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The apartment feels different when I walk through the door, like the air itself has shifted while I was gone. Thicker somehow, charged with the kind of tension that makes my skin prickle and my nerves sing. Gregory meows from his perch on the windowsill, but even his greeting sounds muted, distant.

It takes me a moment to register why everything feels so wrong, and then I see Cassidy.

She sits curled in the corner of our secondhand couch, knees drawn up to her chest, mascara streaking down her cheeks in dark rivers.

Her blonde hair hangs limp around her face, and she’s clutching a tissue box like a lifeline.

When she sees me, her blue eyes fill with fresh tears.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, the words barely audible over the hum of the refrigerator. “I’m so fucking sorry, Rhea, but they kept asking questions and I thought you were in trouble.”

The bottom drops out of my stomach, a cold realization spreading through my chest like ice water. I know, even before she says another word, that my life as I knew it has just ended. Again.

I close the door behind me with deliberate care, my movements measured and calm despite the chaos threatening to consume me from the inside out. Thatcher’s shirt still hangs loose on my frame, carrying his scent like a promise and a warning wrapped in Egyptian cotton.

“What questions?” My voice is steady, controlled. A psychology major’s voice—clinical and detached, designed to extract information without revealing emotion.

Cassidy’s face crumples further, if that’s even possible.

“The FBI, Rhea. They came here this afternoon, asking about Halloween night. About Jack.” She sobs into the tissue, her shoulders shaking with the force of her tears.

“They said someone matching your description was seen with him at the party.”

Each word hits me like a physical blow, but I don’t flinch. Don’t react. Instead, I move to the kitchen island, placing my hands flat against the cool granite surface and letting the solid weight of it anchor me.

“What exactly did you tell them?”

“They asked if you came home upset that night.” Cassidy wipes her nose, looking at me with red-rimmed eyes.

“I said yes because you did. You were crying and shaking and you went straight to the shower and—” Her voice breaks.

“I was trying to help. I thought if I told them you were home by midnight, it would give you an alibi.”

But I don’t know if I was home by midnight. I was terrified, so I walked on foot, and I have no idea how long that actually took. And if the FBI are building a timeline, if they’re looking for windows of opportunity, Cassidy just handed them everything they need to place me at the scene.

“What else?” I keep my voice level, but something cold and calculating is unfurling in my chest. A survival instinct I didn’t know I possessed.

“They asked if you had blood on your clothes.” Cassidy’s voice is getting smaller with each confession. “I said I didn’t notice but... God, Rhea, there was blood, wasn’t there? On your dress when you got home?”

Yes. There was blood. Jack’s blood from when I hit him with the bottle. My best friend, my roommate, the person I’ve trusted with my secrets for two years, has unknowingly painted me as the prime suspect in a federal murder investigation.

“They said they might want to talk to you,” Cassidy continues, her words rushing together in a desperate stream. “They left a card and said to call them when you got home. Rhea, I’m so sorry. I thought I was helping.”

I stare at my reflection in the window above the sink, seeing a stranger wearing my face. The girl who worried about midterms and boys and whether she’d get into graduate school is gone. In her place stands someone harder, sharper. Someone who can calculate the damage and plan accordingly.

“Where’s the card?” I ask.

Cassidy points to the kitchen counter with a trembling finger. Agent Sarah Martinez, Federal Bureau of Investigation. The name stares back at me in crisp black lettering, a death sentence disguised as a business card.

My phone buzzes against my thigh, pulling me from the spiral of implications. Thatcher’s name appears on the screen, followed by a message that makes my blood run cold: “Chamber. One hour. Time to become official.”

The timing can’t be a coincidence. Somehow, he already knows what’s happened. Somehow, he’s been expecting this.

I slide the phone back into my pocket and turn to face Cassidy, who’s watching me with growing concern. “Rhea? Are you okay? What’s going on?”

For a moment, I see her as she really is—my friend, my roommate, the girl who helped me move into this apartment and held my hair when I had food poisoning freshman year. The girl who just destroyed my life while trying to save it.

“I need to go,” I say simply, my voice carrying none of the chaos raging inside me. “Don’t wait up.”

“But the FBI—”

“Yeah. I’ll handle it. Don’t worry, okay? You’re not in trouble. It’s going to be okay.”

The alternative is unthinkable.

When I descend the familiar stairs to the basement, what I find stops me cold.

The chamber has been transformed.

Candles line every surface, their flickering light casting dancing shadows on the concrete walls.

The harsh fluorescent bulb has been replaced with something softer, more atmospheric.

And instead of the usual casual clothes, every person in the room wears the same thing—black robes that pool around their feet like spilled ink.

It looks like a ritual. A ceremony. An induction.

I recognize faces in the candlelight—students I’ve passed on campus, guys I’ve seen at parties.

The student body president stands near the far wall, his usual politician’s smile replaced by something more serious, more focused.

The dean’s son hovers near the door, and I spot the football team’s quarterback closer to the center of the room.

These aren’t just random rich boys playing at being dangerous. These are the future leaders of universities, corporations, governments. And they’re all here, in this basement, wearing robes and waiting for something to begin.

Thatcher materializes at my elbow like a shadow given form, his hand warm and steady at the small of my back. He’s wearing robes too, the black fabric making his eyes appear almost luminous in the candlelight.

“Ready?” he murmurs against my ear, his breath sending shivers down my spine despite everything.

Before I can answer, Noah steps forward, commanding attention without saying a word. In his robes, he looks less like a college student and more like what he really is—the heir to something vast and dark and powerful.

“Tonight,” he begins, his voice carrying easily through the chamber, “we welcome a new member to our family. But first, she needs to understand what that means.”

His gaze finds mine across the room, steady and unblinking. “Complete loyalty to the Reapers. Any betrayal means death. What happens in the chamber stays in the chamber. We protect our own above all else.”

Each rule lands like a physical weight, pressing down on my shoulders, my chest, my lungs. This isn’t a game or a college prank. This is something real and binding and permanent.

“The FBI are asking questions,” Noah continues, and several faces around the room tighten with tension. “They’re building a timeline for Halloween night. So we’re going to give them one.”

A table appears from the shadows, rolled forward by two robed figures. Spread across its surface are photographs, documents, witness statements—a carefully constructed alternate reality laid out like pieces of a puzzle.

“Jack was heavily drinking all night,” Noah says, pointing to photos that show Jack stumbling between rooms, drink in hand. “Multiple witnesses will confirm this. He was hitting on several girls, getting increasingly aggressive as the night wore on.”

More photos—Jack’s hands on various girls, his face flushed with alcohol and aggression. I recognize some of the faces, remember seeing these interactions myself.

“Rhea spoke with him briefly but left the party early,” Noah continues, his finger moving to a timestamp. “Her roommate will testify that she came home upset but uninjured around midnight. This gives her an alibi for the time of death.”

Cassidy’s testimony, twisted and shaped into exactly what they need. My best friend’s words, used as weapons in a war she doesn’t even know is being fought.

“Jack continued drinking alone in his room. He fell, hit his head on furniture, died from traumatic brain injury. No one was with him when it happened.” Noah’s voice is matter-of-fact, clinical. “Tragic accident. End of story.”

It’s perfect. Airtight. Every piece of evidence carefully crafted to support a narrative that protects everyone in this room while sacrificing no one.

“What about the broken glass? And blood on my clothes?”

They all look towards me.

“He wouldn’t take no for answer, so you hit him and ran.”

I nod, my eyes meeting Thatcher’s.

“You’re not just the witness,” Noah says, turning to address me directly. “You’re the alibi that proves it wasn’t murder. You left before he died. Your roommate saw you come home upset but uninjured. Perfect testimony.”

The weight of understanding settles over me like a blanket. I’m not here as Thatcher’s girlfriend or Noah’s charity case. I’m here because I’m valuable. Because my clean reputation makes me believable, my friendship with Cassidy provides unshakeable witness testimony.

“You’re not just Thatcher’s anymore,” Noah continues, his eyes boring into mine. “You’re ours. That means we protect you, but it also means you protect us.”

The silence in the room is complete, broken only by the whisper of candle flames and the distant sound of traffic above. Every face is turned toward me, waiting for my response, my commitment, my soul.

But something has shifted inside me as I’ve listened to their plan, watched their careful preparation, seen the scope of their organization. I’m not a victim in this room. I’m not prey being hunted or a pawn being moved across a board.

I’m a strategist. A player. Someone with skills and knowledge and value beyond what even they realize.

A chalice appears on the table—old silver, tarnished with age and use. Noah draws a small knife from his robes, its blade catching the candlelight like liquid fire.

“Each member bleeds for the family,” he says, pricking his palm and letting dark drops fall into the cup. “And the family bleeds for each member.”

One by one, they come forward. The student body president.

The dean’s son. The quarterback. The hockey players.

Each cuts their palm, each adds their blood to the growing pool in the chalice.

When Thatcher’s turn comes, he doesn’t hesitate, his eyes never leaving mine as the knife bites into his flesh.

And then it’s my turn.

The knife is heavier than I expected, warm from all the hands that have held it before mine. I feel the eyes of the room on me, feel the weight of this moment, this choice, this permanent alteration of my life’s trajectory.

I press the blade to my palm, feel the sharp bite of metal against skin. Blood wells up, dark and rich in the candlelight, and drips into the chalice with the soft sound of rain on water.

“I protect the family,” I say, my voice carrying clearly through the chamber. “The family protects me.”

Noah lifts the chalice, swirling its contents gently before taking a sip. Then it’s passed around the circle, each member drinking from the mingled blood of all. When it reaches me, I don’t hesitate. The metallic taste coats my tongue, bitter and somehow sacred.

As I swallow, as the blood of this brotherhood enters my system, I understand with crystal clarity that I’m no longer playing Thatcher’s game. I’m no longer the scared girl who stumbled into a nightmare on Halloween night.

I’m something sacred.

I’m a Reaper now.