This is a mistake.
The worst of all.
The most disastrous of all.
Maybe even the deadliest.
I shift in place, sweating behind my mask. My T-shirt and jeans stick to my heated skin until it’s almost too unbearable.
I inhale sharp breaths into my starved lungs, but I might as well be consuming smoke. My fingers itch to touch the mask or readjust the wig that digs into my skull.
After careful consideration, I don’t.
This place must be filled with surveillance cameras, and the last thing I want is to catch these people’s attention.
Not when I’m not supposed to be here. Behind enemy lines.
My gaze flits sideways discreetly as I methodically alternate between breathing through my nose and mouth.
The sledgehammer of dusk starts to tilt on the horizon, splashing a hint of orange behind the gray clouds.
An eerie sensation coats the thick air and trickles into my bones. No one aside from me seems focused on the sun’s ceremonial descent or the bold silhouette of danger this place is coated with.
On either side of me stand people wearing similar white masks with black numbers written on their foreheads.
I was one of the first to be allowed inside the Chamber of Decadence and my number is twenty-three. I stand in the second row that, like the first, has twenty people.
No, students.
There are four rows, and the fifth is steadily being filled by the other participants who’ve been directed inside the gothic-like mansion by burly men in black suits and grotesque bunny masks.
Slashes of red crack their masks at the mouth and surround the holes where their blank eyes show. But the part that made me stiffen, aside from their sharp, dirty teeth, was how the one at the entrance double-checked the invitation QR code on my phone.
I was so sure he’d figure out that I stole someone else’s invitation and was trespassing where I shouldn’t be.
Despite the brown wig I wore to cover my attention-grabbing silver hair, the gray contacts, and thick-framed glasses, I wasn’t confident I’d go unnoticed.
Still, I didn’t speak to avoid giving away my British accent.
After all, The King’s U is an all-American school, and we from Royal Elite University are easily picked out from a crowd.
Especially one we’re not supposed to be part of.
Like this initiation.
The bunny gave me a hard stare, definitely longer than the one he directed at the other participants, but he eventually strapped a numbered mask on my face and a tag on my wrist with the same number.
I had to leave my phone, keys, and glasses with his bunny friend before I was allowed inside.
And now, I wait, with about eighty-five others. Make that eighty-seven.
I know because I counted.
That’s what I do when my nerves are about to slice open my veins and spill my blood onto the ground. I count.
I also study my surroundings—watching, observing, and searching for a way out.
That’s the part that made me think I’d made a mistake.
This place isn’t designed with an escape route in mind. Once you’re in, you’re doomed. Physically. Mentally.
Emotionally.
After all, this mansion belongs to the Heathens. One of two notorious clubs at The King’s U that simmers with corrupted power, infinite wealth, and mafia ties.
In fact, the majority of its members either belong to the Russian mafia or have ties to it.
All the students who showed up today are from TKU—except for me—and are thirsting after a smidgeon of that power. A glimmer of the monstrosity.
It’s a privilege to receive an invitation to the Heathens’ initiation that takes place twice a year, at the beginning of every semester.
The chances of actually being accepted into the club are about one percent. Not only do these types of initiations get brutal, but the founding members are also highly selective.
Safe to say, I’m not here for any medal or a real chance to get into the club. They’ll kick me out the moment they find out who I am anyway.
My sole purpose is to get information about their inner workings, their security, and to gather as much intel about their members and the property as I possibly can.
Now, the likelihood of my doing that without drawing attention to myself is probably about five percent, which is admittedly low.
But I have a superpower.
Invisibility.
If I choose to, I can slip unnoticed into any situation. All I have to do is remain silent, blend into the background, and move seamlessly.
The creaking of the gate wrenches me from my busy thoughts, announcing the end of the admittance process.
A hundred students line up in five neat rows. Some are completely silent like me, others murmur and chat among themselves. Many are even joking, elbowing, and nudging their friends.
Words like ‘excited,’ ‘can’t wait,’ and ‘finally’ float in the gloomy air with the energy of a distorted lullaby.
Everything about this place reeks of distortion. Some of that sensation has to do with the fact that the mansion the Heathens use as their compound is vast, old, has cathedral vibes, and could be used to perform satanic rituals.
It stands tall with three stories, separate wings, and two eastern towers that I suppose are used for surveillance.
A haunting quality flows within and around its walls in correspondence with the notorious reputation the club has.
Considering the fact that the mansion is situated off-campus, and therefore has more land than dormitories, it’s huge and, most importantly, secluded.
A large forest surrounds the property, but from what I’ve heard, it’s all wired, surveilled, and no other soul aside from the Heathens, or whomever they invite, is allowed access.
The double doors with demon-like knobs barge open and countless men in bunny masks rush outside in a sea of terror.
Not a word is spoken, but the combination of quickening footsteps, deformed sights, and the number of people involved is enough to make me freeze.
They circle us in systematic order, their Halloween-esque masks serving as the only features they project onto the world. Thirty-five. That’s how many there are.
And they’re all huge, burly, and definitely guards.
Because, of course, the members of the Heathens have their own security. They’re mafia princes after all, with empires of blood to go back to.
Their parents wouldn’t allow them to go to university without security shadowing their every move.
The casual chatter comes to a halt when the double doors on the top floor swing open and five people dressed in black stroll out to the balcony.
All eyes focus on them.
Every face, every breath, and every bit of human attention is on the Heathens’ main members, who look down on us like we’re peasants.
Neon purge-style masks cover their features, each a different color. Red, white, green, yellow, and orange.
And since it’s near dusk and cloudy as usual in England, the colors pop against everything black.
A bad pop.
A spine-chilling pop.
A pop that would make anyone remember those colors and masks should they meet them in the dark.
Static fills the air before a distorted voice speaks.
“Congratulations for 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 a 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 exactly ten participants exit with their heads bowed.
The remaining ninety don’t move from their spots. After all, everyone came here with the promise of power and positions that would benefit not only their university life, but also their futures afterward.
I would’ve left as well, if I hadn’t made a promise, but I did, and I need to keep my word.
The voice rings out around us again, definitely from overhead. “Congratulations again, ladies and gentlemen. We shall now begin our initiation.”
My attention slides to the five on the balcony—unmovable, silent, and intimidating without having to move a muscle.
True power isn’t shouting or issuing orders. It isn’t flexing muscles or showcasing weapons. It’s standing with utter confidence, like these guys, and knowing precisely that they have everyone here by the throat.
True power simmers beneath the surface, its energy almost bursting at the seams.
“Tonight’s game is predator and prey. 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.”
Everyone’s attention, including mine, zeroes in on each member’s weapon.
Red Mask’s fingers circle a baseball bat that’s resting nonchalantly on his shoulder.
Green Mask is holding a bow and has arrows with rubber points in a quiver that’s slung over his back.
White Mask strokes a huge chain that’s draped around his hands like a snake.
Orange Mask’s gloved hand rests on top of a metal golf club that’s propped on the ground.
Yellow Mask has no weapon at all, but his fists are balled.
When they said violence, they really meant violence. I knew that, spent last night mentally preparing for it, actually, but reality is different from anything I could’ve imagined.
Or predicted.
“You have a ten-minute head start. I suggest you run. The initiation has officially begun.”
All at once, feet shuffle around me, then everyone is running in different directions.
I stare back one final time at the Heathens in their black clothes, neon masks, and unmoving stances.
They watch the scattering of participants without a change in demeanor. No reaction. Not even a flicker of excitement.
These are people who were taught to always stay calm—to bide their time, wait for opportunities, and never show their eagerness. Even when I’m sure the hunt is nothing more than gratification for them.
It’s definitely not about accepting new members or survival of the fittest. There have been countless initiations in the past, most of them ending without adding any members, and no one knows anything about the participants who did manage to pass the initiation.
I try to gauge faces from the masks or the builds, but they’re all similar—muscular, and tall—except for White Mask, who’s a bit leaner.
Still, it’s impossible to tell who is who.
Or search for the one that I should absolutely stay away from.
Scratch that.
I should avoid all of them.
They’re predators and I’m part of the prey. If I end up being caught by any of them, I’ll be ripped between their teeth.
My feet falter for a second too long, a second I don’t have, a second that everyone else uses to run toward the forest.
I turn around and follow after them.
My limbs shake with every move, but the promise I made beats behind my rib cage with the ferocity of a second heart.
The students run between the gigantic trees, oblivious to the gloomy air that hugs the compound and wraps around every nook and cranny.
With the lack of sun, and only so little light, the green trees appear dark, ominous, and stuffed with cult and demonic vibes.
Choosing to focus on the mission, I sprint to gain as much distance as possible. I come across trees on which small cameras and speakers have been strategically installed to cover the entire grounds, but I lower my head and run past it to avoid capturing the attention of whoever is watching these feeds. I doubt the members would use them to hunt us down, but they might.
After all, there are no rules in tonight’s hunt.
I slip behind the bushes, following a group of students I overheard whispering about some sort of strategy earlier.
Usually, I’d put as much distance as possible between me and others, but I’m here to observe how these monsters function.
The only way to stop deranged people is to study them first—get under their skin and understand their workings.
Only then will you be able to inflict any sort of damage.
I’m not the one who’ll cause that damage, by the way. I’m too physically weak for that. But I have perfect spying skills due to my superpower.
The group of three don’t notice me following them from my place behind the bushes. My shoes are silent and any noise I make by sliding between the trees is in sync with the sounds they release.
We cut some distance in the forest while moving at a regular pace.
They’re working smarter, not stronger. Instead of running and attempting to avoid the Heathens, these three seem to somehow know their way around the forest and are using that advantage to reach the finish line faster.
“Numbers seventy-four and eighteen eliminated.”
I flinch at the sound of the speaker, and I force myself not to think about how they got eliminated.
The three I’m following, Five, Six, and Seven, don’t even pause at the announcement.
This must be a redo for them. Many who failed previous initiations may be invited back to the Heathens’ mansion if the members deem them worthy of another try.
One more reason why these are the perfect candidates to follow.
They push through fallen branches, and even though they’re not paying attention to the cameras, they tactfully slip between them.
The voice from the speaker echoes around us once and again, announcing the elimination of more numbers, sometimes in groups, sometimes in pairs.
Every time one of them comes, I jerk and alternate between breathing through my nose and mouth to remain calm.
Five, who’s at the front, comes to a halt and the others follow suit, their fists clenched at their sides.
Through the branches and leaves, I make out the dragging of a golf club on the ground before Orange Mask comes into view.
Six goes to punch him, and Orange Mask not only ducks, but he also hits him across the face with the club.
I slam my hands to my mouth to keep from shrieking as blood explodes from beneath Six’s mask and he falls to the ground with a thud. My legs tremble and I crouch between the bushes, watching the scene through the small gaps.
Five and Seven run in different directions and Orange Mask throws his golf club at the back of Five’s head, slamming him against the tree, then runs after Seven. His movements are sure, oozing with a frightening amount of control.
And power.
There’s so much power in every motion. Every action. Every sliver of decision he makes.
He didn’t even wait for his club to hit Five. He knew it would, and it did, as evidenced by the participant’s motionless body on the ground.
Something tells me he chose to run after Seven for a reason, and curiosity gnaws at my insides to find out what that reason is.
But I don’t.
Because that would mean following after them and surely getting myself eliminated.
Curiosity is the work of the devil and his minion demons in order to make us irrational.
The speaker says numbers six and five are eliminated, and I wait for number seven, but it doesn’t come.
Maybe he managed to escape. Go for it, random American lad.
Point is, I’m safe for now.
Slowly, I rise to my full height, cautiously studying my surroundings.
This time, I touch my wig, pushing it in place, and ignore the tingles in my sweaty skull as I tap my mask a few times to make sure it’s there.
The sound of several sets of footsteps reaches my sensitive ears and I crouch back down as four participants run across a clearing. Orange Mask heads toward them with Red Mask following. They send them flying in no time, and their unconscious bodies fall to the ground.
I cover my mouth with my hand again, nails digging into the mask’s plastic material and scratching at its surface.
Blimey.
This is a lot more gruesome than I could’ve ever imagined. Yes, I’ve heard the rumors about how cutthroat the Heathens can be and how they never hold back, but witnessing them actually hitting and punching is a completely different story.
It’s not only the image of exploding blood, of hard punches against faces and bodies, or that they’ve broken a few people along the way. It’s not only the Halloween-esque visual of heartless neon masks hunting people as if they’re animals.
It’s also the sound of it. The thwacks, whips, punches, and thuds of bodies falling inert to the ground.
It’s the muffled screams, the wails, and the begging of some of the participants.
One of them said, “I’m out. Please spare me this once—”
Before his head was shoved against a tree.
The two Heathens barely acknowledge each other with a look before each goes in a different direction.
Red Mask disappears through the trees and I contemplate the best way to do that without alerting Orange Mask.
You know what? Might as well wait until he leaves before I even move.
Despite the pain that screams at my limbs or my shaking legs, I remain in a crouching position, unmoving, scared to breathe properly.
Orange Mask leans down by Five, then grabs his club. Something liquid smudges his black leather gloves and drips on the ground in bright red.
Blood red.
How can they be so…monstrous at such a young age? But then again, they’ve probably been this way since they were born, considering the world they belong to.
I’ve never liked these types of people, those who hurt just because they have the power to.
Those who ruin entire families just because they can.
Morally corrupt people.
Machiavellians with no limits or morals.
The Heathens are at the top of that list with their skewed codes of conduct and hedonistic mindsets.
Orange Mask rises to his impressive height that nearly eats up the horizon, then slowly, too slowly, his head tilts in my direction.
The neon stitches glow in the near darkness as eerie silence stakes its claim.
My spine jerks when his rough, deep voice echoes in the air. “I know you’re hiding. Come out and I promise not to hurt you. Much.”
