Into Pitch

1. Chapter 1

Gravel crunches under my boots like someone is chewing glass with their mouth open.

The night is cold enough to make my lungs feel clean when I breathe in and my fingers would have long past gone numb if it weren’t for them being tucked into the pockets of my leather jacket. The kind of cold that makes you feel awake and sharp and a little stupid standing outside in it.

Ahead of us, the line snakes toward the mouth of the building we had been waiting two weeks to enter. An old asylum that has been purposefully adapted for whatever happens tonight beyond its doors.

Though calling it an asylum in my head feels dramatic, like I’m trying to make this bigger than it actually is.

But the place is exactly what you’d imagine when you hear abandoned psychiatric hospital; hulking brick, dead windows, and iron-limbed trees reaching over the roof like they’re trying to drag it back into the earth.

Parts of the facade have been boarded up, and other parts are open black holes where glass used to be.

A few floodlights shine up at the front entrance in a way that makes shadows cut hard and ugly across the walls.

It should look condemned by all rational logic, but it falls in the category of prepared.

Someone has put a lot of thought into this event.

You can feel it in the order of the line, the way people aren’t milling around like they’re lost. The way there are temporary barricades guiding us into a funnel toward the doors.

It also helps that no one is wandering off to pee in a bush or smoke behind a tree like this is some backyard concert.

It’s just straight-up organized.

Imogen leans into me, all perfume and gold, her breath a little white in the air.

“Look at you,” she grins, as if she’s seeing me for the first time tonight.

I snort. “Look at me? Look at you. You’re liable to blind someone in that dress.”

“It’s not a dress. It’s armor,” she scoffs, lifting one shoulder and making the gold-and-white fabric catch the light.

Her domino mask sits perfect over her warm honeyed eyes, half angel, half something theatrical.

Golden heels digging into the gravel with every small shift of her weight, and I don’t know whether to admire her for committing to them or shake her for wearing them on ground that swallows stilettos whole.

“You’re going to break an ankle,” I mutter.

She snorts like she’s already decided that might just be worth it. “Live a little, Sadie.”

I roll my eyes, but it’s in fondness. Imogen has always had this talent for dragging light into places that don’t deserve it.

I glance down at myself, mostly to reassure my brain that I dressed like a person who fits in with the crowd around me.

I’d spent two hours deciding my outfit and had settled on a leather thigh-length skirt, black lace tights, and a red tank tucked loose into the waistband like I couldn’t be bothered to make it perfect.

Paired it with my black leather jacket and a pair of boots, and I’d been rather happy with the result.

I would have left my hair down, but had twisted up the blonde into a clip that Imogen insisted I borrow because, according to her, “If we’re going to a secret underground thing together, we should at least be coordinated in some manner.”

And as the rules stated, I had found a mask online to slap atop the smoky makeup I had perfected over the years.

A black lace that covers just my eyes and nose, tied tight enough that it won’t slip if someone bumps me.

It looks delicate in nature, but also gives an edge I hadn’t anticipated but am not angry with.

Imogen reaches into her clutch and pulls out two black cards. Even in the dark, the red lettering on the front catches the floodlights.

PITCH.

The word is embossed so deep you can feel it through the matte paper. It’s ridiculous how expensive it looks and that someone would spend money on invitations for something they are trying to keep somewhat a secret.

She wiggles one at me. “Last chance to bail.”

“Yeah, yeah.” I take it from her, flipping it over.

On the back, there’s a raised square; an embossed scan code, like a QR code but pressed into the cardstock so it’s tactile. The kind of detail you only notice when you run your thumb over it. No ink or print, just texture. Like they built it to survive sweat and fingerprints.

Imogen watches me inspect it like she always watches me inspect things—like she’s amused by my need to understand how something works before I step into it. “They’re serious about fakes,” she snorts.

“They’re serious about everything,” I mutter, and then catch myself because I sound like I’m trying to talk myself out of this.

I’m not.

If I didn’t want to be here, I wouldn’t be here.

It’s that simple. Nobody dragged me to this and nobody held a gun to my head.

I could be at the bar right now, wiping down tables and telling drunk men to keep their hands to themselves and pretending my life is fine because it’s survivable.

Instead, I’m standing in a line outside an abandoned asylum with a black card in my hand and a lace mask on my face.

Infinitely better by most standards, my own included.

Ahead of us, people shift and talk in low bursts, their voices muffled by their own masks.

Most of them are dressed like they’re going to a party; sleek black dresses, pressed shirts, leather, glitter, and the occasional flash of color.

There are a few couples holding hands and a few singles standing slightly apart, watching everyone in obvious excitement.

A man in front of us turns his head just enough to look at Imogen’s dress and whistles.

“Jesus,” he says, voice playful. “Someone understood the assignment.”

Imogen beams at the compliment. “Thank you!”

His friend laughs. “You been before?”

Imogen tilts her head, curls bouncing free around her toned shoulders. “No. Have you?”

“Twice,” the man smiles in return, almost smug. He jingles his wrist and my eyes dip to the silver chain bracelet. A few charms hanging off of it, catching the light when he moves. Small shapes that I can’t make out from here.

He sees me looking and lifts his wrist a little further, letting the charms clink together softly like they belong to a private language all their own. “It’s not that bad. People wouldn’t come back if it was.”

“Mm,” I hum, noncommittal.

Because that’s promising.

Imogen nudges me with her hip. “See? People come back. It’s fine.”

“It being ‘fine’ isn’t why people come back to things,” I mutter under my breath.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means…” I glance at the building again. The floodlights make the entrance look like a stage, but the shadows around it feel a hell of a lot more like teeth. “People come back to chaos all the time. Think bad train wreck you can’t look away from.”

Imogen’s expression softens behind her mask, because she knows me too well. She’s known me long enough to hear what I’m not saying.

She reaches over and hooks her fingers around my wrist, squeezing once. “Sadie,” she sighs, and her voice shifts into that tone she uses when she’s trying to keep me from bolting. “This isn’t your mom’s boyfriends. This isn’t your childhood. This is a night out. A weird one, sure, but—”

“But I know,” I cut in, because I do know, and I refuse to let my past turn into a leash around my throat in front of her or anyone in this line.

I tip my chin toward the man’s bracelet. “What do the charms mean?”

He laughs like the question is cute. “Depends on who you get.”

“Who you get,” I repeat.

“Yeah.” He lowers his voice. “Different encounters and different staff members. Or different rooms even. It’s like… curated.”

“That sounds like a nightmare,” I say flatly.

His friend snorts. “That’s Pitch.”

I glare at Imogen over my mask. “Did you know there were bracelets?”

“Oh for sure, they’re all over social media if you know where to look.” She grins and shows the bare skin of her own wrist. Clearly intrigued as she all but bounces on her heels.

The line inches forward and up close, I can see why that excitement has rippled into contagion.

There’s a checkpoint under a temporary canopy near the doors. Masked staff stand behind folding tables draped in black cloth. Their masks aren’t lace or domino; theirs are smooth and uniform, matte black, featureless. Their entire outfit is black to match, so nothing of them is identifiable.

There are red flags everywhere, but since when have I ever given a flying fuck about those?

One table has a series of lockboxes lined up like something you’d see at a courthouse, and I purse my lips when I see everyone’s electronics being placed within them. There is even a sign on the stand beside it, simple white text on black:

NO DEVICES. NO EXCEPTIONS.

Another sign beside it:

MASKS ON. SILENCE RESPECTED.

I laugh once, low. “Silence respected,” I murmur.

Imogen leans close. “That’s kind of hot.”

“Of course you’d say that.”

A woman two people ahead turns, her mask sparkling. “Do you think they really mean you can’t go back once you’re inside?” She asks her boyfriend, half giggle, half nervous.

He scoffs. “They can’t keep you anywhere. That’s illegal.”

I had thought the same thing when I had seen the rules listed on the invite and the waiver they had sent once you accepted.

“Right?” She sighs in relief, and then laughs like she’s embarrassed for even asking.

The boyfriend looks over his shoulder at me and Imogen as if we’re part of the conversation now. “It’s just theatrics to make it feel scarier.”

Imogen nods enthusiastically. “Exactly. It’s like immersive.”

I sigh and watch the featureless masked staff take someone’s phone, drop it into a lockbox, and slide a tiny metal key across the table. The person pockets the key without bothering to look down and moves on.

Not much like the rave I expected this place might be, seems a lot more like intake.