The great doors swung open—and madness poured out to meet him.
Electronic music thundered like a living pulse, basslines pounding in time with the rhythm of every beating heart. Under violet-red lights that bathed everything in sin, men and women swayed and writhed together in a feverish storm of flesh. Spotlights swept the crowd, occasionally landing on some fool performing an act of shameless exhibition—each time, applause and laughter rolled through the room like a wave.
The air was thick and dizzying: perfume, alcohol, sweat, incense. A cocktail of indulgence that blurred the senses, erasing direction and thought. Ignis felt himself swallowed by the crowd's chaotic tide.
A shirtless male server passed by, wearing only a collar, cuffs, and a bow tie—mocking the illusion of formal attire. A silver tray glimmered in his hand, bearing rows of colorful drinks. As people reached for their glasses, they laughed and ran their fingers across his bare chest.
Priscilla plucked two glasses from the tray, handing one to Ignis.
He accepted it, the liquid glowing like molten gemstones in the dim light. A cocktail, beautifully mixed.
He sniffed it cautiously—no strange odor—then took a careful sip.
Priscilla laughed softly at his restraint. Tilting her head back, she downed her own glass in one breath, then took his and drained it too.
"Relax," she said, smiling. "Just alcohol. Unless you ask for something stronger, no one here dares to spike your drink."
She set the empty glass on a passing maid's tray, moving on as if nothing had happened.
Ignis had never been to a place like this. On work sites, he'd often been the uptight one—the man who refused bribes, skipped after-hours drinks, ignored every invitation to the "second venue." Supervisors called him difficult; laborers thought him humorless. The truth was simpler: he'd seen too many men lose themselves in vice.
But this—this was beyond vice.
The women here wore outfits that defied modesty and gravity alike: bunny ears, sailor uniforms, latex suits, tight corsets that glittered under colored lights. Along the hall's edges hung cages, each holding a young woman who swayed and beckoned, winking, pouting, licking her fingers suggestively through the bars. When someone in the crowd pointed at one, an attendant opened the cage, replaced her with another, and the ritual continued.
Every corner had its own stage. Collared women danced around poles, their chains gleaming as they moved. Some couples—or not even couples—had already abandoned performance entirely, giving themselves over to lust right there under the lights.
The air reeked of heat, sweat, perfume, and sin. The low hum of moans built into a collective roar—primitive, animalistic, like ancient humans chanting around a fire.
Priscilla led Ignis through it all. At his towering height, he met the eyes of the caged women directly. Many smiled and blew kisses. But among them he saw a few who didn't fit—their movements shy, hesitant, their gazes darting like frightened birds.
Slaves, he realized. Not performers.
They reached a plush sofa positioned perfectly before the main stage. As soon as Ignis sat, the women surrounding him closed in, two of them pressing themselves boldly against his chest. Their soft curves flattened against the iron-hard muscle beneath his coat. The others leaned in from behind, resting their breasts on his head or shoulders, giggling as if competing for his attention.
Priscilla, ever graceful, handed him a datapad displaying a lavish menu of drinks. He selected a mid-range option, ordering a dozen bottles.
Most men would have melted under the warmth of so many bodies. But Ignis's mind stayed cold and sharp. The faint burning on his skin—the Emperor's brand—kept him anchored.
"Is there a special performance tonight?" he asked, voice steady, even as he pinched one woman's hip in feigned playfulness to maintain his disguise.
"Of course," Priscilla purred, signaling to a waiter. "The modern artist Francis is performing an improvised painting tonight. A rare event—everyone's excited."
She opened a bottle, placed it to his lips. Ignis took another shallow sip, then gestured for her to stop. Another girl immediately leaned forward with a napkin, gently wiping his mouth.
"Never heard of him," Ignis admitted, raising his voice to compete with the thundering music. "But this place is a bit too loud for art, don't you think?"
"That's all right," Priscilla said, leaning closer until her breath brushed his neck. "After the main show, every guest is invited to a private room. It's the rule here—no one leaves before the finale."
Private rooms.
Then the abducted girls must be kept somewhere nearby.
He couldn't strike yet. He needed to see more—to understand the structure of this nest before burning it out completely.
The music deepened; the scent grew heavier. Perfume, flesh, and alcohol formed a haze designed to smother the mind. Ignis's brand flared hotter, warning him that corruption was near.
Then—a commotion. Shouts. A crash of glass. A wet, horrible sound.
Ignis rose with the crowd. On the dance floor, one man had another by the throat—half a broken bottle buried in the victim's neck. Blood poured from the jagged glass like dark wine.
The killer wrenched the bottle free and stabbed again—once in the chest, once in the gut. More screams. More laughter. Women rushed in to kiss the victor, clawing at his clothes as he bellowed for more drinks. Servants hurried to drag the body away, the crimson trail vanishing beneath fresh boots and spilled liquor.
"Just a little post-drink excitement," Priscilla murmured, tugging Ignis back to his seat. "Nothing to worry about. The main performance will start soon."
He sat again, forcing calm. His pulse thundered with anger, but he held it down. Not yet. Not without armor.
Then—the lights dimmed. Every spotlight focused on the central stage. Drums rolled like thunder, and the crowd erupted in anticipation.
The performer appeared: a short, bald man in a ridiculous tuxedo, moving with the stiff waddle of a penguin. He raised his arms theatrically.
"Good evening!" he called. "I am Francis, a modern artist. Tonight, I shall demonstrate improvisational painting! Bring out the canvas and brush!"
The spotlight shifted. Two muscular attendants appeared, leading a chain of naked women onto the stage. Each wore a full hood, each collared, their wrists and ankles bound in iron shackles. They were trembling.
Ignis's eyes narrowed.
The attendants wheeled out metal frames fitted with hooks. The girls' limbs were hoisted and fastened one by one. Their muffled cries echoed faintly beneath the music.
If a mirror had been nearby, Ignis knew his face would have been carved from iron—cold, hard, furious.
"The canvas is ready!" Francis announced gleefully. "Now, bring me my brush!"
A servant presented him with what looked like a white jade stylus.
Then the "artist" stepped up to the first girl. With the attendants' help, he dragged the stylus across her belly—and a line of blood followed the stroke.
The crowd roared with laughter and applause. Francis flushed red with excitement.
"The carving tool," Priscilla whispered, "is made from a young girl's bone. Took ages to find one so perfect."
Ignis's hand twitched toward his hammer. Every hair on his body stood on end.
Francis continued his "painting," drawing more crimson strokes on living flesh. Each time the victim writhed, the audience cheered louder.
Art, they called it.
It was butchery dressed as culture.
The first "canvas" gradually ceased struggling. As her life drained away, her body convulsed and emptied itself—then hung limp, lifeless.
Francis moved on to the next.
Each stroke, each scream, each spatter of blood drew more ecstatic laughter from the crowd. The floor beneath the stage grew slick with it, red rivulets trickling into the cracks. Some guests rushed forward, scooping it up and smearing it across their skin like holy oil.
The hall dissolved into frenzy.
Fights broke out.
More blood spilled.
And Ignis sat there, trembling with the effort not to draw his weapon—not to unleash the fire that his faith demanded.
But soon, he promised himself.
Very soon.