Several months later.

  The room was dingy and dull. It felt almost sunken. Mirrors reflected other mirrors, an infinite regress that made Pamn's head spin. Evelyn stood before her, studying her with a detached curiosity, like an artist examining an unfinished painting.

  Pamn, sitting on a worn chair, reached into her purse. Her fingers found the familiar small orange bottle, and she unscrewed the cap. A soft rattle followed as she shook out a few miscellaneous white pills onto her palm.

  "You better get to steppin' real quick!" Conor's voice echoed, muffled from beyond the dressing room door, followed by a heavy knock.

  “You look thinner,” Evelyn remarked, her hand brushing Pamn’s cheek with a touch that was almost affectionate.

  They both looked in unison as the door swung open.

  "Hm?" Evelyn blinked innocently.

  Conor only scowled at her. His eyes darted between them before settling on Pamn, who had turned away. Their gazes met in the mirror’s reflection. "Come on. Let's go. This ain't the time to be doin' this shit. You really gotta impress today." He grabbed her arm, dragging her out into the studio.

  There he was again. The man with the intense gaze. She struggled to remember where she had seen him before, but the connection eluded her. Yet, when their eyes met, it felt as though he had been staring at her for years, his presence both familiar and disconcerting. The studio was unusually crowded. Clusters of people mingled in hushed conversation, their voices blending into a low hum. Among them was a shivering, ultra-thin woman with ghostly pale skin and vacant eyes, standing beside a tall man with dark skin, striking blue hair and intricate tattoos that crawled up his arms like vines.

  Recognition hit her. The man was Monroe. He stood apart from the crowd, his fingers forming a rectangle as he squinted through it, framing her like a living portrait. Pamn froze, suddenly hyper-aware of her every movement.

  Conor gestured toward a man with striking blue hair. "My guy over here, haven’t known him too long, but Manson always comes through."

  Manson glanced over at them, noticing Conor’s wave. Jogging over, he asked, "Yo, C, can we talk for a sec?"

  Their voices dropped, but even in hushed tones, Pamn caught bits of their conversation.

  “C, Imma show you this later—I wrote it down—but I wanted to tell you: it’s starting!”

  “What’s starting?”

  Manson leaned in, his gaze darting around to ensure no one else could hear. “That prophecy I was telling you about. The one from a year ago? I’m noticing the signs! The other day, I was dreaming. There’s a messiah—”

  “Bro, what-”

  “—Listen! I’m not saying it’s me. Maybe ‘messiah’ is a strong word, but I know there’s something special about the person in my dream!” Manson stared Conor straight in the eyes. “They’re who I’ve been looking for all my life…”

  Conor gave him a long, skeptical look. “A’ight, man. I dunno what you want me to do about that.”

  Both models were positioned in the center of an enormous bed, its pristine white sheets taut and gleaming under the lights. Surrounding them were wax sculptures of naked figures, their stillness eerie and lifelike, posed like they were asleep.

  Atop the sheets, Pamn posed. Her back arched, and her legs set wide, her chest pushed forward. She wore bright red lingerie with pink diamond-encrusted heart-shaped sunglasses. Mirroring her pose was the blonde model, wearing a tough, dark red leather torso armor piece.

  "Good," Monroe said. The camera's flash punctuated each word. "Pamn, keep the innocent doe-eyed look. Yes."

  The wall behind them was tiled in a black-and-white checkerboard pattern.

  "Pamn, let her get on top of you. Really make it look like you're getting dominated. You realize the pleasure in it as well."

  "You gotta admit," Conor said to Manson. "She's doing great."

  "Amazing," he nodded, his eyes fixed on the scene.

  "Like Marilyn."

  "I was thinking Sharon Tate," Manson smirked.

  Under Monroe’s direction, the blonde model leaned closer, their lips brushing. "Pamn, use your nails; scratch her back."

  Nearby, Evelyn added her flair, curling her fingers into claws and making a dramatic hissing sound. “Pamn, be more like a kitty! A mean ol’ cat!” she teased.

  Pamn’s focus wavered as the camera lens seemed to grow larger, consuming her vision. Each flash of the camera became a hypnotic pulse

  Pop! The sharp sound shattered her daze. She blinked rapidly, her surroundings coming into focus. Golden champagne spilled over the edge of a bottle, bubbles sliding down its side like liquid gold. She found herself perched at the edge of a restaurant booth. The table before her overflowed with plates of decadent food and glasses of fizzing champagne. Conor sat to her right, a nonchalant presence, while the rest of the booth was filled with faces from the shoot. Her gaze flickered across them. The blonde model was gone. One wore a bright white suit with red stripes. Forty-something, and he held himself with unintentional arrogance.

  The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  The man Conor called Manson sat furthest away from her, next to the photographer, Monroe. Before taking a bite of his food, he clasped his hands together, saying a quick prayer. She tuned in to what Monroe was saying: "They thought I was crazy. Yeah, it wasn't fun. But it was worth it. You have to go through pain in order to become you. It's the touchstone of growth."

  "Pain is pain to me," the man in white dismissed.

  "In my world—as a creative, it's so much more."

  Manson smiled knowingly, nodding along with what Monroe was saying.

  "I decided," Monroe started. "The first time my mom hit me, to hold on to that feeling. Knowing it was special. Being smart enough to never let that go and to alchemize my pain."

  "Nigga what?" Conor's face scrunched. "Your mom hit you?"

  "Weekly occurrence," Monroe shrugged. "But I couldn't be more thankful for it. Grateful."

  As the glasses of champagne were being poured, the man in the striking red and white suit turned to Pamn and asked, "You don't want any of this, do you?"

  "No, I do," Pamn nodded eagerly.

  The man smiled, poured her a tall glass, and slid it across the table. "Well, I gotta say," he started after watching her take several big gulps of the drink. "I was promised a lot of things when I first heard about you. But I've got to say, you, my dear, have destroyed all expectations," he reached across the small table, kissing her hand.

  "Oh, thanks," she said cautiously. She leaned into Conor, asking, "Where are we? How long have we been here?"

  He nodded to the man across the table, "We're at his building. We came down to the basement restaurant to hang out with these guys, remember?"

  The man smiled at Pamn. "But, how about after this we continue the party back at my place? Just you and me."

  Awkward laughter at first, then an incredulous look when she realized he wasn't joking, and a glance at Conor, who had a glint of amusement in his eyes. She looked back at the man and pointed to Conor, "I'm with-"

  "Oh, he doesn't mind," he said, visibly waving away her concern. "Ain't that right, C?" He gave a toothy grin, turning to stare at Conor.

  "Go ahead." Conor reached for a glass, not looking him in the eyes.

  Blood drained from her face. Pamn pushed herself out of her seat, storming toward where she thought the nearest exit was.

  "Pamn!" Conor's voice echoed after her. "Yo, Pamn!" As if in a blink of an eye, he appeared behind her. He was impossibly fast. Grasping at her.

  "I'm not doing that!" She whirled around.

  "You promised me that you were serious about modeling." His voice was low and sharp.

  "I am!"

  "These are the kind of men you've gotta impress. This is how you make it. You said you were tryna be on billboards an' shit, this is the process. You wanna be in a movie, a TV show, this is what you gotta do to be a star. Oh my gosh, bruh, come on. If this ain't your dream anymore, tell me now, and I'll go print you out an application for the closest Subway! You make them happy, and they help you out."

  "Please don't make me do this! Please!"

  "I didn't invite him to your shoot just so you could be a bitch and walk off."

  She shook her head; her face streaked with tears. Again, she stomped away.

  "Ay Pamn, this is how everyone makes it. Not just the females, niggas too. Why you think you so special alluvasudden, huh?"

  After running through a dim and eerie hallway, she pushed through a set of heavy metal doors. The room beyond was irritatingly bright, crowded with rows of metal folding chairs, each occupied by one of the forty models—variations of the same girl—wearing almost nothing. They sat. Quiet. Anxious. Their heads all snapped to her as she burst into the room—It reminded her of a high school gymnasium. Opting for one of the three other doors, she navigated through another corridor, stealing glances inside each room she passed. The first was a young dancer. A lightless smile smeared across her face as she applied makeup in front of a mirror. The second, several models all eagerly huddled around a small table. Two were sitting; one was counting money, and the other was crushing pills under a knife. In the third room, a woman in burlesque sobbing on a phone, waving a revolver around.

  As Pamn sprinted, her footsteps became thumps of a pulsing synth beat, distant but loud.

  An echo of Conor's voice from somewhere, "Pamn! You're being stupid! Cut the bullshit. This is your dream. Our dream. You owe me!"

  Pushing through another set of doors, she found herself back in the gymnasium, which was now empty. Racing towards an unexplored doorway, she entered another seemingly infinite hallway. Doors manifested and vanished like flickering stars as she navigated the labyrinth. The deeper she ventured, the more distorted the building became as rooms constantly shifted around her. She ran until everything became a pulsing swirl of neon lights, blurred motion, and deep darkness.

  Frantically, Pamn swung open the last remaining door. Standing behind it was Conor and the man in the white suit. Their eyes leered as she fell to her knees.

  The man in white gingerly placed the golden champagne bottle back on the table. The shroud of deep purple enveloped him, its contours jagged and blocky.

  "Are you a monster? Some kind of demon?" Pamn asked with a breathy gasp, though no one seemed to hear.

  Pamn sat on the edge of the mattress, looking out the penthouse window. She'd tangled herself in the sheets, wrapping them around herself. She glanced back at the man lying on the bed, his forearm flung over his eyes. Getting up slowly, her heart beating quickly, hoping he didn't speak to her.

  He grabbed the top of her head as if he were palming a basketball. "You ain't done yet."

  Then she's falling.