1

BRANDON

What am I doing here?

Deep in the hollow corner of my heart, I know the answer. I

know it so well that I can taste the nausea that slithered down my

throat and hooked onto my bones the moment I got that godforsaken text.

A text I should've very well ignored, deleted, and then blocked the

number.

A text I shouldn't have dignified with a look, let alone given it enough

weight to intervene with my decision-making.

I did.

And that's the reason I'm here.

I did.

And now, I've put myself in an irreversible position.

I did.

And I'm not sure I can shove this lapse of judgment on to the possibility

of having no choice.

In reality, I do.

I've just never been good with choices. Don't appreciate them. Don't

care for them. Would rather not be presented with one.

The text was an obligation or, more accurately, a pertinent piece of

information.

It was not a choice and certainly not a situation I could've escaped.

The reason I'm here is sorely due to my sense of responsibility that I've

carried like excess baggage since I started learning what life is all about.

I'm at what looks like an indoctrination center. Other students stand on

either side of me, forming parallel lines and wearing white rabbit masks that

cover their features.

We're facing a huge three-story mansion with old-looking stone walls

and an ancient tower on the far right.

The longer I remain unmoving, the more unsteady my breathing

becomes.

My inhales and exhales flow in a fast, fractured rhythm, forming

condensation on the plastic and forcing me to breathe my own air.

Tick.

The sound is low, but it slams into my brain like a fatal crash. My

mouth starts to fill with saliva and I gulp it down, forcing my stomach to

settle.

Tick.

I lift my hand, about to pull at my skull. Sometimes, I wish I could

smash it against the nearest wall and watch as everything spills and shatters.

Once and for fucking all.

Tick.

My fingers curl in midair, but I lower my hand and force it to hang limp

at my side.

It's fine. I can do this.

Breathe.

You're in control.

My soothing words of affirmation splinter and crack as the scene around

me comes back into focus.

No matter how much I attempt to delude myself, the reality is that I'm

in the last place I should be.

And I'm not one to challenge fate or go places I'm not supposed to.

In my twenty-three years of life, I've always been the type of man who

follows the rules. I've never deviated from what's expected of me and I'm

creeped out at the notion of being different.

In any sense.

For whatever reason.

And yet here I am at the Heathens' mansion because I received a text

and made the conscious decision not to ignore it.

I made the decision to attend the initiation of the most notorious club on

Brighton Island—a secluded place near the UK's southwest coast.

For a university I'm not even enrolled in.

The Heathens are the leading club of The King's U college. A uni that

reeks of mafia money and la nouveau bourgeoisie, where all American

students flock like birds of a feather.

We have our own malicious club at Royal Elite University—or REU—

where I'm working on my master's degree in art. It's called the Elites and is

led by none other than my headache of a twin brother, Landon.

However, The King's U's clubs—the Heathens and the Serpents—are

much more nefarious since they come from real mafia families and are

using the uni experience to sharpen their fangs for the leading roles

awaiting them back in the States.

If a week ago someone had told me I'd be standing here wearing a

creepy rabbit mask and waiting for the entitled, violence-thirsty Americans

to make their appearance, I would've laughed.

I'm certainly not laughing now. A lot of variables have changed in the

span of a week and I find myself under the obligation to be here.

As part of the herd.

And it has everything to do with that headache of a brother I mentioned

earlier.

Though they took my phone at the entrance, I can still recall the text I

received yesterday word for word.

HEATHENS

[Congratulations! You are invited to the Heathens' initiation

ceremony. Please show the attached QR code upon arrival at

the club's compound at four p.m. sharp.]

While I'd heard of their nefarious initiations, I had absolutely no

interest in them or the clubs. If I did, I would've joined the Elites since Lan

has been asking for years.

So I ignored that text and was about to block the number, but then I got

another one.

UNKNOWN NUMBER

[If you want to see your twin brother breathing instead of being

shoved in a casket and showcased to all participants, be at

the initiation.]

That's the reason I came here, even though every fiber of my being

revolted against the idea of taking part in this madness. I called and texted Lan, but he didn't reply, so I had to save him from himself as usual.

My brother has always been the reason I've deviated from the core of

my existence, though he'd argue this is my true character, and what I

consider normal is a product of repressing.

Hiding.

Shackling my real self.

A sudden movement comes from my side and I tighten my muscles,

ready to run away, move from the center of danger and pretend none of this

has taken place.

The girl beside me—judging by her breasts and frame—laughs as she

hits her companion's shoulder.

A general murmur of excitement bubbles in the air.

I don't understand people's obsession with these types of events. Is it

the feeling of grandiosity? The opportunity to walk amongst gods?

But then again, it's impossible for me to understand some people due to

how drastically different my personality is compared to the rest of my

peers.

Don't get me wrong. I get along with almost everyone and I'm often

described as extremely polite and a good sport, but my close friends are

only a few. The only reason we're tight is because we grew up together and

I spent several years familiarizing myself with their personalities.

Maybe my inability to form close connections after my childhood is due

to being completely detached from most people's source of happiness. A

glaring example is my complete bafflement at these people's sense of a

thrill. They talk about the Heathens as if they're the personification of

everything they aspire to be.

Wealth, influence, and, most importantly, morbid power.

I, Brandon King, belong to one of the most influential families in the

UK, if not the most influential, but I still don't get people's obsession with

selected elites.

Is it the illusion? The unknown? Something entirely different?

The girl's chatter comes to a halt and she looks up as everyone else

grows silent. I follow her field of vision and pause when the balcony doors

on the second floor open and five men stroll outside, all of them wearing

neon-stitch Halloween-esque masks.

The one in the middle has an orange mask and carries a metal club. He's

tall and broad, but the guy by his side who's wearing a yellow mask is taller and buffer, and he reeks of hostility, even from this distance.

He stands out because he's the only one without a weapon, but he still

emanates a nefarious energy. The rest of them, however, seem to have their

thoughts and tempers under control.

Red Mask's fingers wrap around a bat, letting it rest nonchalantly on his

shoulder.

A recurve bow is nestled in Green Mask's hand and there's a quiver

attached to his back, and White Mask strokes a heavy-looking chain that's

hanging around his neck.

They're all dressed in black T-shirts and trousers like a conformist unit

of destruction.

Fortunately, I've never crossed the Heathens' paths or interacted with

them, which can't be said about my prick of a brother. Is he with them?

Perhaps he's playing a sick game to be part of their inner circle?

Or is he maybe somewhere in front of me or behind me? Maybe next to

me?

The problem is, I can never imagine Lan being a participant in another

group's glory or a mere follower in someone else's mayhem. He's too

narcissistic for that. Besides, how could he possibly get an invitation?

The same way I got invited?

Probably.

Maybe.

I watch the five Heathens closely. The one in orange, standing tall in the

middle, is most likely Jeremy Volkov, the leader of the Heathens and a

Russian mafia prince. If my friends' gossip can be trusted, he's ruthless to a

fault and is rumored to kill everyone in his wake.

Green and Red Masks are possibly Gareth and Killian Carson. The

siblings are affiliated with the mafia but are more American royalty instead

of mafia princes. However, I'm not sure which is which. White Mask seems

like the leanest of the bunch, so he can't be any of the three previously

mentioned.

Yellow Mask can only be Nikolai Sokolov. Another Russian mafia

prince, Killian and Gareth's cousin, and the craziest twat who ever walked

the earth.

If rumors are anything to go by—and in Nikolai's case, they probably

are—he's capable of punching someone to death just because they had the

audacity to piss him off. I've only stood close to him once, a week ago when—again—my twin brother was fighting him in an underground fight

club.

I honest to God thought he'd pummel Lan to death.

He didn't, because my brother is a cat with nine lives.

My concern about Lan shifted to disturbing unease when Nikolai looked

at me with a manic expression while wearing my brother's blood on his

bandaged hands.

I had this inherent need to get the hell out of there. And I did—after

dragging my brother along, of course.

I've never gotten that feeling from someone younger than me, and

Nikolai is way younger. Nineteen, I think. A kid right out of secondary

school—high school for Americans.

Only, he looks nothing like a kid.

Even now, while wearing black clothes, his build stands out as if he's

sculpted from pure muscle and malicious intent.

Good thing I don't run in these people's circle and never will.

Today is an exception. The sooner I locate Lan, the faster I can leave

this immoral place.

Static rings in the air before a distorted voice speaks from all around us.

"Congratulations on making it to the Heathens' highly competitive

initiation. You are the selected elite the leaders of the club think are worthy

of joining their world of power and connections. The price to pay for such

privileges is higher than money, status, or name. The reason everyone wears

a mask is because you are all the same in the eyes of the club's founders.

The price of becoming a Heathen is handing over your life. In the literal

sense of the word. If you aren't willing to pay that, please exit through the

small door to your left. Once you leave, you'll lose any chance to join us

again."

A door beside the big gate opens, and about a dozen or less people exit.

I contemplate joining them and putting an end to this madness, but I'd

never, in good conscience, abandon my brother.

Never.

The distorted voice returns. "Congratulations again, ladies and

gentlemen. We shall now begin our initiation."

I lift my head to the five Heathens, who remain unmoving. Completely

grounded, absolutely apathetic about the promise of violence they're

unleashing on the world.

All except for one.

The anomaly.

Violence on steroids.

Yellow Mask clenches and unclenches his fists at a rhythmic pace as if

he's performing a ritual. That guy needs to be locked up instead of being

allowed to be part of this nonsensical initiation.

"Tonight's game is predator and prey," the voice continues. "You'll be

hunted down by the club's founding members. That will be five to ninety,

so you have the upper hand. If you manage to reach the edge of the property

before they hunt you down, you'll be a Heathen. If not, you'll be eliminated

and escorted out. The founding members have the right to use any methods

available to hunt you down—including violence. If their weapon of choice

touches you, you'll be automatically eliminated. Bodily harm can and will

happen. You are also allowed to inflict violence on the founding members

—if you can. The only rule is not taking a life. Not intentionally, at least.

No questions are allowed and no mercy shall be granted. We don't want any

weaklings in our ranks."

Barbarians. The lot of them. Hopeless, outrageous savages with no

grace whatsoever.

But then again, what to expect from mafia people?

"You have a ten-minute head start. I suggest you run. The initiation has

officially begun."

The girl beside me and her companions sprint so fast, the pebbles

crunch beneath their trainers. Everyone else rushes in the direction of the

forest and I'm left with the option of following or remaining here like easy

prey.

Cursing under my breath, I run as fast as possible. My heart rate

remains the same—unperturbed, calm, and completely unaffected by the

lick of danger and the lust for the thrill that hangs in the air like splashes of

magenta on turquoise blue.

I guess that's the upside of having an abnormal brain. This type of

nonsense doesn't affect it.

Despite going late, I manage to run faster and farther than the other

participants. I might not be into these types of events, but I'm an athlete,

pretty much a professional runner and also the captain of the lacrosse team

at REU.

I take my physical activities seriously and never miss a day of training

and running, whether for the team or for myself.

It's important to keep order and discipline, and I'm nothing short of

perfection in creating stability and habits.

Besides, if I don't maintain a routine, I'll only slither down that rabbit

hole of nothingness and eventually skid into an unfortunate freak accident.

No thanks.

In no time, I manage to reach what looks like the middle of the forest

after losing the rest of the students. Late afternoon light casts ominous

patches of orange on the dirt and between the huge trees. But soon enough,

the gray clouds strangle the beams of hope and swallow them into darkness.

I crouch behind a large bush that covers my entire frame and wait.

That's all I can do at this point.

Stay low. Wait. Observe. And never ever draw attention to my presence.

An activity I excel at.

If Lan shows up, whether as one of the Heathens—which is highly

unlikely—or one of the participants, I'll get a gut feeling thanks to the

useless twin hunch.

A few people run by like a pack of wolves, squeals of excitement falling

from their lips and painting the sky in blotches of brick red on midnight

black.

The stench of mindless violence lingers in the air and forms sinister

halos around the participants' heads.

Their thrill is short-lived, though. Orange Mask stalks right after them,

carrying his vicious club. I silently cringe when he hits one of them so hard,

their face swings to the side, and blood explodes on his mask, which cracks

in two.

I catch a glimpse of someone walking around dazed with an arrow stuck

in his shoulder and a limp arm glued to his side.

Eliminated students' numbers are announced by that disturbing robotic

voice, sometimes one after the other. I think the process is automatic,

because whenever I catch a glimpse of someone getting hit by an arrow or

Orange Mask's club, their number is immediately announced.

Throughout the whole freak show, I don't move, and when I do, it's

only to adjust my position.

Where are you, Lan?.

While I take pride in my stamina, I probably can't keep this up for an

extended period of time.

Maybe I should strategically move to another nook of this extravagant

forest in case my brother is on the other side—

A sudden chill scrapes the back of my neck, followed by scorching hot

heat as a deep, rumbling voice whispers in my ear, "Why aren't you

running?"

My senses saturate in a rush of overwhelming external stimuli and my

brain is unable to keep up with the overload. I lose balance and fall on my

arse, hitting the ground with an impact that reverberates in my bones.

I stare up, my eyes clashing with the yellow-stitch mask that's marred

with splashes of dark red.

Blood.

It's everywhere—clinging to his mask, staining his dark shirt, forming

rivulets on his neck, covering the tattoos on the backs of his hands like

gloves, and sticking to strands of his jet-black hair that falls in waves to his

shoulder blades.

Nausea floods my mouth and shoots straight to my fucked-up brain.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick tick tick tick—

"You didn't answer the question." Yellow Mask's gruff tone ripples

down my throat and drowns the nausea, only to substitute it with dread.

Harsh and poignant.

What's worse is that I can't breathe.

The wanker is crouching close. So close that my nostrils fill with the

metallic stench of blood and the smell of cigarettes, alcohol, and a hint of

mint and bergamot.

The overwhelming mixture flows and floods my senses like a chaotic

swirl of colors that blend and throttle each pigment until they settle on

unassuming gray.

Faultless. Timeless. Empty.

Yellow Mask, who can only be Nikolai, pokes my forehead with a

bloody finger. And although he's only touching the mask and not my skin,

my stomach cramps, choking out rampant nausea that's ready to lurch

forward and leave me heaving.

"Oy. You listening?" He's only using a forefinger, yet so much power

emanates off the single action that I crack under the pressure.

I've never been good with direct confrontations and prefer not to engage

in them. Besides, if what I've heard of his infamous reputation is true, I

could never take on Nikolai Sokolov, even if I were reincarnated a few

times in the spirit of a warrior.

He's notorious for his savage behavior, unhinged tendencies, and

penchant for breathing violence instead of oxygen. The evidence is

splattered in red all over his person.

Definitely the last person I'd want to get in a disagreement with.

He clucks his tongue, the sound exceptionally loud despite the constant

announcements of eliminated numbers.

I don't hear mine, eighty-nine, but Nikolai doesn't have a weapon like

the rest, so maybe he has to do it himself.

Meaning, if I escape, I can resume my hiding game and look for my

brother. I swear I'm going to be so cross with him about this mess—

Nikolai circles his forefinger against my forehead, but then he seems to

wipe something. His movements come to a halt and his body remains so

completely still, I cease to breathe.

The hostility and thirst for blood that emanated off him subside. Or

more like, they lessen in intensity, no longer tightening his outrageously

ludicrous muscles and bulging biceps.

Although he's crouching, his height and broadness are unmistakable. At

six-foot-three, I'm not short by any stretch of the imagination, but Nikolai

has an inch or two on me, and he's ridiculously pumped with more muscles

than anyone needs.

But then again, he seems like the archetype of a sadist who gets off on

inflicting pain.

However, that doesn't seem to be the case right now.

The flood of violence that he exuded in threatening waves a few

seconds ago has been replaced by something a lot more morbid.

Amusement.

No, curiosity?

Interest?

His finger falls from the mask, but before I can release a breath, he

suddenly wraps his hand around my nape, near the hairs I constantly

assault.

Maybe it's because that area is particularly battered and sensitive, but

the moment his rough skin touches mine, a flood of what I assume is nausea

threatens to spill from my gut.

Only, it's not nausea.

It's—

Nikolai barks out laughter that echoes around us in a swell of burgundy

and hot red-orange. "There you are. I've been looking everywhere for you,

eighty-nine."