The third floor of Celeste's gallery hit different the second you stepped off the elevator—like the whole space had been dialed down to make you feel every heartbeat twice as loud.
Dim lighting that cost a fortune to look accidental: soft amber spilling across the floor in these slow, deliberate patches while the rest of the room just sank into shadow that felt alive, almost breathing.
The music wasn't blasting; it was low and constant, bass rolling up through the hardwood, into your soles, your ribs, that quiet part of your brain that forgets you're supposed to be on your best behavior tonight.
Masks everywhere you looked. Some dripping in feathers like they were ready for carnaval, others straight black velvet keeping it clean and cold, a couple jeweled ones screaming money without saying a word.
