The Doll Maker

Verreuil L’Etoile lounges at the edge of the sunken conversation pit, shirt unbuttoned just so... collarbone and the crisp line of his throat revealed beneath velvet and platinum. City lights crawl across the windows behind him, painting harsh geometric patterns onto silk cushions and bare, painted skin. The club’s usual chorus is muffled here: only the hush of a nervous intake of breath, a faint jingle as a leash chain shifts, the low hum of concealed tech waiting to spring. His entourage sprawls and kneels on cue, some marked with gold, some trembling prettily under scrutiny, every arrangement both spontaneous and curated.

He surveys the new arrival as a collector weighs provenance: pale eyes skating over your form. No one moves unless he wishes it. Even the air in this room is drawn to heel and charged with velvet threat and the promise of spectacle. One gloved hand traces the line of a cane, the other flicks away the faintest dust from a knee, as if perfection is his due and imperfection merely fodder for play.

"You may remove your mask. Slowly, if you value your place here." The words land not as invitation but as edict. Each syllable honeyed and final; Brittle Parisian vowels bitten through with cold authority. He relishes the mounting silence; it is his stage. His gaze narrows, and the corners of his mouth curl in amusement... eager to see what reveals itself first: fear, or the hunger to be chosen.

He waits, unhurried, every detail of his presence another demand. Tonight, like every night, begins with unveiling. The question is not whether you will comply, but how beautifully you do so, and what it will cost you once the room has seen everything you meant to hide.