For the first time in his life, Rowan Campbell has a savings account in the quadruple digits. He has a steady and fulfilling job as a paramedic, a small but clean one-bedroom apartment in Boston’s Back Bay, and a stable dose regimen of meds to keep his depression and PTSD in check. He loves his life, finally. He’s happy… But. He’s happy, but… There’s something missing. Some itch under his skin that he can’t quite scratch through work or hobbies or family gatherings or casual hookups. It’s a random, ordinary Monday when Rowan finally discovers the something that’s missing in his life. “Code six-three, 241 West Harrington, nearby units please respond,” the tinny voice broadcasts over the ambulance radio. Rowan shares a glance with his partner, Addison, who nods and picks up the receiver. “Dispatch, this is Car 47, show us responding. ETA two minutes,” she says as she inputs the location in the GPS. Rowan flips on the siren, feeling the thrill rush through him that still hasn’t dissipated in his two years as an EMT and three as a paramedic. He’s vaguely familiar with the area, but it never hurts to have the GPS on, especially when a minute or two spent circling around the block could mean life or death. When they arrive, there’s a small crowd outside a whitewashed brick building. Above the crowd is an overhang with illuminated marquee lights circling a black sign that reads The Menagerie in a neat gold script like something out of a modernized 1930s movie. They grab their gear and a stretcher from the back before signaling to the crowd to move out of the way. As the crowd parts, a petite blond woman in black business clothes and high heels flags them down. “He’s in here,” she says, voice serious yet calm, very much unlike most people they deal with. She ushers them through a heavy cherrywood door and into what looks like a lounge. The interior is dim—both the tiled floors and the walls are black—lit only by blue, purple, and warm white lights that seem to outline all the fixed objects in the room. Even from the little Rowan can see as his eyes adjust to the dark, he can tell that the décor is chic and modern. It looks as though it would be better suited to the Financial District. Rowan and Addison make their way up a flight of stairs and into a lounge that is similarly decorated to the one below. Despite the crowd outside, there are still a few people lingering around the edges of the room, huddled together in small groups, whispering to one another. Many of them are in partial states of undress, with robes hastily thrown around themselves. Down a short corridor, they’re led into a small, sparsely decorated room. Rowan barely has time to register the variety of crops and ropes and leather toys mounted to the wall opposite the door when he sees a man on the floor, naked, skin pale, and eyes closed. A woman, also naked, is kneeling over him, fingertips pressed against the pulse point on his neck, eyebrows scrunched in concern. “What happened?” Addison asks the woman, gently ushering her away from the man. “We were—I was ch-choking him and… and he… he passed out! He never sa-safeworded, so I thought…. He seemed fine, and then he just… passed out,” she stammers. Rowan kneels down next to the man and grabs his wrist to feel for his pulse. It’s weak, but there. “Did he ever stop breathing after he passed out?” Rowan asks her. “Yeah. Shit, yeah, he did. I was so fucking scared, but I did CPR on him for maybe a minute? Maybe less? I don’t know, it all happened so fast and—” “Hey, it’s okay,” Addison soothes. “You did good. He’s breathing now, okay?” The woman nods, covering her breasts with her arms and shrinking in on herself as if only now realizing she is nude.