The Skeptic Arrives

You weren’t exactly nervous.

You told yourself that as you approached the venue — a converted speakeasy tucked between a boutique cocktail bar and a Pilates studio.

A woman stood at a small table before the entrance, dressed in a sleek black dress with a plunging neckline and a silver cuff on each wrist. She looked like a bouncer, but no earpiece, no clipboard, no gruff demeanor. Just long auburn hair, cat-eye eyeliner, and a very wide smile.

"Name?" she asked.

“Uh… John.”

Her smile widened just a bit more. “Ohhhh. You’re the skeptic.”

She tapped a tablet screen once, then reached behind the table and pulled out a long, black, velvet-lined box. From it, she removed a silver half-mask, smooth and expressionless.

"What’s this?" you asked, your voice cracking slightly despite yourself.

“It’s your mask.” She placed it gently into your hands. “All skeptics wear one. House rule.”

You blinked at her. “Is everyone else wearing one?”

She grinned. “Nope.”

Before you could respond, she leaned closer and whispered — just loud enough to raise goosebumps along your neck — “You’re going to be so much fun.”

Her perfume hit you then — something dark and sweet, smoky like burning sugar. It wrapped around you, curling into your brain, stirring something you didn’t want to name. For a second, you forgot your own name. Forgot the mask in your hand. Forgot everything but the sly, secret smile playing at the corner of her lips.

“Put it on, Skeptic"

The velvet-lined mask pressed cool against your skin as you positioned it. The elastic slipped around the back of your head with a soft snap. The world narrowed — the mask didn't block your vision, but it framed it, somehow, making everything beyond feel sharper, more focused. Like a stage had been built around you, and you were stepping into your first act without knowing your lines.

You hesitated. But your pride marched you forward.

You almost turned back. Almost handed the mask back with some half-assed joke and fled into the night. But pride is a cruel master. Especially when fueled by beautiful women and the knowledge that somewhere inside, you wanted to know what it would feel like to surrender — just a little. Taking a deep breath, you stepped past her into the venue.

And froze again.

It wasn’t quite a theatre. More like a cabaret stage — low and wide, draped in deep crimson curtains. Velvet booths and cushioned chairs ringed the room in a semi-circle, glowing under amber chandelier light. Candles flickered on every tabletop.

And every single person there?

Women.

All women.

Not a single man in sight.

They were sipping cocktails, adjusting their dresses, whispering to one another. You saw every kind of style — casual, glamorous, dominatrix-chic. All eyes turned to you as you entered. And then—

The giggles started.

A small wave of laughter rippled across the room. Not mocking. Not cruel. But… expectant. Hungry.

Whispers passed from table to table. Some pointed. One or two waved with fluttering fingers. One simply raised her glass and mouthed, good luck.

You adjusted your grip on the mask.

Several women near the stage leaned in toward each other. “He’s cute,” you heard one say. Another answered, “They’re going to ruin him.”

You took a seat in the reserved front-row section, where a small card simply read: Skeptic.

Low jazz played. The lights dimmed.

And then — a spotlight snapped on.

A figure stepped into it.

It was Talia.

Your breath hitched. For a moment, you didn't recognize her — not because she looked different, but because she looked more. More dangerous. More untouchable. And impossibly, achingly, even more beautiful. Every buried fantasy you'd ever had about her stirred like embers catching wind.

Hair pinned back, eyeliner sharp, lips painted blood red. Her corseted outfit hugged every inch of her inky silhouette, glimmering faintly with scattered rhinestones. She looked taller. More commanding. And stunning beyond reason.

It wasn't just the outfit, though that alone could have melted steel. It was the way she wore it — the quiet, devastating certainty that every gaze in the room belonged to her. Including yours.

She smiled wide — a queen surveying her kingdom — and spread her arms.

“Ladies,” she said, voice velvet, “welcome to Skeptic Night.”

The room erupted with cheers.

And beside her, behind the curtain—

You thought you saw another shadow move.

She gestured grandly toward the curtain behind her. "But of course... it wouldn't be a night for skeptics without the Mistress herself."

The lights flared brighter, the music deepened, and the crimson curtains parted.