The silence that followed was heavy, thick with the scent of iron, expensive perfume, and raw exertion. The only sound was the ragged, syncopated rhythm of our breathing echoing off the tiled walls. For a heartbeat, the room felt frozen, a tableau of high-society depravity halted by a display of power they hadn't expected to see.
Then, the first crack of a palm hit a palm.
It was the Silver Fox, his gold rings glinting like predator eyes in the dim red light. One slow, rhythmic clap. Then Evelyn joined in, her mask slightly askew, a triumphant, predatory smile playing on her lips. Within seconds, the room erupted. It was a sophisticated, rhythmic applause—the kind of ovation usually reserved for the opera or a high-stakes board meeting.
