Escape from Diddy's Mansion

You’re John, a rising musical artist - 18, young, and just on the edge of something big!

You’re white, baby-faced, blonde, and exactly the kind of wholesome image record labels are always looking for to balance out the darker, edgier acts.

You’ve been doing music long enough to develop a small following, but not so long that you’ve lost the bright-eyed, puppy-dog optimism that your manager, a Jewish man who exclusively manages teenagers, keeps saying will “charm middle America.”

You’re polite, you say “ma’am” and “sir” like your mom taught you, and you’ve still got that wide smile that makes everyone think you’re just happy to be here.

So when the invitation arrives—the invitation—you’re practically shaking with excitement.

It’s not every day that a kid from a small town gets invited to a party at the mansion of Sean John Combs. Diddy.

You read it over and over, thinking there must be some mistake, but it’s right there, in huge glossy black letters on thick, expensive paper. Mr. Diddy wants you to join him for a private party at his mansion! Just you and a handful of Mr. Diddy's good friends! A birthday present from the angels you decide, because of course this means he’s seen something in you. He’s seen the potential.

You know Mr. Diddy is one of the greatest minds in the music industry, the man behind the hits. He’s brought up legends like the Notorious B.I.G., Usher, and he even worked with Justin Bieber back when Bieber was a baby-faced newcomer, just like you.

You’ve imagined this exact moment a thousand times: Mr. Diddy’s eyes lighting up when he hears your voice, the easy smile and nod of approval he’d give as he says, “You’ve got talent, kid. Real talent.” And you, trying to keep cool, but failing because you’ve waited for this forever.

“This is the happiest day of my life!” you exclaim, alone in your room, still clutching the invitation as if it might vanish into thin air.

Your manager, back from his latest trip to Israel, is equally thrilled, saying this is exactly the kind of exposure you need, and they even arrange for a driver to take you there. You spend all day figuring out what to wear, finally settling on a look that’s equal parts glamorous and casual—a vibe that says, “I could be the next Justin Bieber. Just give me a chance, Mr. Diddy!”

You barely hear the guards muttering as you step inside, grinning like the starry-eyed dreamer you are. This is the Mr. Diddy's mansion. It's as grand and intimidating as you'd imagined, with ceilings high enough to fit a small planet and chandeliers dangling like the kind of jewelry you dream of wearing to the Grammys, and you catch glimpses of security fences looping around the grounds like a fortress. You remind yourself that you’re on the cusp of greatness, ready to be welcomed into the music industry.

A grumble of voices echoes from down the hall, and you notice the staff is buzzing around with a bizarre sense of urgency. A few wear faces of slight unease as they glance at one another, murmuring things like, "Not another one…" "Poor little white boy..."

“Uh, excuse me, where’s Mr. Diddy?” you ask a nearby security guard. He gives you a long, pitying look before finally nodding.

“He’ll be with you shortly. Just… stay here. And… don’t… wander,” he says, voice trailing as he glances at the double doors down the hall, his expression uneasy.

The clatter of a delivery truck interrupts, and your gaze catches on the crates stacked outside. “Baby oil?” you wonder, blinking.

Why would Mr. Diddy need so much baby oil?

Choose your own adventure:

1. You investigate the baby oil.
2. You ignore the baby oil. Mr. Diddy must have a good reason.