Loud music blasted through the streets, the bass thumping hard enough to shake the ground beneath. It wasn't just music; it was a pulse—a heartbeat reverberating through the entire neighborhood. Those unfortunate enough to be close could feel it deep in their bones. The neighbors? They were probably tossing and turning, cursing under their breath. But Terrence didn't care. It was his night. A night without his parents getting in the way and messing everything up.
A sprawling mansion, tucked away on one of Washington, D.C.'s most exclusive streets, stood as the epicenter of this chaos. The grand estate was like something out of a movie—turrets, balconies, a gazebo, the American dream. The cobblestone path leading up to the door looked as if it belonged in an old-world fairy tale, but inside, it was all modern-day decadence and mess.
The front yard, once immaculate with vibrant blooms and sculpted hedges, had been trampled by waves of partygoers. Crushed petals and muddy footprints replaced the usual elegance. Inside wasn't much better. Empty glasses, greasy plates, and sticky spills covered nearly every surface. Confetti from some forgotten celebration still clung to the furniture like glittering debris. It was the kind of house that looked perfect—until a hundred drunk college kids turned it into a war zone.
The band was going hard—everything from pop hits to metal, the tempo shifting faster than the pulse of the crowd. Adrenaline buzzed in the air, making hearts race and feet move. Kids were dancing wildly, bodies grinding to the rhythm, while others pretended to be too cool for it, tossing out sarcastic remarks between sips of beer.
"Yo! Hit me with the ball already," a voice shouted from the ping pong table.
The backyard was full of action too. People huddled around the pool, clinking glasses, talking loud, laughing like there was no tomorrow. A guy took a running start and leapt into the pool, making a massive splash. Everyone cheered him on, and within seconds, a line of partygoers followed his lead, jumping in without a care.
Terrence was in the thick of it all, right at the center of the chaos. Two girls clung to him—one on each arm—and an empty plastic cup dangled loosely from his hand. His oversized black polo hung off his shoulders, barely fitting his frame, while his crisp white pants popped under the low party lights, a sharp contrast to his slicked-back hair.
Everyone wanted to be near him—not because of who he was, but because of what he could offer. They all knew the perks of being part of his inner circle, and tonight, they were more than willing to prove they were worthy of it.
A golden wristwatch flashed on his wrist, paired with a thick chain that caught the light as he moved. He owned the place—everyone knew it. But for all the wealth behind him, his rough, unkempt skin and sleazy grin made one thing clear: he didn't care about appearances. His posture—cocky, confident, borderline arrogant—said the rest.
The sweaty bodies pressed up against him made his skin crawl, but he was too far gone to care. He just smirked, shrugged it off, and kept watching the madness unfold.
"What the hell is going on?" Terrence muttered under his breath as he lingered near the open patio doors. His gaze flicked toward the living room, where some drunk idiot was streaking naked across the floor, a crowd of drunk idiots egging him on. It was stupid—completely ridiculous. Still, he couldn't help but track the guy's every move as he raised his cup for a sip—only to find it empty. Of course it was.
"Where's my drink?" Terrence shook one of the girls off his arm, trying to get someone's attention.
A kid with a cigarette strolled by, handing him a drink, but Terrence grimaced when he saw the cigarette smoke swirling in the glass.
"Get me something better," he spat, waving the guy off. "I don't drink that weak shit."
"Sorry, man, that's the last of it." The guy shrugged.
Terrence sighed, pulling out a card from his pocket. "Then go buy me some more," he ordered, tossing it to him without a second thought, "And don't be late—or you're not getting a tip." He turned on his heel, already done with the conversation, and started walking, not in the mood to deal with any more bullshit.
Back outside, the noise escalated, the music cranked up even louder. It felt like a block party, with people spilling onto the streets. The bass carried through the entire neighborhood, beating like a heartbeat, unrelenting.
Terrence maneuvered through the crowd like a pro, effortlessly dodging people while keeping his cool. The girls who'd clung to him earlier now trailed behind, unsure of their place without his attention. He glanced back, let out a short breath—half laugh, half scoff. Pathetic.
A girl stepped in front of him, placing a hand on his chest to stop him and flashing a smile that practically screamed I'm interested.
He wasn't impressed. She wasn't his type—kind of a butterface. Still, he couldn't deny she had a body worth noticing. Double D's were hard to miss. He raised an eyebrow, sizing her up, already debating whether she was worth the time—
—but before he could decide, movement caught his eye. A group was approaching from the edge of the yard. Older, serious-looking and clearly upset. Definitely not party guests.
Terrence's jaw tightened as the girl's voice faded into the background. From the corner of his eye, he clocked the annoyed expressions and the tight set of the man's shoulders.
Neighbors. Great. What can you do without them?
"I'll just come back later," she said, her confidence fading as she turned and walked off. Whatever. Terrence wasn't interested anyway—he'd ignore her the next time she tried to talk to him.
"What do you want?" he snapped, his tone colder than necessary as he turned towards the group. "Didn't realize the party was open to everyone."
A woman flinched at his tone, but her husband stepped in front of her. "Can you turn down the music?" he asked, his voice tight with frustration. "My wife just had a baby, and we live five houses down. None of us can sleep." Each of them had dark circles under their eyes, clearly sleep-deprived.
Terrence's face twisted in irritation. "Didn't you receive my letter? It's a damn party, not a funeral." His annoyance was palpable.
The husband shot back, his voice sharp. "Yeah, we saw it—the graffiti sprayed on the sidewalk. Didn't realize that was your official way of notifying people." He pointed at Terrence, his tone growing more heated. "Just so you know, this is a private neighborhood. We have a right to quiet hours!"
The wife stepped forward, gently placing a hand on her husband's arm. "Honey, stop. Let's just go home. I knew this was a bad idea. They're not the kind to listen," she said softly, though the frustration in her voice was unmistakable. The neighbors behind her looked helpless, simmering with anger but knowing there was little they could do.
Terrence was about to fire back when one of the girls on his arm slid closer, cutting him off with a smirk.
"Just ignore them," she purred. "They can't afford to bother you—can't even touch you where you're at. Honestly, it's beneath you to even give them the time of day."
She giggled and tugged him toward a quieter corner of the house, her tone dismissive, like the whole thing was a minor inconvenience at best.
As he walked away, Terrence threw a glance over his shoulder and smirked. "Yeah, I heard 'em. I'm just hearing them out, like all good people do."
The man's voice called out from behind them, sharp and furious. "This isn't over. I know your father, and I have connections to the police. Don't think you can get away with this behavior any more than you already have, brat."
Terrence scratched his ear, barely listening. "Yeah, yeah. As if anyone cares about what I do. They'll just put it on my record. Dad'll bail me out, like he always does."
As they reached a secluded corner, he glanced down at the girls standing in front of him, their eyes locked on his. With a lazy grin, he started undressing them, the way he always did—without a second thought, just part of the game.
Minutes later, he was back to what he did best—getting exactly what he wanted, no consequences in sight, not yet.