Victor’s underground studio occupied the entire sub-basement of an abandoned warehouse in the meat-packing district. No signage, no windows, only a freight elevator that groaned like it resented the trip. When the gates rattled open, the air that rolled out was thick with the smell of developer chemicals, sweat, and s*x that had never quite been cleaned away. Crimson bulbs glowed in wire cages along the ceiling, bleeding red light over everything like a darkroom that had learned to breathe.
The space was a cathedral of depravity.
Chains hung from steel beams in lazy spirals. A padded restraint table sat beneath a surgical lamp. One wall was lined with toys in museum rows: glass, silicone, leather, steel, things that had no name outside this room. In the center stood a custom rig (black m
