's celebrating. You heading back to the city today?"

​"Flight's in a few hours," I said, my voice steady. It was clear Cami had been left out of the loop. Evelyn had protected her friend from the darkness of the ritual, or perhaps she just didn't think Cami had the stomach for it.

​"Well, hurry back. Your city feels quiet without the Banghouse making noise. Safe flights, Druski."

​I hung up and looked at the suitcase by the door. We were leaving LA with more money than we'd ever had, a video that would probably break the internet, and a shadow following us that I couldn't yet identify.

​"Ready?" I asked, reaching out a hand to Sasha.

​She looked at my hand, then up at me. For a second, I saw a flicker of the woman she was before the masks—then it vanished, replaced by the hardened, loyal Director she had become. She took my hand, her grip firm.

​"Ready," she whispered. "Let's go home."

One of Monet's "minions"—a man in a charcoal suit with the sterile, vacant expression of a high-level fixer—appeared at our door to handle the luggage. He moved with a practiced, hushed efficiency, treating our bags like state secrets.

​He escorted us down a private elevator, bypassing the lobby entirely, and led us into the back of a blacked-out Range Rover idling in the shadows of the garage. The interior smelled of expensive leather and cold air. As we pulled out into the blinding Los Angeles sun, the tinted windows turned the world into a muted, grey blur.

​Sasha stayed close to me, her hand resting on my thigh, her eyes hidden behind dark glasses. She looked like a starlet in witness protection. Neither of us spoke; the hum of the tires on the 405 was the only soundtrack to our departure.

​The driver bypassed the main terminals of LAX, veering off toward a restricted sector of the airfield. We slid through a series of high-security gates until we reached a secluded private hangar.

​The hangar door was partially open, revealing the sleek, predatory silhouette of a Gulfstream G650. Its white fuselage gleamed under the industrial lights, the tail emblazoned with a discreet, stylized "M."

​And there, standing at the foot of the airstair, was Monet.

​She looked as though the night's debauchery had never happened. Dressed in a cream-colored silk pantsuit with a glass of vintage champagne in her hand, she looked every bit the billionaire matriarch. Her eyes scanned us as we stepped out of the Rover—lingering on me with a knowing, almost amused glint, and then on Sasha with a cold, analytical curiosity.

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