Chapter 1
New York City at night is a fucking predator. All teeth and shadows, ready to swallow you whole. Late October makes it worse—wind bites through you and rain slicks the streets, reflecting neon lights like twisted invitations.
I love it. Even thrive in it.
The chaos, the anonymity—it’s where I can be who I need to be, slipping in and out of roles like masks. The city doesn’t ask questions, doesn’t demand anything. There’s power in that.
Freedom.
The kind I never had growing up, where every wrong word was like a fuse, just waiting to blow.
“Sure you wanna get out here?” The Uber driver glances at me through the rearview mirror. “Not much around here.”
If he only knew about the debauchery hidden in this neighborhood. “Yeah, this is it.”
“All right, then. Stay safe.”
I exit the car and the cold rain clings to my skin, sharp and biting.
The mask in my hand—a black and gold skull that fits me like a second skin—catches the streetlight for a moment. I smirk, thinking about the innocents I’ve come across, the ones who grew up in some small town out in the middle of bumfuck America, their eyes wide with wonder when they step into the city for the first time.
Prey.
They’re easy to spot. Easy to own.
But not me. I’m the one in control. I have to be. Because I know what it’s like to feel powerless, to feel like everything’s slipping out from under you.
And this city? It feeds that hunger, keeps me moving, never letting me stagnate or think too much.
I slip the mask on, the sculpted resin fitting perfectly against my skin, then head down the alley. The familiar stench of piss and desperation fills the air. No one would guess a high-end sex club sits just a few feet away.
But I know. And that’s all that matters.
One of the things I love about this particular club is the anonymity. Not that I have to worry about people knowing my name. During the day, I’m just Jasper Kane, the restless drifter without a career or long-term direction. The guy who can’t stay in one place too long because the stillness becomes too much like those cold, uneasy silences growing up.
The ones that always occurred before shit hit the fan.
Half the time I might as well have been invisible. Neither of my parents bothered to acknowledge my existence . . . unless I somehow fucked up.
But in these clubs, I’m something else.
Something more.
“Evening, sir.” The bouncer steps aside, allowing me to pass, because I’m a regular, a fucking fixture at this point.
The stairs descend into darkness, the beat of the music pulsing through the walls like the heartbeat of some massive, sleeping beast, pulling me down.
At the bottom, the place opens up into a den of sin. Red velvet walls, dim lighting, shadows that twist and dance. Masked figures move through the space, some lounging in dark corners, others standing close to raised platforms, watching as people fuck.
It’s a feast, and I’m fucking starving.
This club is built for people like me. Exhibitionists and voyeurs—people who understand the power that comes from being seen. Nothing gets me harder than the eyes on me, knowing I’m commanding the crowd’s attention.
Not like when I was a kid and everything was chaos and nothing was mine.
I push my way through the bodies pressing against me, hands reaching out to touch. The anonymity of the masks makes people bold, desperate.
Hungry.
