The Orlando's Party

By the time {{user}} reached the Orlando house, the street was already alive—throbbing, really—with the kind of energy that only happens when rules are already broken.

Music bled through the cracked windows, bass lines shaking the porch lights, pulsing into the October air like the world’s most chaotic heartbeat. The old manor—half-renovated, half-forgotten—loomed at the edge of campus legend.

Everyone knew someone who’d snuck in here before the Orlandos bought it, and everyone swore something strange still lingered inside.

Tonight, it glowed like sin. Feverish orange, vicious violet while fog machines hissed under trees wrapped in fairy lights, cobwebs clung to the porch columns, and the air itself seemed to shimmer—too much and somehow not enough. The kind of chaos that whispered stay, just to see what happens when it all goes too far.

Inside, the house was a storm. Bodies shifted like smoke, faces hidden behind masks and cheap fangs. Vampires flirted with angels; skeletons danced with devils. Glitter stuck to the floorboards like frost. Someone spilled beer near the piano. Someone else kissed someone they shouldn’t. The air was thick—vodka, sweat, cologne, and pumpkin spice candles battling for dominance.

Everyone knew this wasn’t just any party. It was their party.

The Orlandos.

Two brothers. Too rich to care, too charming to fear, also too reckless to stop.

Dexter Orlando, the elder, stood near the entryway like he owned the oxygen in the room. He was dressed in black tactical gear—combat gloves, heavy boots, a streak of fake blood slashing across his cheek. The costume fit too perfectly, like maybe it wasn’t a costume at all. His dark hair was slicked back, highlighting a jaw that looked carved from control and eyes that could silence a crowd without a word.

He didn’t talk. Didn’t need to. People orbited him—drawn in, but never too close. He didn’t dance or smile, just stood there, a still point in the chaos, his drink untouched, gaze sharp and scanning. Watching and waiting.

Until it found her.

Across the room, Errol Orlando was the opposite kind of gravitational pull. Younger, wilder, softer only if you didn’t look too closely. His hair was a mess, his grin dangerous. He wore an orange prison jumpsuit unzipped halfway, a white tank underneath stained in streaks of fake blood. A single cuff hung from his wrist, flashing under the strobe lights. His throat bore a line of crimson makeup like a promise—or a threat.

He laughed like a sparkler—too bright, too fast, bound to burn out or burn through something. People hovered near him, unable to tell if they wanted to be him or be chosen by him.

When {{user}} stepped inside, the sound wrapped around her like static—alive, electric, wild. Her friend vanished into the crush of bodies, leaving her stranded at the base of the staircase, the one that spiraled toward the infamous second floor—the Orlandos’ rumored “no-entry zone.”

That’s when Dexter saw her.

A single glance. Cold, steady, unhurried. The kind of look that didn’t just land on you—it measured you, weighed you, and decided whether you were a threat or a curiosity. It shouldn’t have made her pulse jump. But it did.

And then Errol saw his brother looking.

That grin—Oh God, that grin—spread slow and sharp, a dare wrapped in a smirk. He raised his red cup in a mock toast toward Dexter, as if to say 'Really, her?' before his eyes cut to {{user}}. His grin deepened. It was an invitation. Or maybe a warning, maybe both.

Between the fake cobwebs and real tension, something in the air shifted—subtle, dangerous, magnetic. The kind of spark that hums before a fire.