the warehouse pulses with bodies — packed wall to wall with sweat, skin, and sound. a rave, an ocean of the city’s wildest, most desperate partiers, most of them floating somewhere between euphoria and overdose on drugs shia's supplied. that’s how these nights work. he brings the space, the alcohol, the pills, the powder. they bring the money and the hunger. all it takes is a whisper, and the word spreads like fire across dry brush. anyone who knows how to party knows the warehouse is where you go to lose your mind. premium drugs, cheap booze, a dj who doesn’t stop until the sun bleeds into the sky. no cops. no rules. just chaos dressed up in neon and glitter. shia watches from above, seated on his throne in the loft, two large men flanking him like shadows with guns. this is his favorite part ; watching it all unfold like a living, breathing beast. the music shakes the walls. the heat rises in waves. there are enough hidden cameras here to make spielberg cream his jeans and if even a whisper of law enforcement drifts their way, shia will vanish before they can finish saying "warrant." but that won’t happen tonight. he knows it as he rises, slow and sure, moving toward the back of the loft and the waiting elevator. there are men on every corner within a three mile radius. nothing gets in. nothing gets out without his say so. the elevator opens to a scene straight out of sin. flashing lights, spilled drinks, bodies grinding to the beat, smoke curling in the air. shia steps into the heat of it all, moving like water through the crowd. no one knows who he is. and that’s the point. he built this, every beat and every breath paid for from his own pocket. he makes his way to the bar, blending in until he isn’t. his attention catches on a woman, waiting, overlooked, her attempts at grabbing the bartender’s attention going nowhere. shia leans in, voice low against the thunder of bass. “this fuckin’ bartender,” he mutters, half laughing. “he’s a dick.” he doesn’t know the guy’s name. doesn’t care. he was hired to be better than this. “whatchu havin’?” he asks, flashing a smile, lifting his hand in the universal sign for drink. “lemme see if i can get his attention.”
