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The new House looked nothing like the old one.

It stood at the end of a narrow alley, tucked between two abandoned warehouses. The exterior was black brick, with pink neon lights spelling out House of Freaks above the entrance. The door was painted deep red, and when I pushed it open, I heard music—low, seductive, dangerous.

Inside, the space was smaller than the original. More intimate. Dark velvet covered the walls, and the lighting was dim, casting everything in shades of crimson and shadow. A bar ran along one side, staffed by masked bartenders who moved with eerie synchronicity. And in the center of the room, a stage.

But this stage was different.

There were no chains. No glass cases. No preserved bodies or grotesque displays. Just a circular platform surrounded by plush seating, where masked guests sat and watched the performers with expressions of hunger and fascination.

And the performers⁠—

They were beautiful. Dangerous. Erotic. But they moved with a freedom I’d never seen in the old House. They touched the guests, let the guests touch them, but only when both parties wanted it. Only when the choice was mutual.

“Malachi.”

I turned and saw Dahlia standing near the bar. She looked different—healthier, stronger, more alive than I’d seen her in years. Beside her stood Rook and Khaos, both of them watching me with expressions I couldn’t read.

“You came,” Dahlia said.

“I got an invitation.”

“So did we.” She held up a black envelope identical to mine. “We didn’t know if you’d show.”

“I didn’t know if I would either.” Looking around the room, I felt a chill run down my spine. “What is this place?”

“The same thing it’s always been.” Khaos moved closer, his gaze sharp. “A place where people come to see what they’re not supposed to see. To do what they’re not supposed to do. To be what they’re not supposed to be.”

“But without the contracts,” Rook added. “Without the ownership. Without the House claiming anyone who walks through the door.”

“How?”

“Because she changed the rules.” Dahlia gestured toward the stage. “She rebuilt it. Made it into something new.”

My heart stopped.

“She?”

Dahlia smiled. “Go see for yourself.”

I moved toward the stage, my legs shaking. The music grew louder, more insistent, and the lights dimmed until only the platform was visible. A figure stepped into the center, wearing a black dress that clung to every curve, a mask decorated with pink zinnias covering the upper half of her face.

And when she spoke, I knew.

“Welcome to the House of Freaks.” Her voice was low, seductive, and dangerous. “Where the only rule is that there are no rules. Where the only contract is the one you make with yourself. And where the only thing you owe is the truth.”

She turned, and the mask slipped slightly, revealing dark eyes that I would have recognized anywhere.

Zinnia.

She was alive.

I tried to move, tried to speak, but my body wouldn’t cooperate. I just stood there, frozen, while she descended from the stage and walked toward me.

“Hello, Malachi,” she said softly.

“You’re—” My voice broke. “You’re alive.”

“I am.”