1st class chaos
The hum of LAX terminal air conditioning sounded less like relief and more like a low-grade threat.
"If one more person tells me to 'stay hydrated' with fancy alkaline water, I'm legally allowed to commit a felony," Mila muttered, dragging a massive, overstuffed suitcase off the baggage claim carousel with a thud that earned her a side-eye from a passing production assistant.
Me? I wasn't worried about hydration. My immediate, non-negotiable priority was finding a vending machine or a 24-hour bodega that sold ice-cold Coca-Cola in a glass bottle, because my system was currently running entirely on caffeine, pure jet lag, and an ungodly amount of sugar that defied every wellness trend Los Angeles was about to force down my throat.
We were officially in Beverly Hills—or at least three terminals away from it, standing in a haze of California heat that felt entirely too heavy for two girls who had booked their one-way tickets out of Poland on a whim and a shared credit card. Back home, people thought we were out of our minds. Here, in the belly of the beast where every billboard looked like a threat and every other stranger was pitching a screenplay while waiting for an Uber, we weren't even a rounding error yet.
Not that it would last.
Because within a week, the industry wouldn't just know we were here—they'd be trying to figure out how to contain us. Or at least, that's what Mila kept whispering every time our landlord texted about the deposit.
Outside the sliding glass doors, the Los Angeles air hit us like an open oven. The sky was that blinding, Hollywood-movie blue, completely indifferent to the fact that we had roughly four hundred dollars to our names, a bag full of local snacks from home, and an unexpected luxury house waiting for us in Beverly Hills.
"Well," Mila sighed, shielding her eyes against the glare as she hailed a ride that was already three minutes away. "Are you ready to become everyone's favorite problem?"
I popped open the tab of my cold soda, looked at the palm trees cutting sharply into the sunset, and checked my phone—where a quiet, hidden message from an address that didn't exist on public records was already waiting.
"Let them try." We dragged our oversized, battered suitcases across the asphalt, the scorching LA heat radiating right through the soles of our sneakers as we scanned the line of idling cars for our ride.
"If the driver asks us if we're in the industry, we're wellness influencers from Berlin, got it?" Mila muttered, wrestling with her wheel that refused to roll straight.
"Berlin? Why Berlin?"
"Because they're mysterious, they wear black linen in ninety-degree weather, and people don't ask follow-up questions."
A battered silver sedan finally pulled up, the driver giving us a look that suggested our luggage was a biohazard. We shoved the bags into the trunk—the zipper of mine threatening to give out completely under the weight of three backup hoodies and a stash of Polish chocolate—and slid into the backseat.
As the air conditioning blasted our sweaty faces, I pulled out my phone, loaded up the app, and stared at the address for our new home base: a ridiculously upscale Airbnb tucked away in Beverly Hills. Three months paid in advance, secure, gated, and completely detached from reality.
Why were we staying in Beverly Hills instead of a sketchy motel near the airport or a cramped studio we could actually afford? That was the million-dollar question. We didn't know yet. We only knew that the reservation had appeared in our inbox two nights before our flight, fully confirmed by a ghost benefactor who didn't accept replies, accompanied by a single strict rule: check in before midnight.
The drive took us from the chaotic blur of the freeway into the quiet, suffocating prestige of the hills. The traffic thinned, replaced by towering palm trees, high security walls, and hidden driveways that practically screamed "privacy" for people who had something to hide.
When the car finally pulled up to a set of matte-black iron gates, the driver glanced in the rearview mirror with genuine confusion. "You girls sure this is the spot?"
"Positive," Mila said smoothly, though her knuckles were white against her bag strap.
The gates swung open automatically as if recognizing the car, revealing a sleek, ultra-modern villa carved directly into the hillside. The architecture was all sharp angles, floor-to-ceiling glass, and soft ambient lighting that made the place look like an art gallery rather than a residence.
We dragged our bruised luggage up the floating concrete stairs. I punched in the six-digit entry code provided in the anonymous email. The electronic lock chimed, and the heavy oak door swung inward without a sound.
The interior smelled like expensive cedar, ocean breeze, and cold marble. Floor-to-ceiling windows looked out over the entire glitter of the Los Angeles skyline, stretching out toward the Pacific like a carpet of crushed diamonds. Out on the terrace, an infinity pool glowed a tranquil, deep electric blue.
"Okay," Mila whispered, stepping onto the polished concrete floor as if she expected a tripwire to go off. "Either we just got adopted by a billionaire or we're about to be the main characters in a high-end true crime docuseries."
"Option three," I said, walking toward the kitchen, where a massive double-door stainless steel refrigerator dominated the wall. "Someone wants us exactly where they can keep an eye on us."
I pulled the fridge door open, half-expecting it to be empty. It wasn't.
Line after line, perfectly aligned on the top shelf, were glass bottles of classic Coca-Cola—chilled to perfection, sweating lightly against the internal LED lights.
A chill ran down my spine that had nothing to do with the air conditioning. Whoever set this up didn't just know our names. They knew my exact vices.
Mila walked over, grabbed one of the bottles, and examined the label before looking at me with widened eyes. "Okay, now I'm officially terrified."
Before I could answer, the screen of my phone lit up on the quartz countertop. A single notification bounced into view from an unlisted, encrypted number.
"The fridge is stocked. The security cameras are off until morning. Get some sleep, Chaos. Hollywood moves fast tomorrow."
I popped open the glass bottle with a sharp clink, took a slow sip, and looked out over the glowing city below.
"Let them try," I murmured.
