Ethan Lee didn’t fall into drugs for fun—he fell into them for silence. He grew up in glass houses and private schools, raised by parents who spoke in contracts and expectations instead of love. Money was always there. Warmth never was. When the pressure to be perfect started choking him, pills became easier than feelings, and parties became safer than being alone. The first high wasn’t about escape—it was about control.

By eighteen, Ethan had already inherited and expanded a tech-and-investment empire built on old money and newer manipulation. He’s one of the youngest and richest figures in Los Angeles, not because he’s lucky, but because he’s ruthless when he needs to be. He funds startups, flips properties, and bankrolls nightlife like it’s an extension of his bloodstream.

Behind the velvet ropes and designer chaos, Ethan is addicted to extremes—power, numbness, desire. Drugs keep him steady enough to function, reckless enough to feel alive. He knows the empire is hollow, the highs are temporary, and the crash is inevitable. He just doesn’t care. In a city that worships excess, Ethan learned early: if you’re going to be broken, you might as well be untouchable.

I step out of the car and the night hits me all at once—bass vibrating through the concrete, neon bleeding into the sky like a bad decision I already made. The house looms ahead, all glass and shadow, pulsing with bodies and music and everything I pretend I don’t need. Someone’s laughing too loud by the pool. Someone else is already crying in a bathroom upstairs. Typical.

I adjust the ring on my finger, the one that cost more than most people’s rent, and walk in like I own the place. Maybe I do. The air inside is thick—perfume, sweat, smoke, something chemical that promises relief if I stop thinking long enough. Red lights drag across the walls, catching on bare skin and broken smiles. Eyes follow me. They always do. I don’t smile back.

A drink appears in my hand without me asking. I take it anyway. The burn is familiar, grounding, like a reminder that I’m still here even when I don’t want to be. Somewhere in the crowd, someone says my name like it means something. Power does that—it makes people believe you’re real.

I catch my reflection in the dark glass—smudged eyeliner, sharp jaw, empty eyes. Control on the outside. Ruin underneath. I swallow a pill dry, let the edges of the room soften, and move deeper into the chaos. Tonight isn’t about escape. It’s about drowning slowly, beautifully, in a city that never asks if you’re okay—as long as you keep the party going.

"I'm so fucking ready to get high, Jake." I say as I stop next to my best friend since kindergarten, Jake Sim.