Inside the massive venue, the music pounded from every direction, bass rattling through the walls and floors as flashing lights painted the room in bursts of neon. The entire place was alive—electric. Everywhere you looked, people were dancing, shouting, laughing, completely losing themselves in the chaos of the night. They had paid hundreds, even thousands of dollars just to step through those doors, and they were making sure every penny was worth it.
The Super Bowl might have ended, but for many, the real excitement was only just beginning. Sure, some people came for the adrenaline rush of the game itself—the highs and lows, the edge-of-your-seat plays. Others came for the clever, over-the-top commercials that aired during the breaks, providing some of the most talked-about moments of the night. And then there were those who came just for the halftime show, to witness music's biggest names put on performances that would be remembered for years.
But for a certain kind of crowd, none of that was the main event. No, they came to the Super Bowl host city for something else entirely. They came for the grinding bodies on the dance floor, for the flashing strobes and the heart-thumping music blasting through the speakers. They came to brush shoulders with their favorite celebrities, to lose themselves in the energy of the night, to drink, dance, and feel the rush of youth and indulgence at its peak.
Yes, they came for this.
The afterparty.
A place where worries disappeared, where status and fame mixed together in a blur of flashing cameras and expensive drinks. Millionaires, music stars, sports legends, and rappers all packed into one venue, drinking from the same bars, moving to the same beats. Women came in hopes of catching the attention of a high-profile man, while plenty of men, eager to impress, played the role of someone important just for the night—hoping it was enough to get what they wanted from one of those women or more than one if lucky.
This was the afterparty. The place to let loose. The place where the night stretched endlessly, where every moment felt like the peak of something unforgettable.
And no party was bigger, wilder, or more sought-after than this one.
It wasn't the exclusive Hollywood bash hosted by rap icon Drake Or the rumored infamous White Party by Diddy. It wasn't the high-energy Gronk Beach Party or any of the countless events thrown by brands, magazines, and entertainment giants. No, this one was different. This one had a unique kind of energy.
Because this was Shaq's Fun House—hosted by none other than DJ Diesel himself. The legendary NBA superstar, Hall of Famer, and arguably the greatest center to ever play the game.
In a corner of the fun house, away from the thickest part of the crowd, Ethan Jones stood—not dancing, not drinking, not lost in the madness like so many others. He didn't have to pay his way in, unlike most of the people here. He was invited. And right now, he was doing something that many in this room could only dream of.
He was talking to one of his favorite stars growing up.
The music pounded through the venue, the bass reverberating through the floors as neon lights flashed wildly across the packed room. Shaq's Fun House was living up to its name—an electric playground of flashing strobes, towering LED screens, and carnival games set against the backdrop of a raging afterparty. Celebrities, athletes, and influencers mixed with the wealthy and lucky few who had managed to pay their way in. There was a sense of unrestrained indulgence in the air, the kind that only came after the biggest sporting event in the world.
In a quieter corner of the chaos, Ethan Jones stood, engaged in what had to be the most unexpected conversation of his life.
"Wait, so it's basically worshiping God?" Ethan asked, his head tilting slightly, a clear sign that whatever buzz he had going was making this conversation far more fascinating than it should have been.
Across from him, Tom Cruise shook his head rapidly, his intensity dialed up to eleven. "No, no, no. This is not like that at all." He leaned in, eyes practically glowing with enthusiasm. "Scientology isn't about worship. It's about enlightenment, about reaching a higher state of being. It's about understanding the secrets of existence and unlocking your full potential."
Ethan blinked, his slightly hazy mind doing its best to keep up. "Uh-huh."
Tom smiled. "See, Christianity operates on faith, right? You believe in God, you follow His teachings, and you're promised salvation. But Scientology? We're not about faith. We're about knowledge. We believe that through precise methods—auditing, self-discovery, and deep understanding—you can free yourself from the limitations placed upon you."
Ethan nodded slowly, then grinned. "That sounds… neat."
Tom clapped his hands together, delighted. "Yes! Yes! And we'd love to invite you in. The Head himself has spoken, and we feel you're exactly what we need. You could be the face of it all."
Ethan squinted. "The Head?"
Tom's voice dropped slightly, reverent. "David Miscavige. He sees something in you, Ethan. A spark. You could help bring enlightenment to millions. You could be—"
"Ehm…" Ethan scratched the back of his head, suddenly aware of how deep this was getting. "I'm not really sure. I kinda align myself with Christianity, if anything. All that psychic, mystical stuff isn't really for me. But what you said sounds really nice. All voodoo and shit." He giggled to himself.
Tom's face remained calm, but his intensity didn't waver. "Ethan, this is serious. It could change your life. You think you're big now? Just step into this world, and you'll be twice the star you are today."
Ethan's eyebrows lifted. "Wow."
"Yes," Tom nodded. "And not just that. We have ranks inside. I myself am an Operating Thetan Level VIII."
Ethan had no idea what that meant, but it sure sounded important.
"If you join," Tom continued, "you'd instantly be promoted to Operating Thetan Level VII—just one step below me. Apart from the Head and myself, no one would be above you. You'd be a king."
Ethan's face scrunched up. "But I don't wanna be a king. I wanna be a singer."
Tom chuckled, waving a hand. "Don't worry, you would be. Actually, I'm not supposed to talk this much about it—especially not outside. Just read the book about it. Or better yet, give me your number so we can talk more. I can invite you to our headquarters—you'd see how beautiful it really is. I'm sure once you see it, you'd understand."
Ethan thought about it for a second, then shrugged. "Ooo, okay, sure. My number is 21—"
A loud scream cut through the conversation. "ETHAN!"
His head snapped up, eyes widening as he saw Eminem, of all people, shouting his name from across the room. The rap legend looked urgent, motioning him over like it was a life-or-death situation.
Ethan turned back to Tom. "Ooo, I gotta go. That seems serious. It was great seeing you, man! Can't wait for the next Mission: Impossible!" he said quickly, before bolting towards Em.
"Wait, your number!" Tom called after him, but Ethan was already gone.
As Ethan made his way through the crowd, a pair of towering figures suddenly stepped in his path.
"Ethan Jones! My man! What's up? It's me, Logan Paul, and this is my bro—"
Before the second guy could even introduce himself, Ethan cut them off. "Sorry, I'm busy right now. Come back later for autographs. Thanks."
And with that, he walked right past them, not even registering their stunned expressions.
Reaching Eminem's side, the rap legend gave him a look. "What was that about?"
"Uh… just some fans," Ethan said casually.
Em shook his head. "No, not them. I mean him Tom what's his deal." He nodded back toward the man Ethan had been speaking to.
"Oh, him?" Ethan frowned. "He wanted to—"
"Forget about it," Em interrupted sharply. "Just don't talk to that weirdo again."
Ethan blinked. "Huh?"
Em sighed. "Come on. I want to introduce you to the host and a couple of guys." He grabbed Ethan's arm and dragged him deeper into the party.
The fun continued.