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.