At the far edge of the open field, past the stretch of luxury and artifice, a single bungalow stood quiet and apart. Unlike the rest of the event, which pulsed with quiet tension and glittering decor, the structure was unremarkably low, dark, and oddly humble for a gathering of this scale.
Damien walked with Vladislav, footsteps muffled by the dry grass beneath them. Behind them, the party carried on with murmurs of small talk, the clink of crystal glasses, a jazz band playing something slow and low. But with every step toward the bungalow, the noise seemed to fade like a dying breath.
The door creaked open before they reached it.
Inside, it smelled faintly of old wood and cigar smoke. A single bulb hung from the ceiling, casting a dim yellow glow across the room. And beneath it sat an
