If the entrance of the gala felt overwhelming, the inside of it feels like entering the den of something much larger and sharper. Every detail whispers power. The room glows with warm golden light that reflects off glass sculptures and silver trimmed decorations. The chandeliers hang like frozen constellations above us, scattering glints across a sea of gowns that shimmer with sequins and jewels.
The guests glide across the floor like predators disguised in silk and polished smiles. Their laughter is soft, practiced, and sharp enough to cut. Their eyes move constantly, scanning, measuring, deciding who matters and who does not. A hundred quiet calculations play out in real time. I am not fluent in this language, but I feel the weight of every glance like a hand tightening around my throat
