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This was not a DJ or a band. It was a curated chaos. A neurosurgeon from Zurich performed a painless surgery on a hologram while a poet whispered algorithmic sonnets about insider trading. A former child star, now a recluse, served vintage Krug from a prosthetic arm cast in 24-karat gold. Everyone was performing. No one was real.

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"People think they know the frame," Cherokee said softly, joining him. "But they rarely look at what happens just outside of it." This was not a DJ or a band

It was a live feed of the guests’ own homes. Their private cinemas. Their panic rooms. Their bedrooms. Someone had bugged every château, every penthouse, every private island. We were watching ourselves sleep, drink, and scheme—in real time. A former child star, now a recluse, served