After walking down Rapist Alley, I walk into a massive room filled with couches and poker tables. Men lounge on the couches with women draped over their laps and shaking their asses or tits in their faces. At the back of the stage, a woman is currently humping a pole while men are throwing dollar bills at her. A full bar is off to the left of that, where several men in business suits sit, drinking glasses of alcohol. Probably fifty-thousand-dollar Scotch that tastes like ass. Then again, they probably enjoy that taste since they think their own farts smell like flowers. Women in scantily clad clothing roam the room, delivering drinks, and pretending to laugh at their lame jokes and—what the fuck? Ten feet from me, a woman stands at a poker bar holding out her bare arm while an asshole stubs out his very lit cigar on her skin. My face drops when I see that asshole is Mark fucking Seinburg. Goddamn it. Smoke sizzles from her flesh, but she doesn’t move an inch. In fact, she doesn’t even flinch. Anger punches through my chest. I force myself to stay calm as I walk over to the table, acting more interested in the game than I am in the girl. As I get closer, I notice she has a blank look on her face, much like the hostess that greeted me. The smell of burnt flesh fills the area. One dickhead even waves his hand in front of his nose dramatically, as if it’s her fault it smells. She drops her arm and just stands there, a glazed look in her eyes. After closer inspection, I notice that the entirety of her arm is covered in burn scars. Old and fresh. All in different stages of healing and plenty of fresh burns from tonight. Mark shoos her away, and she robotically turns and walks off, as if she didn’t just have a cigar stubbed out on her flesh. She’s drugged. And after looking around at the women, I realize they all are. Not only does it keep them compliant, but they probably won’t remember the majority of the shit that goes down in here. My mask stays in place, refusing to crack from the anger swirling in the depths of my chest. Keeping my eyes on the table, I approach the men. “Gentlemen! Who’s winning tonight?” Five pairs of eyes turn to look at me, all with snide looks on their faces. I can tell what they’re thinking without them even saying it. Who are you? What gives you the right to speak to us? “T am,” Mark chirps, and I literally couldn’t have planned that better myself. It’s like God opened up His hands and dropped that fine piece of blessing in my