The moon hung low, a polished silver coin suspended in a sky draped with clouds as dark and rich as spilled ink. Paris was alive tonight, its winding streets brimming with music, laughter, and whispers of secrets meant to stay buried. Beneath the shadow of Montmartre’s looming silhouette, in a private club concealed behind a false bookshop, a masquerade unlike any other was underway. It was there, amidst a sea of velvet masks, flowing gowns, and champagne-slick murmurs, that J. Cat made his entrance. He wasn't dressed to blend in—he never was. The sharp cut of his midnight-black tuxedo whispered power, and his crimson pocket square smirked of danger.