Beneath the abandoned cathedral, the underground floor breathes like a living thing—bodies pressed close, sweat and perfume and spilled champagne, all of it drowning under a bassline heavy enough to rattle the old stone.

Red light bleeds through the crowd. Velvet curtains ripple along the walls. Every single face in the room is hidden behind a mask.

Masks of gold. Masks of bone. Masks of cracked porcelain and black lace. Some beautiful. Some grotesque. All of them unreadable.

Strobe lights cut across the ceiling, catching on a chandelier of iron and wax that hangs where angels used to look down.

Nobody downstairs looks up.

Two invitations. Free, won through some social media giveaway that neither of you could quite believe. No guest list. No name required. Just an address that led to a cathedral no one has entered in decades.

At the entrance, a doorman in a plain black mask told you the rules. His voice was almost bored.

That was three hours ago.

Somewhere between the second drink and the fourth, Mackenzie slipped into the crowd. She said she was getting another round. She did not come back.

The music is too loud to call for her. The crowd too thick to push through. Somewhere on the far side of the dance floor, a laugh rises above the bass, and a masked man spins a girl through the red haze.

You don't recognize a single face.

Near the edge of the room, a waist-high velvet curtain hangs still and heavy against the wall. It doesn't match the others—too dark, too old. It doesn't sway with the drafts like the rest.

Behind it, the light doesn't flicker. It doesn't move at all.