[This chapter contains explicit sexual content, graphic imagery, mature themes, and disturbing scenes that may not be suitable for all readers. Reader discretion is strongly advised.]
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«Let's talk about men for a moment. We are driven by instinct, it's hardwired, genetic, the reproductive imperative, the same ancient force that makes a lion chase prey or a fish breathe through gills. We are no different. We dress it up in ambition, in love, in power—but at the core, it's the same hunger: to spread, to dominate, to be remembered.»
«Fortunately unlike beasts, we have intelligence. Self-control. The human brain evolved to suppress instinct, to cage it behind laws, religion, and morality. We call that suppression, civilization and the cracks in that cage we call sin. Desire. Vice. Anything that lets the animal breathe.»
«It's why religions flourish. Why people, cling to laws. Why men bow to kings, and why soldiers die for flags they barely understand, forgive me, it appears that I am straying again.»
«They say the only difference between a saint and a monster is control. But what if you took control out of the picture? What if I showed you a little dose of our most primal sin?»
"THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU?" A sudden yell shook Mr. Valen slightly, reeling him from his thoughts.
Shaking his head he apologized, "Forgive my—no, no, sorry man," Mr. Valen adjusted his tone before adding, "was kinda in my own world for a moment there."
"That's weird, man. You don't just turn off your brain like that. I don't know what shit you're on, but I'm not selling it," the Plug said, with a sober expression on his face as he asked, "What's it like where you go?"
«Well, I'm with you guys but at the same time I'm not. In reality, while I talk to you, I'm simultaneously speaking to tens of thousands of different people—it's my way of staying sane.»
"I'd rather not talk about it," Mr. Valen responded as he observed his surroundings, noting that he was in front of a laundry mat, the time was sixteen minutes after ten.
The sun had long set.
If one were not from the area, it would be difficult to spot anything out of place, even Mr. Valen didn't know that something shady was going on here, but now, he was forced to pay attention, and there was nothing.
No suspicious activities, no odd people, "Is this really the hideout of the Magentas?" Mr. Valen could not help but think.
"Is this like a safe house?" He asked The Plug, his tone probing.
Looking at him strangely, The Plug responded, "the fuck you talking about, would you shut up and follow me."
'That's rude,' Mr. Valen thought but shrugged and followed behind The Plug, who pushed the door.
The door creaked open with a ding from a rusted bell above, sounding more like a broken chime than anything welcoming.
Looking around, one would notice fluorescent lights overhead; they buzzed faintly, flickering just enough to be annoying but not enough to warrant replacement.
"Why is it that every business chooses these types of lights? Can't they think of something else?" Mr. Valen muttered.
"Hmm, I feel you, these lights are fucking depressing," The Plug responded.
The air smelled of warm detergent and damp cotton, thick with humidity from the endless cycle of dryers running on full blast.
It was not empty, though; rather, it was packed with a chunk of people, mothers folding clothes with saddening precision, teenagers scrolling through their phones on cracked plastic chairs, old men dozing beside overstuffed baskets.
Machines hummed and clattered, their whirling drums like the heartbeat of the room.
By the side, a kid laughed too loudly, chasing a toy across the floor, nearly slipping on a wet spot that no one seems to notice, "This definitely doesn't seem like a hideout," Mr. Valen thought.
But then as they got closer to their destination, he noticed something off.
The dryers towards the end were all out of order, yet looked completely new.
A man in a trench coat had been standing by the detergent vending machine for fifteen minutes—never buying anything, never moving. He seemed to be observing, his form guarded.
As they passed by him, Mr. Valen noted that he nodded towards The Plug who nodded back.
Then they came to a red Employees Only door in the back, pulsing gently with a subtle, barely perceptible light. 'Neon?' Mr. Valen thought curiously.
But upon opening the door, what was revealed was a dark stairway leading down.
"After you," The Plug muttered, urging him to advance. If one looked at this situation from another perspective, it would seem as though he was getting kidnapped politely.
But Mr. Valen went in, and as the door closed behind him, he noticed that it wasn't dark rather there was a low blue light above.
As they advanced, Mr. Valen observed bold and offensive graffiti, glowing with a lemon-ish sheen.
Soon, they arrived before a thick door, which The Plug rushed past him to open.
"They spared no expense. The room is hidden in plain sight and soundproofed—who would think to look here? They are organized; it's no wonder they've risen so quickly," Mr. Valen thought upon noticing the acoustic padding at the edges of the room, closing the door behind him.
The room led to another door, which was also completely padded on all edges.
"You ready for this?" The Plug said slowly, a strange smile on his face as he grabbed the nob.
The moment that nob moved the silence was obliterated by a deep, throbbing bass—a slow, sexy pulse that shook Mr. Valen's chest with every beat.
"My word," He muttered, his eyes widening, his pupils dilating, shocked not by the sudden influx of information, but by something else.
Mr. Valen was used to accurately picturing the next thing he saw before actually seeing it, sort of like seeing a few seconds into the future. Unfortunately, what he saw at this moment surprised him, for he had predicted incorrectly, but who would blame him? What lay before him was just so bizarre.
Where would one start from? How would one explain this modestly? Was it the music?
It was the kind of music that you would not hear anywhere that shone with the sun's light, a haunting, erotic rhythm mixed with synthetic vocals whispering like forbidden temptations behind silk curtains.
The air was thick, hot, and perfumed with sweet smoke and sex, not as pleasant as it sounded, but the hormones dulled that notion.
"Hey would you stop staring and walk in, you look like a creeper," The Plug mouthed, his voice barely audible, drowned by heavy beats.
Light barely existed here in a conventional sense. Instead, the room glowed in shadows—dark blues bleeding into purples, a crimson haze swimming through the air, pulsing with every beat of the music.
The ceiling was low, matte black, laced with faint constellations of moving stars—digital projections that warped and swirled
And then you see them—the dancers.
Women moving like liquid dreams across platforms of obsidian glass or having sex on the floor.
"Argh," one man groaned, his seed flying through the air, landing on the face of the lady in front of him, her giggles drowned out by the music.
"Don't move, wait for it to dry. I wanna make a mask, it's good for your skin," the man groaned.
By his side, another duo performed a rather odd act.
The man pistoned into her ass, anal sex, that much was normal, his breaths coming in large exhalations.
But here was the strange part, he held a string of unidentified food stuffed into his partner's mouth, Mr. Valen was positive that this string extended into the far reaches of her stomach, how it got in there he dared not imagine.
Not wanting to observe this act any longer he resolved to move past them, but then, the man yanked the string out of the girl's mouth, moaning in pleasure as the girl vomited, her muscles tensing.
He seemed to derive pleasure from the way her buttocks clenched, his moans increasing.
«It would appear that I have gone too far, if you feel disgusted then I have achieved the desired effect, relish in that disgust and the fact that this is what happens when you let the animal breathe, this is sin, this is lust, this is why the animals need their chains.»
As far as sex acts went, those were only the ones Mr. Valen was comfortable with describing.
The room was rather large, with half of the people in it performing one sex act or the other, the likes of which could only be described as deeds of unnameable perversity.
Letting out a breath, Mr. Valen who still followed behind The Plug decided to observe the women who were not fucking.
The entertainers and staff.
Their outfits, or lack thereof, barely clung to them, revealing more than the shimmering strings allowed.
Their hairs were dyed in iridescent neon shades—vibrant turquoise, violent pink, deep ultraviolet—that glowed as if alive, trailing streaks of color with every whip of their head.
The dye wasn't just cosmetic—it seemed reactive, fed by the pulsing music, making their movements appear like flashes of lightning in smoke.
Their skin seemed like canvases of neon tattoos, etched beneath the surface, glowing gently, dancing across their bodies like living ink.
Symbols in foreign scripts, serpents with blinking eyes, roses that blossomed in slow motion with each beat.
Some symbols pulsed in sync with the music, others seemed to look at you.
There were no eyes in this place that did not shimmer in low light.
The bartenders wore masks decorated with bold neon graffiti, which made them almost seem more hypnotic than the dancers.
«Imagine chugging down shots, eyes spinning but focused on a faint glow, maybe a smiling demon you caught from the corner of your eyes, it would certainly be an experience no?»
The drinks were phosphorescent, the couches velvet and deep, like the of blood in moonlight.
The walls?
They were covered in neon lightning that seemed to pulse with the music, but Mr. Valen was not focused on that.
Rather his attention was stolen by the person he was following, and of course what said person had to show.
They had stopped before a group of people who seemed, by their attire, unsuitable for a place like this.
But even amid this group their leader was clear, his eyes narrowed as he observed Mr. Valen.
"So this is the leader of the Magentas," he thought his expression blank.