The deeper I ventured into the Vault, the more I was struck by the sheer variety of illicit trades unfolding in plain sight. The air was thick with a blend of scents—sweat, smoke, and something sharper, more acrid. Neon signs flickered overhead, casting erratic glows that barely cut through the pervasive darkness.
Stalls lined the narrow aisles, offering everything from counterfeit IDs to exotic drugs and experiences of dubious legality. The vendors worked with practiced ease, their casual nonchalance standing out against the chaotic surroundings. Amid the disarray, I spotted a narrow corridor leading to a more secluded part of the Vault, its entrance shrouded in shadows.
As I navigated the maze, a man with a weathered face approached. He leaned against a wall, observing me with a scrutinizing gaze.
"Looking for something special?" he asked, his voice low and gravelly, portraying years of familiarity with this underground world.
"Nebula," I replied, trying to keep my composure. "Heard it's around here somewhere."
The man's eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "Nebula, huh?"
Dealers always made shit more difficult than it had to be, their cryptic games and evasive questions turned simple tasks into unnecessary headaches. "Just tell me where to find it," I said, my voice steady despite the unease growing in my chest."
He chuckled softly and pulled out a small, worn notebook. "Information doesn't come cheap. I can give you a lead, but you'll owe me first."
I bristled but nodded. "What's the task?"
As the words left my mouth, I couldn't help but notice how familiar this all felt. Despite the flashy neon signs and the underground atmosphere, the Vault wasn't so different from the streets. The same faces hidden behind masks of power, the same undercurrents of danger.
The blatant openness of the illegal trades was striking, but underneath it all, it was the same game I'd been stuck in for years—people pulling strings to make me work, to keep me in their debt. It always came back to that, didn't it? Whether it was Stag or this asshole, it was just another shackle to keep me trapped in their world. And once again, I was on the hook for someone else's favor. Same hustle, different scene.
"There's a vendor who deals in snuff. They move locations frequently. Find them and I'll give you the information about Nebula." I raised my eyebrows. "Are they your competition or something?"
He said nothing. Instead, he grabbed me by the throat and slammed me against the wall. The sudden pressure cut off my breath and blurred my vision. His face was inches from mine, eyes cold and fierce.
"Listen carefully," he growled, his voice a low, dangerous whisper. "Asking too many questions can get you hurt. Just do what you're told. A deal is a deal."
He chuckled darkly before letting me go.
With that, he disappeared into the shadows, leaving his demand hanging in the air. My throat still burned from his grip, but it was the weight of his arrogance that really choked me.
I pushed through the throngs of people, forcing myself to stay focused. The Vault felt more suffocating by the second—the weight of so many bodies, so much chaos pressing in on me like a noose tightening.
I scanned the stalls with a practiced eye, mentally filing away anything of value—fake IDs, designer knockoffs, vials of God-knows-what. It all blurred together, just noise in the background of my thoughts. My heart raced, but not from fear. I wasn't going to follow his orders. The idea of chasing down some snuff vendor like an obedient little worker bee only fueled my frustration.
I wasn't on the streets anymore, and I wasn't about to let anyone in the Vault try to control me. Down here, I owed nothing to anyone. If I wanted Nebula, I'd find it myself.
I passed a vendor selling glittering chains and lockets, my fingers grazing the cool metal as I walked by. For a split second, I considered lifting one, just for the hell of it. But the adrenaline from the alley was wearing off, leaving me with a gnawing sense of unease.
I kept moving, my mind swirling with thoughts of Nebula, the information I'd need to pry from these people. The Vault was a labyrinth of temptation, and every corner seemed to promise something new—something dangerous. I scanned the crowd, taking in the faces around me. Some were desperate, others dangerous, but all too familiar in one way or another.
The Vault wasn't so different from the streets I knew. It just wore its chaos with more flair, like a wolf in designer clothing. I approached a vendor displaying rows of small, glass vials, their contents glowing faintly under the flickering neon lights. The seller, a short heavy-set woman with baggy eyes and a cigarette dangling from her lips, watched me with a mix of boredom and suspicion.
"What's in the red one?" I asked, nodding toward a vial that caught my attention.
"Dreamer's Veil," she said, exhaling a puff of smoke. "Smooth high, no comedown."
I reached into my pocket and pulled out a small bag of pills, holding them up as an offer. "I've got something to trade. High quality." The words came easily, smooth and practiced, but they were a lie.
That bag of pills wasn't high-quality anything. It was stale ecstasy I'd picked up weeks ago, a batch that turned out to be complete duds. They didn't work, didn't give the high they promised, and I'd been slowly offloading them on the streets just to get rid of them. Selling them off piece by piece was a way to recoup some of the loss, even if it wasn't much.
Her eyes narrowed as she weighed the bag in her hand. "Hmm. Not bad," she said, inspecting the pills like she was judging a piece of fruit. "I could work with this."
A low, confident voice cut through the noise around me, catching my attention. It wasn't loud, but it carried an authority that demanded notice. I turned instinctively, and then I saw him.
The clamor of the Vault faded as my gaze locked onto someone who didn't belong among the stalls and grime. A figure stood a few yards away, commanding the space around him like it bent to his will. It was as if the chaos recoiled from him, creating a bubble of calm amidst the madness. His presence was magnetic. He had sharp, angular cheekbones and a strong, defined jawline. His pale green eyes, deep-set and intense, seemed to cut through the dim haze of the Vault. His dark hair was brushed back yet slightly tousled, with a stripe of grey neatly tucked behind his ear.
He wore a perfectly tailored suit, the fabric hugging his tall frame with sharp precision. The sleek lines of the jacket and the impeccable fit exuded confidence and control, as if the suit itself was an extension of his calculated demeanor. An unmistakable aura of danger surrounded him, amplified by the effortless way he carried himself.
His demeanor commanded attention. He exuded an almost palpable confidence, his casual chewing of gum contrasted sharply with the chaotic surroundings. His eyes surveyed the crowd with a predatory air, as if he controlled the pulse of the Vault.
My heart raced at the sight of him.
I left the vendor mid-deal, but not without snatching the pills back from her hand. Her indignant protest barely registered as I stepped toward him, drawn by a pull I couldn't explain. She called after me, annoyed, but her voice barely registered. I was already moving, my focus locked entirely on him.
I steadied myself and walked toward him, letting the familiar confidence take over. I was used to getting men's attention when I needed to—it came with the territory—and this man was no different. There was something primal in the way I was drawn to him, though—a magnetic pull fueled by equal parts fear and intrigue.
I moved closer, weaving through the crowd until I was directly in his line of sight. For a moment, I hesitated, unsure of what to say, but then his gaze landed on me—sharp and impossible to ignore. Noticing the gum he was chewing, I smirked and said, "mind sharing?"
A smile tugged at the corner of his lips. He didn't answer immediately, letting the silence stretch uncomfortably long.
Then, with a darkly amused glint in his eye he said, "You want this? Has the Vault truly left you with nothing better to chase?" He chewed slowly, deliberately, his eyes locked on mine, the words dripping with curiosity and faint mockery.
His accent was thick, with a lilt that sounded like it could be Danish or maybe German—I couldn't quite place it. The way he spoke gave his words a strange, deliberate rhythm, adding to the intensity of his presence.
Before I could respond, he grabbed my face with a swift, almost casual motion. His grip was firm, his fingers pressing into my cheeks. For a moment, I felt a rush of both panic and exhilaration. With a small, playful grin, he leaned in and spit the gum directly into my mouth.
For a moment, I didn't move. The sheer audacity of it caught me off guard—humiliating and thrilling all at once. I should've been angry, disgusted even, but instead, I felt something else.
Instinctively, I closed my mouth around the gum, tasting its lingering mint and the sensation of his touch.
He watched my reaction with dark amusement. "Good girl," he said, his voice low and mocking. "Keep it." With that, he released my face, patted my cheek lightly—as if I were a pet—and turned away, walking off without another word.
I stood there, heart pounding, unsure of what had just transpired. One thing was certain: I wanted more.
As he turned and walked away, curiosity overcame my initial shock. Determined not to let him slip away, I followed him, keeping a careful distance so he wouldn't notice me. The maze of the Vault seemed to close in around us, the neon lights and shadows weaving a disorienting tapestry.
I moved swiftly through the crowd, my eyes locked on his figure as he navigated the labyrinthine corridors with a purposeful stride. He was easy to track—his confident demeanor and the way people seemed to part for him made him stand out in the chaotic sea of faces.
He turned a corner, disappearing for a moment. I quickened my pace, rounding the corner just in time to see him enter a nondescript door tucked between two larger stalls. The door was heavy and old, blending into the grimy walls, but it creaked open just enough to reveal a sliver of what lay beyond.
I hesitated, my heart pounding with a mix of excitement and apprehension. I pressed my back against the wall, peering through the crack in the door. From my vantage point, I could see him step into a room obscured by a thick haze of smoke. The door closed behind him with a muffled thud, cutting off my view.
I waited a few moments, trying to gather my thoughts.
I stood at the door, my heart racing as I debated whether to open it. The risk was high, but the pull of curiosity and the hope of uncovering more about him—and potentially Nebula—was too strong. I took a deep breath, reached out, and pushed the door open.
Inside, the atmosphere was dense with smoke and the faint scent of incense, with only a few flickering bulbs casting eerie shadows on the walls. As the door creaked open, an older woman with a cigarette dangling from her lips looked up from behind a counter cluttered with various objects that I couldn't quite make out.
She exhaled a cloud of smoke and regarded me with a curious, slightly amused expression. "Can I help you, dear? What service are you looking for?"
I tried to sound casual, forcing a nonchalant smile as I stepped inside. "Just looking around," I said, trying to keep my voice steady despite the unsettling feeling in my gut.
She gave me a once-over, her gaze assessing as if she were weighing my intentions. After a moment, she shrugged and gestured toward a set of heavy curtains at the far end of the room. "Feel free. Just be respectful and keep to yourself."
I nodded, offering a polite smile before moving past her. The curtains parted with a soft swish, and I stepped into a different, more shocking realm.
The walls were lined with dark red velvet, and the air was thick with an unsettling mix of sweat and chemicals. I hesitated at the threshold, my eyes slowly adjusting to the dim light.
The room was a twisted showcase of depravity and kink. Walls separated each area like fancy bathroom stalls.
Many of the stalls were open, readily seen by anyone passing though. I glanced in a few rooms to see normal everyday fucking. Men in suits, clearly cheating on their wives. The light glaring off their wedding rings.
A faint whimper caught my attention, pulling me toward a partially drawn curtain. My curiosity flared, and I couldn't resist peeking through the narrow gap. Inside, a Victorian bathtub sat in the center of the stall, half-filled with murky water. A man stood with one foot on the floor and the other propped on the tub's edge, his back to me as he moved with forceful, deliberate rhythm.
Startled by the sight, a nervous laugh escaped me before I could stop it.
Immediately, the man's head snapped in my direction, his eyes blazing with anger. "What the fuck?" he barked, his voice dripping with menace as he released the figure he'd been holding under the water—a pale, gasping man who spluttered and heaved for air, his body trembling as it broke the surface.
I whispered, "My bad," and quickly moved on.
A few stalls down, I spotted a woman strapped to a chair, her arms and legs bound with thick leather straps. She was trembling, her eyes wide and unfocused, as if she wasn't entirely there anymore. A man, dressed in what looked like a doctor's coat, stood over her. He moved with clinical precision, methodically preparing something on a tray beside him—needles, clamps, and surgical tools gleamed in the light.
In his gloved hand, he held a syringe, slowly drawing an amber liquid into it. The way he handled it made my skin crawl; his movements were too calm, too detached. Was it for her? Or for himself? His intentions hung in the air like a thick fog.
The woman let out a soft whimper, barely audible over the hum of the Vault, and my heart skipped a beat. It wasn't the sound of someone in pain—it was the sound of someone who had already accepted whatever horror was coming next. I had seen that look before, in the eyes of people who had given up, who knew they were just waiting for the next terrible thing to happen.
I felt a cold shiver crawl up my spine as I stood there, caught between morbid curiosity and a desperate need to look away. The scene was all wrong—too clean, too controlled. I could sense the perverse satisfaction in the way the man moved, the power he held over her.
For a moment, I considered staying, seeing how this would play out, but I had my own mission, my own problems. I tore my gaze away and forced myself to move on, the sound of the woman's soft whimpers lingering in my mind long after I'd walked away.
Other scenes played out in the shadows, each more disturbing than the last, reflecting a world where boundaries were pushed to their extreme.
Yet, as I moved deeper into the twisted maze, I found myself less unnerved and more intrigued.
At first, I had expected the fear to set in, the kind that makes your hands shake and your instincts scream to get out. But instead, a strange curiosity was blooming inside me—an urge to understand the allure of it all, to see just how far these people were willing to go, to push their limits. The soft cries, the muffled gasps, the way everyone played their parts so seamlessly.
I couldn't help but wonder where the line was, or if there was one at all.
The shadows seemed to pull me in, inviting me to explore further, to see just how deep the darkness went. I passed a stall where a man stood over two women, their bodies painted in intricate designs, whispering commands as they moved like dolls on strings. Another stall had a man covered in glittering scars, his arms outstretched as if offering himself to the silent crowd of women, daring them to take part in his ritual of pain.
My pulse throbbed, but it wasn't from fear. It was from something else—something far more dangerous. I wasn't just an observer anymore. I could feel the Vault drawing me in, challenging me, daring me to go deeper. And I wanted to.
The chaotic energy of the place hummed beneath my skin, stirring an excitement that was hard to resist. This wasn't like the streets, where danger was a constant weight pressing on you. Here, it was different—it was thrilling, almost liberating in its openness. The rules were different here, more fluid, and maybe that was what drew me in the most.
As I struggled to process the scenes around me, I caught a glimpse of him again. He was slipping through a back door, his confident stride never faltering. My heart pounded with a mix of anxiety and anticipation. I couldn't afford to lose him now.
I maneuvered through the chaos of the room, pushing past a couple engaged in a scene I'd rather forget.
I reached the back door just as it was closing. Without hesitation, I pulled it open and stepped into the narrow hallway beyond.
The corridor smelled faintly of perfume. I moved quickly, my footsteps echoing softly in the silence. The hallway twisted and turned, a labyrinth of shadow and uncertainty. I followed the faintest traces of his presence—an odd sense of direction, a fleeting glimpse of movement.
But as I rounded a corner, he was nowhere to be seen. The corridor ended in a dead end.
Realizing I had lost him, I stumbled upon a line of people snaking toward a set of heavy velvet curtains. The line seemed unusually orderly compared to the rest of the chaos. Curious, I joined the end of the line, my mind still focused on finding him. The crowd was a mix of eager faces and whispers of anticipation. I could only hope that this line might lead me to him.
As the line inched forward, I kept my eyes peeled for any sign of him, hoping he might reappear or that I might catch another glimpse of his distinctive presence.
As I reached the front of the line, I was met by a stern-looking guard stationed at the entrance. He was checking patrons before they could enter the theater.
When it was my turn, he glanced at me with a discerning eye. "We only accept black tickets for entry," he said, his voice firm. "Do you have one?"
I shook my head, realizing I didn't have the required ticket. The guard's gaze hardened. "Then you'll need this." He handed me a violet ticket, its smooth surface gleaming under the shallow lights. The name "Oliver" was written on it in elegant cursive.
"There's no entry without a black ticket, but this will get you in. After the show, go to the room near Brazen Alley in the main Vault area. Someone there will tell you how to pay for your ticket," the guard instructed brusquely. He gave me no time to ask further questions, shooing me off with a dismissive wave.
As I tucked the violet ticket into my shirt, I noticed a faint stain left on my hand from the ticket's surface. I tried to ignore it, my mind focused on the mystery of the ticket and the name it bore. I moved forward into the theater.
As I stepped into the theater, I was greeted by a small but beautifully orchestrated setting. The room was adorned with deep burgundy velvet drapes that framed the stage, and delicate chandeliers cast a warm, golden glow over the polished wooden floor. The stage itself was a minimalist masterpiece—an elegantly arranged ensemble of antique instruments gleamed softly under the lights, each piece meticulously placed. The wooden chairs were neatly arranged in a semi-circle, their rich, dark finish adding a touch of timeless elegance to the space. A faint, harmonious hum of anticipation seemed to resonate from the walls, promising an intimate and refined performance.
I found an empty seat in the theater and settled in. The air was thick with a blend of excitement and nervous energy. As the lights dimmed further, the stage was illuminated, revealing an unsettling performance.
The orchestra was composed of naked men and women who looked almost otherworldly—pale skin, white hair, and an ethereal presence that made them seem more like specters than people. They moved with an otherworldly grace, their music a haunting blend of dissonant notes that sent shivers down my spine. Around me, masked patrons in elaborate disguises sat entranced, their anonymity only heightening the surreal atmosphere.
The stage took on a mesmerizing glow. The musicians' performances were nothing short of spellbinding. Every note they played seemed to shimmer in the air, beautifully rendered, pulling me in completely. The harmonies wove through the room like a delicate tapestry, carrying me far from the grim realities I'd been navigating, if only for a moment.
The elegance and skill of their performance were unlike anything I had ever witnessed. In the streets, where the harsh sounds of daily life drowned out the finer arts, such beauty had always seemed like a distant dream. Here, in this refined setting, it felt as though I was momentarily part of something greater, something profoundly different from the world I knew.
As I watched the orchestra, my gaze was drawn to a cellist who bore an uncanny resemblance to my mother. Her graceful movements and the way she played with such passion evoked a haunting familiarity.
Memories of my mother, both beautiful and tragic, washed over me. I remembered the devastating things she had done for drugs, the darkness that clouded her once-bright spirit. Yet, in my mind, I also recalled the rare moments when she was radiant, and full of life. The cellist's nakedness, a symbol of vulnerability, struck me as a painful reminder of the things no child should have ever witnessed. Despite the turmoil and sorrow, I missed my mother deeply, longing for the moments when she was whole and beautiful, her presence a beacon of light in an otherwise bleak existence.
Just as I began to lose myself in the music, reality snapped back into focus. The reason I was here crashed down on me, and I became acutely aware of how out of place I was. While I wore my usual street clothes—worn skinny jeans, scuffed combat boots, and a loose black hoodie—everyone else was dressed in opulent, sophisticated attire. The disparity hit me hard, making my presence feel all the more intrusive. The fleeting escapes the music had offered was gone.
As the performance concluded, the theater's mood shifted. The lights brightened slightly, and a sense of anticipation filled the air. A stagehand began setting up what appeared to be an auction. The naked performers were lined up on stage.
The auctioneer took the stage and began outlining the rules with an air of practiced authority. The performers, lined up like merchandise, were being auctioned off for two-hour sessions, where buyers could do as they pleased—with strict conditions: no harm, no marks.
Despite the facade of control and propriety, it was clear this was a high-end form of trafficking, masked by the formalities of the auction. The rules weren't just about protecting the performers but about preserving the illusion of civility in a place where bodies were just another commodity.
I felt my curiosity turn to anxiety as I scanned the crowd, searching for the figure of the man I saw earlier. His encounter had left me with a gnawing sense of urgency to understand his connection to this world. I tried to stay calm, but the oppressive atmosphere and the bizarre spectacle before me made it difficult to focus. Each bid placed by the masked patrons seemed to add to the weight of my growing unease.
The masks worn by the audience made it challenging to identify individuals, and my eyes kept darting around, searching for a sign of him. The auctioneer's voice, mingling with the murmur of the crowd, was a distant hum as I remained on edge, waiting for any indication of where he might be.
As I continued to scan the audience, my frantic behavior must have been obvious. It wasn't long before I felt a heavy hand on my shoulder. I turned to see two security guards, their expressions stern and unyielding. They escorted me out of the theater room, their presence both intimidating and humiliating
I tried to explain myself, my voice trembling with a mixture of frustration and desperation.
"I'm looking for someone I saw earlier," I said, trying to keep my voice steady. "He was wearing a dark suit, —looked like he was tied to the auction somehow. I saw him head this way."
The guards exchanged glances and laughed, their amusement cutting deep. "Seriously?" one of them said, shaking his head. "You think we're going to help you find someone? Go fuck yourself." The other guard smirked, eyeing me with disdain. "You're better off going back to the room you came from, sweetheart. You fit right in with the rest of them," he sneered, making it clear he saw me no different from the sex workers I'd passed earlier.
With a dismissive wave, they turned away, leaving me standing outside, feeling both defeated and exposed. I tucked the violet ticket further into my shirt, trying to compose myself. Their mockery stung.