Several months later.
The room was dingy and dull. It felt almost sunken. Mirrors reflected other mirrors, an infinite regress that made Pamn's head spin. Evelyn stood in front of her, studying her.
On the ground next to her chair, Pamn reached into her purse, unscrewed the cap of a small orange bottle, and shook out a few miscellaneous white pills.
"You better get to steppin' real quick!" Conor's voice echoed, muffled from beyond the dressing room door, followed by a heavy knock.
"You look thinner," Evelyn said, her hand brushing Pamn's cheek.
They both looked in unison as the door swung open.
"Hm?" Evelyn blinked innocently.
Conor only scowled at her before looking at Pamn, who'd turned away, though she met Conor's eyes in the mirror. "Come on. Let's go. This ain't the time to be doin' this shit. You really gotta impress today." He grabbed her arm, dragging her out into the studio.
There he was again. It was hard for Pamn to place where she saw the man last. Though, when their eyes connected, it felt like he'd been staring at her for a long time. It was also weird how there was an audience for the shoot. Several people stood, talking. Next to him, shivering, was an ultra-thin pasty woman and a tall, tatted man with dark skin and short blue hair.
It dawned on her that the man she recognized was Monroe as he held up his fingers and thumbs into a rectangle, squinting through it, and Pamn stood, staring back, captured in his frame.
Conor gestured at the blue-haired man. "My guy over here, haven't known him too long, but Manson always comes through."
Manson, looked over seeing them. He jogged over, asking to speak to Conor for a quick second. Even though their voices were low, Pamn heard a bit of their hushed conversation.
"C, Imma show you this later, I wrote it down. But I wanted to tell you, it's starting!"
"What's starting?"
"I can't really say it all right now," Manson glanced around, seeing if anyone could overhear, "That prophecy that I was telling you about. The one a year or so ago. I'm noticing signs! The other day I was dreaming. There's a messiah-"
"Bro, what-"
"-Listen! I'm not saying it's me. Maybe 'messiah' is a strong word, but I know there's something special about the person in my dream!" Manson stared him straight in the eyes, "They are who I've been looking for all my life..."
Conor gave him a weird look, "A'ight man. I dunno know what you want me to do."
Both models sat in the direct center of a massively wide bed. Lying on either side were wax sculptures of naked people, posed as if they were asleep.
Atop the white sheets, Pamn posed. Her back arched, and her legs set wide, her chest pushed forward. She wore bright red lingerie with pink diamond-encrusted heart-shaped sunglasses. Mirroring her pose was the blonde model, wearing a tough, dark red leather torso armor piece.
"Good," Monroe said. His camera flashed several times. "Pamn, keep the innocent doe-eyed look. Yes."
Behind the bed, the wall was black and white checkered tile.
"Pamn, let her get on top of you. Really make it look like you're getting dominated. You realize the pleasure in it as well."
"You gotta admit," Conor said to Manson. "She's doing great."
"Amazing," he nodded.
"Like Marilyn."
"I was thinking Sharon Tate," Manson smirked.
The model's lips connected via Monroe's instructions. "Pamn, use your nails; scratch her back."
Evelyn stood next to Monroe. She bared her fingernails theatrically, "Pamn, be more like a kitty. Like a mean ol' cat!" She made a hissing sound.
Pamn stared into the camera, its lens growing larger and larger.
Pop! Pamn looked around, the sound breaking her out of her trance. Bubbles began to dribble down the side of the golden champagne bottle. Blinking, she looked around the room, just realizing she was there. Her eyes flitted around the table curiously, staring at everyone who had accompanied them. The blonde model was nowhere to be seen. She sat on the edge of a restaurant booth, the table filled with food, and Conor sat directly to her right. The rest of the seat was packed with those from the shoot. One wore a bright white suit with red stripes. Forty-something, and he held himself with unintentional arrogance.
The man Conor called Manson sat furthest away from her, next to the photographer, Monroe. Before taking a bite of his food, he clasped his hands together, saying a quick prayer. She tuned in to what Monroe was saying: "They thought I was crazy. Yeah, it wasn't fun. But it was worth it. You have to go through pain in order to become you. It's the touchstone of growth."
"Pain is pain to me," the man in white dismissed.
"In my world—as a creative, it's so much more."
Manson smiled knowingly, nodding along with what Monroe was saying.
"I decided," Monroe started. "The first time my mom hit me, to hold on to that feeling. Knowing it was special. Being smart enough to never let that go and to alchemize my pain."
"Nigga what?" Conor's face scrunched. "Your mom hit you?"
"Weekly occurrence," Monroe shrugged. "But I couldn't be more thankful for it. Grateful."
As the glasses of champagne were being poured, the man in the striking red and white suit turned to Pamn and asked, "You don't want any of this, do you?"
"No, I do," Pamn nodded eagerly.
The man smiled, poured her a tall glass, and slid it across the table. "Well, I gotta say," he started after watching her take several big gulps of the drink. "I was promised a lot of things when I first heard about you. But I've got to say, you, my dear, have destroyed all expectations," he reached across the small table, kissing her hand.
"Oh, thanks," she said cautiously. She leaned into Conor, asking, "Where are we? How long have we been here?"
He nodded to the man across the table, "We're at his building. We came down to the basement restaurant to hang out with these guys, remember?"
The man smiled at Pamn. "But, how about after this we continue the party back at my place? Just you and me."
Awkward laughter at first, then an incredulous look when she realized he wasn't joking, and a glance at Conor, who had a glint of amusement in his eyes. She looked back at the man and pointed to Conor, "I'm with-"
"Oh, he doesn't mind," he said, visibly waving away her concern. "Ain't that right, C?" He gave a toothy grin, turning to stare at Conor.
"Go ahead." Conor reached for a glass, not looking him in the eyes.
Pamn pushed herself out of her seat, storming toward where she thought the nearest exit was.
"Pamn!" Conor's voice echoed after her. "Yo, Pamn!" As if in a blink of an eye, he appeared behind her. He was impossibly fast. Grasping at her.
"I'm not doing that!" She whirled around.
"You promised me that you were serious about modeling."
"I am!"
"These are the kind of men you've gotta impress. This is how you make it. You said you were tryna be on billboards an' shit, this is the process. You wanna be in a movie, a TV show, this is what you gotta do to be a star. Oh my gosh, bruh, come on. If this ain't your dream anymore, tell me now, and I'll go print you out an application for the closest Subway! You make them happy, and they help you out."
"Please don't make me do this! Please!"
"I didn't invite him to your shoot just so you could be a bitch and walk off."
She shook her head; her face streaked with tears. Again, she stomped away.
"Ay Pamn, this is how everyone makes it. Not just the females, niggas too. Why you think you so special alluvasudden, huh?"
After running through a dim and eerie hallway, she pushed through a set of heavy metal doors. The room beyond was irritatingly bright, crowded with rows of metal folding chairs, each occupied by one of the forty models—variations of the same girl—wearing almost nothing. They sat. Quiet. Anxious. Their heads all snapped to her as she burst into the room—It reminded her of a high school gymnasium. Opting for one of the three other doors, she navigated through another corridor, stealing glances inside each room she passed. The first was a young dancer. A lightless smile smeared across her face as she applied makeup in front of a mirror. The second, several models all eagerly huddled around a small table. Two were sitting; one was counting money, and the other was crushing pills under a knife. In the third room, a woman in burlesque sobbing on a phone, waving a revolver around.
As Pamn sprinted, her footsteps became thumps of a pulsing synth beat, distant but loud.
An echo of Conor's voice from somewhere, "Pamn! You're being stupid! Cut the bullshit. This is your dream. Our dream. You owe me!"
Pushing through another set of doors, she found herself back in the gymnasium, which was now empty. Racing towards an unexplored doorway, she entered another seemingly infinite hallway. Doors manifested and vanished like flickering stars as she navigated the labyrinth. The deeper she ventured, the more distorted the building became as rooms constantly shifted around her. She ran until everything became a pulsing swirl of neon lights, blurred motion, and deep darkness.
Frantically, Pamn swung open the last remaining door. Standing behind it was Conor and the man in the white suit. Their eyes leered as she fell to her knees.
The man in white gingerly placed the golden champagne bottle back on the table. The shroud of deep purple enveloped him, its contours jagged and blocky.
"Are you a monster? Some kind of demon?" Pamn asked with a breathy gasp, though no one seemed to hear.
Pamn sat on the edge of the mattress, looking out the penthouse window. She'd tangled herself in the sheets, wrapping them around herself. She glanced back at the man lying on the bed, his forearm flung over his eyes. Getting up slowly, her heart beating quickly, hoping he didn't speak to her.
He grabbed the top of her head as if he were palming a basketball. "You ain't done yet."
Then she's falling.