The rain continued for three days after Mia's death, as if the heavens themselves mourned what had happened. The city wore a cloak of wetness, dirt, and grief, and Elian wandered through it like a ghost — unseen, untouched, but unbearably broken.
Classes continued at St. Helens High. Students laughed in hallways, teachers handed out quizzes, the cafeteria buzzed with mindless chatter — as if nothing had happened.
But to Elian, every second felt like a betrayal.
Every smile was a blade in his ribs. Every careless word felt like sand grinding against raw wounds.
Mia's desk sat empty in the corner of their class, her textbooks gathering dust. No one asked where she was. No one cared.
Except Elian.
But he said nothing. Because he knew: they wouldn't believe him. And worse—they wouldn't care.
---
On the fourth day, an envelope was slipped into his locker.
This time, it wasn't just a symbol. It contained a black card, heavy and metallic, engraved with the words:
> THE ORDER WELCOMES YOU.
On the back, it listed a location:
The Obsidian Club. Midnight.
No instructions. No threats. Just an unspoken promise of consequences if he failed to appear.
Elian gripped the card so tightly it cut into his palm, leaving small crescent-shaped wounds.
---
It was a place most students had only heard whispered about—where billionaires' sons played god, where the daughters of tycoons gambled away fortunes for fun, where deals darker than night itself were struck under the buzz of neon lights.
Elian had never seen it before. He didn't even know where it was.
But somehow, his feet found the way.
The club stood at the edge of the industrial district, hidden behind a decaying warehouse. There was no sign, no flashy entrance. Just a single steel door guarded by two towering men in black suits.
When they saw the card in his hand, they didn't say a word. They just nodded and stepped aside.
Inside, it was a different world.
Smoke curled into the air, mixing with flashing lights and the deep, pulsing beat of music that felt like a second heartbeat. Beautiful people lounged in decadent booths — girls draped in designer dresses, boys laughing with champagne glasses in hand.
And at the center of it all: a throne.
A real throne, carved from black marble, glittering under the lights.
Sitting on it was a boy about Elian's age, maybe eighteen, with silver hair, sharp green eyes, and a smile that could slice bone.
He wore a perfectly tailored black suit and a single crimson rose pinned to his lapel. His aura was wrong — too calm, too deadly.
As Elian approached, the boy's smile widened.
"Welcome to the real world," he said lazily, twirling a glass of dark wine in his hand. "We've been waiting, Elian."
---
The boy introduced himself as Lucian Vale, heir to the Vale Consortium — a multi-trillion-dollar conglomerate that touched everything from AI to oil to pharmaceuticals.
"You," Lucian said, his voice dripping like honey, "are special. Not because you're strong, or smart, or brave. No, no. You're special because you're willing to bleed."
Elian said nothing. His mouth was dry, his heart hammering against his ribs.
Lucian gestured around at the glittering crowd. "These fools," he sneered, "they think the world belongs to those who shout the loudest. But true power..." —he leaned in, so close Elian could smell the expensive cologne and blood hidden beneath it— "comes to those who whisper at the right moment."
Elian swallowed hard.
"What do you want from me?" he croaked.
Lucian laughed. It wasn't a human sound. It was the laugh of something that had never known fear.
"Nothing yet," he said. "Tonight is a test."
He snapped his fingers, and two men dragged someone forward — another student from St. Helens, one of the boys who had bullied Elian for years: Travis Yorn.
Travis looked terrified, his face bloody, his hands tied behind his back.
"You want revenge, don't you?" Lucian asked, offering Elian a silver revolver, glinting under the lights. "One shot. No witnesses. No consequences. Become one of us."
Elian's hands trembled.
The gun was heavy. It felt like it was pulling him into a darkness he would never escape.
Travis whimpered. "Please, man. Please!"
The club watched, silent and hungry, their eyes gleaming like wolves in the night.
Lucian leaned back on his throne, sipping his wine.
"Choose, Elian," he said. "Prove you're not just another sheep waiting to be slaughtered."
The music thudded. The lights swirled.
Elian closed his eyes.
Pulled the trigger.
Click.
The gun wasn't loaded.
Laughter exploded around him, mocking and cruel.
Lucian clapped slowly, his eyes alight with cruel amusement.
"You passed," he said, rising from his throne. "Not because you pulled the trigger. But because you were willing to."
He draped an arm over Elian's shoulders, leading him away from the stage.
"You're ours now, little lamb," he whispered. "Welcome to the slaughterhouse."
---