The Devil Kid's Last Strokes

The next day, half an hour after the party.

Parker sat back in his leather chair, the glow of his laptop screen flickering across his face as he scrolled through the chaos. Headlines blared across every major platform. "Robert Blackwood's Yacht Party Spirals Into Absolute Debauchery." The thumbnails? Blurred bodies, champagne showers, and way too many influencers half-dressed for public decency.

He exhaled, tapping his fingers rhythmically on the desk. Cassidy had been right—this plan was fucking airtight. The media had already picked it up, but it wasn't just about the humans anymore. No, Parker was playing on a different board.

He clicked on a grainy video someone had leaked from the after-hours mess. The red lighting, the eerie chanting, the crude setup of fake blood altars—it was all so theatrical it felt like a B-list horror flick. Perfect.