Chapter 1: The Dark Side of Events

I specialize in security for high-profile events, though not the kind you might expect—no weddings, parties, or awards shows. My employer deals with the illegal side of things.

Honestly, I'm not fond of myself, and I suspect you might feel the same way about me. I work with individuals involved in trafficking various items—drugs, weapons, artifacts, and even people. My job is to ensure their protection.

Last night, I managed security for an auction at the Lost Sin City Centre. It was a relatively minor event compared to the usual chaos I oversee. Despite its reputation, the venue is accessible to many, especially those who are shrewd with their finances. My employer's associates generally avoid such commonplace gatherings.

I arrived early to familiarize myself with the venue. While it's possible to scout the Lost Sin City, I know how to detect law enforcement—a crucial skill. Joe, my boss, had also warned me to be on the lookout for anyone who “changes.” I initially thought he meant people who might dye their hair in the restrooms, which has indeed happened before.

Everything seemed normal until a man approached me around dinnertime and escorted me through the museum after checking my ID. I’ve visited the Lost Sin City countless times, but never had I encountered this area. It was filled with unremarkable items: metallic wall decor, modern robes, and what appeared to be ancient cell phones.

The layout was confusing, and I felt disoriented as I followed the man through a series of hallways. After descending several flights of stairs, we emerged into a stark concrete corridor lined only with security cameras and an industrial elevator. Once inside the lift, we arrived in a more expansive, brightly lit hallway adorned with fourteen recessed doors, only one of which was open. Inside, the voices of attendees were cordial and businesslike.

After a while, I noticed the man who had guided me simply left, which irritated me. I expected more respect, considering we both had similar roles, but he treated me like an afterthought.

The room I entered was bland—smooth white walls and recessed lighting made it feel like a corporate office. A contractor sat at a foldable table, appearing relaxed, though his intense features and salt-and-pepper hair resembled a character from a romantic novel. There was a strange instinctive alarm about him, not uncommon among colleagues.

A group of affluent individuals filled the room, their wealth evident in their demeanor. Over the next hour, more attendees trickled in, making the space feel cramped.

Eventually, an elegantly dressed organizer entered and beckoned Mr. Malcom and me over. After shutting the door, he flashed a broad smile and said, “What does this mean for you?”

“What do you mean?” Malcom asked.

“Seeing each other's faces. It’s an insurance policy,” the organizer explained. “It’s much easier to keep quiet when we recognize each other.” He gestured us to follow him.

The last door on the left revealed an extravagant dining hall, a surprising contrast to the hallway. A massive Russian runner, deep red against the white marble floor, led to an extensive table already set for the upcoming dinner.

“I thought this was an auction,” Malcom noted.

“It’s both an auction and a dinner afterward,” the planner replied, guiding us behind the stage.

“Now, you two have seen some extraordinary things in your time,” he began. “However, I must insist that you maintain complete silence.” His smile returned. “Always and forever. Understood?”

“Yes,” we replied in unison.

“Excellent.” He opened a door leading to a dark, cramped, and odorous space. Strange melodies and whispers echoed off the walls.

Once the lights flickered on, rows of cages came into view—filled with men, women, and children of varying ages, as well as bizarre animals I had never seen before.

The longer I looked, the more unsettling it became. I spotted children crammed into a small cage, their oversized white eyes staring blankly. One man had five eyes and three mouths, each pair producing a different melody. A woman with long, shimmering feathers in her hair swayed like seaweed, and a peculiar girl with a squat frog-like body was also present.

The organizer provided earplugs with strict instructions: “Don’t talk, touch, or listen. I’ll return shortly.”

As soon as he closed the door, I felt dozens of eyes on me. Sweating for the first time in years, I quickly inserted the earplugs deeper, though it offered little relief.

Eventually, the organizer returned, flanked by twenty individuals in dark coats pushing carts filled with syringes and vials. I watched in horror as they administered drugs to those in cages, putting them to sleep.

“Alfredo volunteered that one,” the organizer mentioned, pointing to a trembling boy who appeared no older than sixteen. “Dispose of him. It’s just a bite.” The organizer left abruptly, looking unwell.

I had witnessed a lot, but this was beyond anything I had imagined. The doctors worked with chilling efficiency, dissecting the boy with cold precision. As they stripped him to the bone, they tossed morsels to the acardiacs, who continued their eerie movement