Brandon

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.

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