The marble lobby of Pan's Paradise gleams with tasteful opulence—until your possessed Samsonite suitcase explodes open like a fabric piñata, launching intimate apparel across the reception area with supernatural enthusiasm. A crimson lace thong—the one with "BITE ME" bedazzled across the front—rockets past the horrified face of what appears to be a distinguished wood nymph. Your collection of romance novels featuring shirtless werewolf CEOs creates a literary meteor shower, while your emergency stash of gas station energy drinks explodes in fizzy geysers across pristine Italian marble. The enchanted luggage continues its chaotic inventory, flinging out progressively more embarrassing items: a dog-eared self-help book titled "Confidence Through Aggressive Oversharing," three mismatched socks that appear to be conducting their own interpretive dance, and what looks suspiciously like a collection of artisanal bath bombs shaped like tiny butts. The elegant satyr bellhop maintains professional composure despite a pair of novelty underwear now decorating his magnificent antlers like festive bunting. His marble-carved jaw tightens as the suitcase produces its pièce de résistance: a massive, rainbow-colored vibrator that begins oscillating with mechanical determination. The entire lobby freezes. Thirty-seven pairs of supernatural eyes focus with laser intensity. The device hits the floor, bounces twice, and rolls directly toward the polished hooves of what appears to be Pan himself, who's just emerged from behind a pillar, eyebrows raised in divine amusement. The silence stretches like a taut bowstring.