I blink. “What place?”
“You’ll see,” he says, already opening the door.
And just like that, my stomach drops.
We leave the hotel through a side entrance guarded by two Italian men, and Artyom doesn’t slow down or look at them, he just presses a hand against the small of my back the moment we step outside, guiding me toward the car waiting at the curb. His palm is warm through the thin fabric of my dress, steady in a way that makes the whole day dissolve into a strange, floating sensation that follows me into the backseat.
He doesn’t tell me where we’re going. He doesn’t even look at me directly, just glances at my hands when I clasp them too tightly in my lap, then looks out the window again.
“You’ll see,” he says when I ask.
The car drives through narrow streets that get quieter and darker the farther we go, the city shifting from polished stone and tourists to alleys that smell like smoke and heat, the kind of place where neon signs flicker above doors that only open for certain people. Artyom sits beside me, elbow resting on thewindow, his other hand loose on his knee, his posture relaxed but his jaw tight in that focused way that tells me he’s not relaxed at all.
“You’re quiet,” he murmurs, still looking straight ahead.
“So are you,” I say.
He huffs a breath through his nose, something between a laugh and an exhale, and the sound curls low in my stomach because it’s warm, softer than I expect, almost amused in a way that feels private.
When the car stops, he steps out first and waits for me on the sidewalk, his hand extended and I take it because I don’t know where we are, and because his fingers curl around mine like he’s anchoring me without meaning to.
The building looks like nothing from the outside—dark windows, a single unmarked door, the kind of place you’d walk past without noticing if you weren’t looking for it. But as we step inside, I see another world. The hallway glows red and low and warm, the kind of lighting that makes people look softer, slower. A man behind a desk nods at Artyom immediately, eyes flicking to me with curiosity before he hands us wristbands.
“What is this place?” I whisper as we walk deeper, my voice almost swallowed by the low hum of music rolling through the walls.
“A club,” he says simply.
“What kind of club?”
He gives me a look that says he’s choosing his words carefully. “Not the kind Calina or Milana are allowed to step foot in.”
That doesn’t answer anything and answers everything at the same time.
We walk down a long, dim corridor, the lighting a pervasive, pulsing crimson that seems to thicken the air itself. The air is warm and heavy, scented with a layered mix of expensive leather, stale champagne, and something sweet, musky, and violently unfamiliar—a pheromonal cocktail that catches at the back of my throat. I can feel the bassline of distant, heavy music vibrating up through the floor, a constant, low thrum that mirrors the frantic beat of my own heart.
As we pass the first room, separated from the corridor by a massive pane of smoked, reflective glass, my breath catches sharply, a physical jolt that makes my body tense. My gaze is instantly locked, horrified, and yet compelled.
Because I see everything, rendered in blurred, shifting color.
It is a chaotic, primal scene: a tangle of wet, pale limbs and dark, defined shadows, a shifting mass of human forms pressed tightly together. The colored light catches the slick sheen of sweat and heated skin. I register the frantic speed of the movement, thebodies colliding and separating, driven by a raw, immediate need that is utterly devoid of gentleness.
A low, continuous, almost desperate moan, then pitched high and ragged, bleeds faintly through the thick glass—more animalistic than anything I've ever heard—and the sound sends a violent shiver of revulsion mixed with electric curiosity down my spine. My face flushes instantly, a wave of humiliated heat surging up my neck and across my cheeks.
But the true shock is the audience. The dozen or so men and women standing right outside the action, behind the glass—in tailored suits, holding perfect drinks—are watching with a terrifying calm and calculated detachment, as if they are simply observing a stock market ticker or a piece of abstract art. Their cool indifference makes the chaotic display inside feel less like a party and more like a carefully controlled exhibition of depravity.
My heart is thudding too fast, a frantic drumbeat of pure, unadulterated fear mixed with an immense, dizzying excitement. I press my arm tight against my side, trying to mute the sound, realizing I didn’t even know places like this actually existed outside of whispered rumors. This is real, raw, and suddenly terrifyingly within reach.
I feel Artyom watching me from the corner of his eye. His presence is a solid wall next to me, waiting for me to break, waiting for my judgment, or maybe, waiting for my surrender. I want to look away, but the chaotic, magnetic pull of the scene is too strong.
“This is one of the voyeur rooms,” he says quietly, voice low enough that only I hear it.
I nod, but I can’t look away. Something about it pulls at me, not because I want to be in there, but because I’ve never seen anything like it, never imagined people could be so open with desire, so unashamed, so… free.
Artyom steps closer. “You okay?”
“I—I didn’t know people did this,” I say, my cheeks burning.
He leans in, his voice dropping. “People do everything.”
