The air inside The Vault didn't just smell; it clung. It was a suffocating cocktail of musk, cured latex, and the cloying sweetness of expensive oud cologne, all swirling under a canopy of neon crimson lights that pulsed like a dying heart. The bass didn't just play; it vibrated through the soles of Clara’s sandals, rattling her teeth and echoing the frantic rhythm of her heart. She felt small, a pale smudge of innocence in a room designed for the desecration of it.

Clara clutched Marcus’s forearm, her knuckles white, her fingers digging into the fabric of his tailored black shirt. She stepped closer to him, trying to merge her body with his, seeking a sanctuary that didn't exist. To her left, a girl lay unconscious on a plush velvet sofa. The girl was naked, her skin a canvas of bruised reds and purples, mapped with bite marks, slap marks, and the linear welts of a belt. White fluid leaked from her pussy, her ass, and the corners of her mouth. It coated her arms, her breasts, and her stomach; her hair was matted with dried semen.