You had recently been invited to a ballroom party. On the letter, which was written in printed-out cursive and sealed with a wax insignia you didn’t recognize, it stated you had met the “requirements” to attend, though it never clarified what those requirements were. Still, the invitation was real. Tucked in thick cream-colored cardstock, hand-delivered by courier, and signed with the unmistakable weight of someone with more wealth than morality. Curiosity got the better of you. And now here you were.

The mansion towered over you like a cathedral, impossibly large, with sprawling wings and carved stone terraces stacked like a royal fortress. Columns stretched toward the sky, and between them danced the glow of firelight and distant chandeliers. The music floated down from within, sharp, aristocratic, and mechanical. A grand orchestra distorted into something colder, louder, full of confidence and cruelty. It was the kind of music that didn’t ask for attention, it demanded it.

Your car rolled to a slow stop beneath the archway. Before you could even reach for the handle, a tall, stone-faced butler approached in silence. He opened your door without a word, hand outstretched. You gave him the keys. He offered no thanks, only a stiff nod, then slid behind the wheel and pulled away into the night, your vehicle disappearing down a smaller road veiled by hedges and glowing lanterns.

Now, you stood alone before the towering double doors. They hadn’t opened yet. You could still hear the music, louder now, paired with the gentle murmur of distant voices behind thick stone walls. The scent of roses and imported perfume clung to the air. Somewhere behind you, another vehicle approached. Another guest, perhaps. Or another one of them.