Two hours had elapsed since his entry, a lengthy stretch punctuated by alien touches, the tang of hairspray, the whispering rustle of fabrics, delicate brushes of makeup against his skin, and an undercurrent of burgeoning frustration. He felt as though they had not just divested him of his regular attire, but also of any residual defiance.
Rava remained seated in a plush leather chair as a stylist, for the third or fourth time, fussed over his hair. Someone else, nameless and irrelevant, applied blush to his cheeks. Each movement was methodical, coldly proficient. They perceived him not as a person, but as a project. An aesthetic component of the event. He'd ceased resisting long ago.
Let them embellish him. It wouldn't last.
When they finally withdrew, he exhaled a soft sigh of relief. The room was vacated, now silent save for the muted drone of the air conditioner. He rose slowly and approached the mirror, preparing himself to meet his reflection. However, what he observed felt alien.
A seemingly rested face met his gaze. A slight luminescence, with eyes that seemed brighter than he recalled. The light makeup had masked the signs of exhaustion and sleepless nights. His cheekbones were softened by a subtle flush, and a gentle pink gloss shimmered on his lips. Even his hair, usually unruly black strands, had been tamed into a perfect low bun, secured with a real diamond clip. Everything was flawless. Calculating. There was a complete absence of naturalism.
He lowered his gaze to the suit. A crisp white three-piece that adhered to his form, highlighting his apparent fragility, a stark contrast to his dark hair. Every detail, from the cuffs to the lapels, was impeccable. The ensemble seemed to murmur, "This is how you are meant to appear."
Again, he whispered to himself.
This was not new. He knew how it would unfold. This wasn't the first time he had been turned into a walking ornament. Not the first instance where he ceased to be Rava, instead becoming someone's 'companion' at a public function. An accessory. A display.
Escape was impossible. Security stood vigilant. A car undoubtedly waited below. Even the ventilation shafts he had once exploited were sealed off. Every prior attempt had been foreseen, studied, and countered.
He slid rings onto his fingers, secured his watch, and inspected his reflection once more. No resistance. Only silence, coupled with the stark realization that tonight, he would once more fulfil his predetermined role.
He opened his phone and swiftly composed a message within the coffee shop group chat, informing them of his probable unavailability that day. He offered a perfunctory apology for the prior disruption. He omitted specifics. He did not wait for a response. He closed the application.
Perhaps another job change was required, he thought as a quiet lament passed through his mind. Melancholy and fatigued. However, there was no time for reflection. The bodyguards were already outside, signalling his departure. The instant he stepped out, they began to lead the way.
They moved down a narrow, dimly lit corridor. The walls were dark, absorbing all noise. The atmosphere felt thick, almost humid. Rava was forced to slow his pace, merely to avoid accidental shoulder contact.
Then, as they rounded the corner, everything altered.
The darkness dissipated into a blaze of golden light. Before him extended an immense hall, awash in floral arrangements. Petals carpeted the floor. Classical music, performed by a live orchestra, flowed gently. A striking woman in a red dress was singing, the music and voice creating an enchanting ambiance.
People drifted through the space, chatting and laughing. Their expressions were composed, their faces radiating ease. They held champagne flutes, adorned themselves with opulent jewellery and high-end garments. The entire venue shimmered with prosperity. Yet, beneath the veneer, a certain tension hung in the air. It was as though every individual understood a shared, unspoken secret. As though their attendance came at a price.
They were not assembled here by chance, Rava thought as he ventured deeper into the crowd.
He began to recognize the faces around him. Politicians, business owners, familiar journalists. All engaged in polite discourse, enacting their roles like players in a well-rehearsed drama. No one glanced in his direction.
Furthermore, his partner was notably absent.
"Rava!" a voice suddenly cut through the din.
Before Rava could react, someone bumped into him, enveloping him in a sudden, warm embrace. A hearty laugh, filled with undeniable delight, followed.
"So good to see you again!"
"Oh," Rava exhaled, momentarily disoriented. Before him stood a young man, probably around twenty, exuding undeniable charisma and vibrant energy. His eyes gleamed with genuine friendliness, and his features were framed by a beaming, open smile.
"Sam," Rava breathed out softly, instinctively returning the hug with surprising tenderness.
He really *was* glad to see Sam. Dressed in a striking blue suit, the young man was a frequent presence at these gatherings. Over time, and unexpectedly, they had developed a close bond. Sam worked as an escort for the affluent, often accompanying them to social events. Despite his perpetually sunny demeanor, he, much like Rava, detested the manufactured, oppressive atmosphere. Perhaps this shared disdain had brought them together.
"How have you been?" Rava asked, offering a warmer smile than he'd managed all evening. "It feels like ages."
"Yeah," Sam replied, drawing the word out playfully. "Mr. Aven mentioned you've been rather occupied lately."
The name struck a nerve, tightening Rava's chest. Hades Aven. He had spent the last month attempting to avoid that very name, as if its absence could somehow ease things. Yet tonight, he'd heard it more than he could stomach. Too present. Too intrusive.
The smile slowly drained from his face.
"Do you know where he is?" Rava asked, his gaze fixed downwards.
Sam glanced around the room quickly, then pointed towards a small cluster of people near the stage.
"Over there, I think."
Rava instinctively averted his head from the gesture, as if avoiding the direction could somehow postpone the unavoidable. Every nerve in his body was screaming the same demand: Run. Now. But the crowd was dense, and the exits felt miles away.
"You're lucky with your man," Sam suddenly observed. "Rich, handsome, considerate. And on top of that—"
The word "considerate" weakened Rava's resolve. If "considerate" meant daily cruelty, veiled mockery, and control masked as love, he wanted none of it. Ever.
A jumble of memories, barely-there but undeniable, flooded his mind. Not just a single instance, but an entire sequence. Days punctuated by tension, manipulation, and simmering silence behind locked doors. What had started with charm and cologne had morphed into shouting, social isolation, and manipulation.
Sensing the shift in Rava's demeanour, Sam discreetly moved away. But Rava didn't even notice. He stood rooted to the spot, surrounded by chatter and movement, lost within his thoughts. He was recalling everything that man had done to him. And he understood that, in mere moments, he would be forced to take that very man's hand. In front of hundreds, perhaps even thousands, of onlookers.
At least some of the debt will be settled, he mused bitterly. The prospect of taking a step toward freedom was the only thing keeping him upright.
A harsh sound from the speakers abruptly broke the spell. The microphone was live, and everyone in the hall turned toward the stage.
He was already there.
The man wore a flawlessly tailored suit, almost identical to Rava's, albeit in a different colour. His smile was polished, flawless. He held the microphone with practiced ease. His posture was ramrod straight, almost military. His gaze was unwavering and direct.
Rava couldn't break away, even though every fiber of his being urged him to do so.
"Fucking devil," he muttered under his breath.
The man brought the microphone closer to his lips and began to speak.
"Ladies and gentlemen, it's a pleasure to welcome you to what might seem an insignificant event."
Polite laughter echoed through the room. Applause followed. Rava remained to the side, tense and alert. He knew he was being watched. Every gesture, every look, would be noticed. There was no escape.
"Thanks to your continued support, Aven Entertainment continues to grow and innovate year after year. We are profoundly thankful for your faith and your partnership. Tonight is focused on a new project, nearly two years in development. We call it 'Move Together'."
A logo appeared on the screen behind him. He launched into a speech centered around wellness, building connections through exercise, and the significance of collaborative progress. It all sounded so pristine. So high-minded.
Rava released a quiet, bitter laugh. The absurdity of it stung. A man who covertly operated one of the largest adult-entertainment empires—packed with all that society pretended didn't exist—was now promoting health and community.
The speech dragged on. The man spoke with authority, occasionally allowing a playful note to enter his voice. When he finally concluded, he offered a final word of gratitude to the audience, set down the microphone, and stepped off the stage.
Rava knew it was finished. The break was gone. The spotlight was back on them.
The man never took his eyes off of him. His smile, previously affable, now felt calculated, sticky. He approached. Rava instinctively took a step back, but it was already too late.
Strong arms encircled his waist. The man's face pressed softly into the side of his neck.
"Hello, my little raven," he whispered.
And in that instant, every gaze in the room was fixed upon them.