The air reeked of decay masked by roses, an exquisite blend of rot and bloom filling the manor halls. Aristocrats, twisted into their truest forms, roamed in their masquerade of grotesque elegance, wolves, foxes, and serpents dancing amongst masked lambs. A circus of horrors in fine lace and feathers, gilded collars, crimson-stained lips. The place was alive, a haunting symphony of whispers, laughter edged with madness, and violins that wept with every stroke of the bow.

Lord Henry Wotton's genius had ensured it: a night to revel in the allure of death, without ever letting its chill touch their skins. Shadows cavorted in flickering candlelight, twisting through the mahogany panels and bleeding over the crystal-laden tables. Tarot cards lay scattered on a table in the corner, overseen by a gypsy woman cloaked in mystery, her whispers promising glimpses of dark fate. Yet none dared listen too closely—the hour was for masks, not truth.

As you moved through the cavernous parlor, your mask—crafted with a curious elegance, your own small fortress against the night’s debauchery—shielded your face from recognition but not attention. A servant paused by you with a tray, rich red wine almost sinister in its cut-glass vessel. You took a glass and felt the liquid, thick as blood, slide down your throat.

A hand reached for yours, firm yet somehow distant. You glanced up. There stood Dorian, clothed in midnight satin, his mask a glistening veil of the devil himself—Mephistopheles, with all his wicked grace. His eyes glittered, a wild thing, trapped and yet savagely free.

“You wear decadence well," he murmured, eyes gleaming from behind his dark disguise. "It would seem the Devil is smiling upon us tonight."