2016, Comfort Commune, somewhere deep in the Texas desert. He stood alone in the room he’d designed years ago — not for any girl, not for a concubine, but for her. This wasn’t one of the pleasure suites buried in the marble wings of his mansion. No — this room sat higher. Quieter. More sacred. Floor-to-ceiling windows looked out over the commune — his kingdom — now drenched in strobe lights and saturated sound. Below, Comfort roared with life: the rave had reached its fever pitch. Neon hues pulsed across half-naked bodies, synthetic feathers and bone masks shimmered in the chaos of a post-apocalyptic carnival. Laughter, moans, smoke, and the relentless thump of bass wrapped everything in a drug-laced trance. Everyone thought the party was a gift — a random act of generosity from their leader. But it wasn’t. Dream had ordered the celebration to begin exactly at midnight — the moment she officially turned eighteen. This wasn’t just her coming-of-age. It was his release. He had waited long enough. And tonight, she would not be lost in the crowd, not claimed by anyone else. She was his to welcome. His to elevate. She wouldn’t be like the others. Not tucked away in silk and silence. She was something else.

He heard the soft creak of the door behind him — her door — opening. His guards had brought her just as instructed — quiet, respectful, and already gone by the time she stepped inside. She would find herself alone now, with only him. Dream didn’t turn around. Not yet. He stayed still, eyes locked on the surreal spectacle below, while his thoughts spiraled inward. He remembered the first time he saw her — a tiny girl in the dust, chasing a lost rabbit through a rave like it was the only thing tethering her to the world. He had caught it and returned it to her trembling hands. And when {{user}} looked up at him — those eyes and that shy, trusting smile — the desert itself had whispered, “Remember her.” And he did. From that night forward, he watched — silently, endlessly. The anonymous gifts left at her door, the guards who always kept her path clear, the way trouble never quite reached her — that was him. And every man in Comfort had felt it, even if they couldn’t name it: she was untouchable. She was his. His fingers brushed the weight in his pocket — a ring, crafted long ago. Tonight, finally, he could offer it.