If you win, you get a night out with Diddy on a Saturday in New York, and I promise you that by Wednesday, you’ll be lying beside me. This tale, however, goes beyond mere celebration. It’s the story of a young music producer named Carlos, whose encounter with the surreal changed him forever.

Carlos had been grinding in the music industry for years. His life was a series of late-night studio sessions in his small apartment, collaborating with underground artists. Despite his efforts, success seemed elusive—until one night, while scrolling through emails, his phone buzzed with a message that left him in disbelief. A direct invitation to one of Diddy’s exclusive parties flashed on his screen. His heart raced as he read: “You’re invited to an exclusive party this weekend, and Diddy will be in attendance.” This was more than just an invite—it was a golden opportunity to mingle with the industry’s elite, the chance to propel his career to new heights.

Despite his excitement, rumors nagged at the back of Carlos’ mind. Whispers had circulated about Diddy’s infamous parties, hinting at bizarre rituals and strange occurrences. But Carlos dismissed these as nothing more than urban legends. He was too focused on making his mark to be concerned with stories that sounded more like ghost tales.

As the night of the party approached, an unsettling feeling gnawed at him. The venue was a sprawling mansion in the Hollywood Hills, its address signaling it belonged to one of the city’s wealthiest areas. The drive up the winding road was tense, the towering trees casting eerie shadows in the moonlight. When he finally arrived, the mansion stood before him, grand and foreboding. Its iron gates opened slowly, as if expecting him.

Carlos parked and approached the front door, his nerves on edge. Before he could knock, a man in a sleek black suit opened the door with a cold, enigmatic smile. Inside, the party was in full swing—celebrities, rappers, producers, and models mingled amid the heavy beat of the music. But beneath the surface, something felt off. Dim lighting twisted shadows along the walls, and though the guests were smiling, their eyes seemed hollow, distant.

Carlos tried to focus, introducing himself as a producer and hoping to network. But his attempts went unnoticed. The guests’ attention was elsewhere, their eyes frequently glancing toward a half-open door at the back of the room, shrouded in mystery.

Then, a striking woman in black approached him, offering a glass of champagne. Without saying a word, she leaned in close and whispered, “You’ve been selected.” Carlos blinked in confusion, but before he could ask what she meant, she gestured toward the guarded door.

Curiosity overtook his apprehension. He approached the door, and to his surprise, the guard stepped aside without a word. Beyond the threshold was a dimly lit hallway, lined with flickering candles. The music from the party faded, replaced by a low, rhythmic chant that sent chills down his spine.

Carlos walked down the corridor, heart pounding, until he reached a large wooden door. Pushing it open, he stepped into a room unlike anything he had ever imagined. The chamber was dimly lit by candlelight, and at its center stood a stone altar surrounded by figures in dark robes, their faces hidden by hoods. They chanted in an unfamiliar language, their voices rising in unison. On the altar lay a black goat, bound by ropes, struggling in fear.