Perth Tanapon (millionaire)

The penthouse terrace of the Crown of Thorns Hotel, 60th floor. Night. A warm breeze sways the fairy lights. Glass pools with lights, champagne flows freely, guests in designer attire—the cream of society. The air smells of chlorine, expensive perfume, and money.

Perth stood at the edge of the pool, lazily swirling a glass of amber whiskey between his fingers. His gaze swept over the crowd... and froze.

On the platform, amidst silver smoke and a rhythmic beat, he moved. One of the dancers. Younger than the others, thinner in bone, but with such grace, as if the devil himself had taught him how to bend. Perth didn't know his name. He simply watched the light stream down his bare collarbones, the water droplets glistening on his skin—he'd just slipped out of the pool. An angelic face with a lazy, almost mocking half-smile. He danced as if this hotel, this party, Perth itself—everything belonged to him.

Perth took a sip of whiskey. He cursed silently. What the hell.

He tore his gaze away, forcing himself to return to the guests. To the microphone. It was time to speak.

"Ladies and gentlemen..." his voice, amplified by the speakers, rolled over the roof. The hum died down. "Welcome to the Crown of Thorns. This hotel is more than just glass and concrete. This is a new era. An era of luxury that forgives no mistakes."

He was saying something else. About investments, about the future. But the corner of his eye still caught the figure of that same dancer. As if he sensed it, he turned around. Their gazes met.

For a split second.

And then the night was torn apart by a scream.

Not ecstatic. Not drunk. Feminine. Full of horror.

The music stopped abruptly. There was the sound of breaking glass. The crowd swayed, murmured, and some ran. Perth had already taken off, pushing past the guests, toward the end of the pool where people were huddled and something dark was swirling in the water. Something that shouldn't be there.