2. Chapter 2
Two hours in, the music feels less like novelty and more like a pulse I’ve synced to without noticing. I’m pleasantly buzzed, but not sloppy and spinning. Just enough warmth in my veins that the edges of things feel softer.
The bass vibrates through the soles of my boots, up my calves and into my ribs. The lights have shifted a dozen times since we came in, cycling from purple to red to something electric-blue that makes everyone’s skin look unreal.
Imogen is glowing.
That’s the only word I’ve got for it.
She’s dancing with a man whose mask damn near matches her own, his hands respectful but confident at her waist. She catches my eye over his shoulder and grins, spinning away from him just long enough to mouth, You okay?
I lift my glass as I dance a few feet away with those who aren’t dry humping each other into oblivion.
I am okay.
Better than okay, actually. The initial tension I carried in with me has loosened its grip. The bar inside Pitch serves decent drinks and the crowd, while intense, hasn’t tipped into chaos. People are laughing and kissing, or showing their bracelets like badges.
I’ve lost count of how many times someone has glanced at my bare silver chain and then quickly looked away. I’m not yet that interesting, I suspect.
I’m in the middle of feeling myself to a throbbing bass, nursing the last of my drink, when the music changes.
It’s not abrupt or anything, but enough that most people take notice of it.
The bass line thins and the rhythm shifts. It’s subtle—like someone has turned a dial just a fraction to the left—but the energy in the room follows it. Conversations taper off mid-sentence and laughter goes quieter. Everyone listening for something they can’t quite hear yet.
I bite my lip when I watch a ripple flow out over the crowd and spotlights gravitate toward the doors that frame the room in every direction.
Some people cheer when they take notice of it, while others whoop and raise their drinks in salute.
I choose to do neither and glance about curiously for what comes next.
Imogen glances over, eyebrows lifting, excitement flashing across her face that I’ll admit I also feel.
See? Her expression says. This is where it starts.
I’m still watching the doors because there’s not a single staff announcement or explanation, just action.
Masked figures begin moving through the crowd now, not randomly but with purpose. They don’t push or grab, but gesture. They stop people gently with a hand raised and a tilt of the head, eyes flicking down to the bracelets.
I watch as a woman with three charms is guided toward a doorway to the left and a man with a single charm is sent toward a different one to the right. Sectioning people off, even going as far as to break couples up along the way—not that anyone is complaining.
“Oh,” Imogen murmurs, leaning in again. “I think this is where we part ways.”
“Looks like it.”
She laughs, a little breathless. “Of course we do.”
A masked staff member stops in front of us, close enough now that I can see the fine texture of filigree in their mask. At the strange way it almost absorbs the light instead of reflecting it. Their heads tilting down just far enough to look to our bare bracelets.
They lift one gloved hand and gesture her to the left and me to the right.
Imogen reaches out to squeeze my hand. “Okay,” she breathes, like she’s trying to convince herself. “Okay. This is fine. We’ll meet back up.”
“Yeah, we will.” I force a smile.
She hesitates just long enough for me to notice. “Hey, if you hate it, just—”
“I know,” I cut in gently. “Forward only.”
She grimaces. “Right. Stupid rule.”
But she’s smiling when she lets go of my hand, backing away toward the other door she’s been directed to. She throws me a kiss through her mask and I smile back. Then she’s gone, swallowed by red light and bodies and sound.
The staff member turns their attention to me and gestures again.
Right, move my ass.
I nod and slip through the door being held open for me. Wincing when it closes behind me with a solid, mechanical thud.
The hallway beyond is narrow and stark, the walls unfinished concrete. Colored strobe lights flash at irregular intervals, fast enough that my eyes struggle to adjust. The floor vibrates faintly under my boots, not from music, but from something deeper in the building.
My eyes try to adjust and fail, watching as people move ahead of me in short bursts. Their bodies appearing and disappearing with each flash of light. Someone laughs and another curses as they stumble.
I force my breathing to steady.
Strobe lights are meant to disorient, and I focus on my steps, rolling through my boots heel to toe to keep my balance. The silver bracelet at my wrist flashes bright, then vanishes, then flashes again.
Christ, if you’re epileptic you can forget about it.
After a few seconds, instinct snags me and I turn back to the door I came through. My hand lashes out and I curse as I grab the handle and find it doesn’t budge. I try again, harder this time.
It’s locked.
No give or rattle.
“Okay, so we’re serious about rules.” I murmur.
Ahead of me, the line continues to move forward, people disappearing around a bend in the hallway. The strobe flashes again, bleaching everything white, then plunges it back into darkness.
A scream cuts through the air, sharp and immediate. My muscles jump before my brain catches up, and adrenaline spikes hot and fast. My heart slams once, hard, and I suck in a breath—
Then the scream turns into laughter, breathless and exhilarated.
“Oh my God!” Someone cackles, echoing off the concrete. “Holy shit!”
A few people laugh along with them, clapping like they’ve just gotten off a ride.
I let my shoulders relax slowly and tell myself that it’s not that kind of scream.
Still, my nerves stay alert now, humming under my skin as I move forward. Counting my steps between the flashes and letting my eyes adjust to the rhythm as best they can.
The hallway curves, then curves again, winding in on itself until I lose any sense of direction. The music from the entry hall is completely gone now, replaced by a low mechanical hum that vibrates through the walls beneath the palm I use to navigate them.
I make a turn and nearly jump out of my skin when I find what must have had the person ahead of me from before screaming. A grotesque replica of a man stretched across the wall, his eyes open and greyed, blood streaking down from where he has been staked.
Christ, it’s realistic as fuck.
I shudder, deciding not to hang around with the creepy doll and move on around another bend.
I blink when the strobe reveals another staff member ahead standing between three doorways. One at its back and the other two flanking either side. Their mask dips just enough to look to my wrist then it nods once as if to confirm something and gestures me toward the door to the left.
I swallow and cross the threshold, the door shutting behind me with a sound that’s softer than the ones before it.
My eyes adjust to the new light and I take a breath as I look to the room around me.
It’s square, with ceilings high enough to swallow sound, and every wall—every single one—is mirror.
Floor to ceiling old glass that isn’t perfectly true.
Some panes bow slightly, others ripple just enough to distort edges.
The seams between them are thin but visible, like scars.
I’m alone in here.
The floor is smooth concrete beneath my feet, reflecting light back up at the mirrors so the room feels brighter than it should. A mind-numbing difference than the strobing hall I had all but stumbled out of. And at the center of it all rests a single settee.
Low-backed and upholstered in dark fabric. It’s neutral and intentional, but looks like it belongs in a waiting room. Somewhere meant for pause, not comfort.
I step deeper into the room and my reflection multiplies instantly.
There are dozens of me, maybe more; Sadie facing forward, Sadie in profile, Sadie warped slightly at the edges where the glass bends. My black lace mask repeats endlessly, delicate and black, my eyes staring back at me from a hundred angles.
In some mirrors I look small and in others I look taller, sharper.
I hadn’t realized how still I’d gone until I see it echoed back at me, so I force another step forward. Every version of me takes it too and the silver chain on my wrist flashes in unison across the room.
The air smells faintly of something clean—antiseptic, maybe?—and something warmer underneath it, like fabric that’s been sat on by too many bodies. Not unpleasant by any stretch of the imagination, but present.
There’s no music here and the hum in the walls from the hallway doesn’t translate within. It’s completely silent and I hate how unnerving I find that.
I move slowly, boots soft against the concrete, and circle the settee once. The mirrors give me no privacy, no corner to retreat into. No matter where I stand, I am visible. From the front, the back, the side, fractured in endless variations.
For just a brief moment, I wonder which one is closest to the truth.
I let my fingers brush the back of the settee as I pass, feeling the texture of the fabric, and grounding myself in something real. It’s cool to the touch and firm. Built to be used.
I blink and look around, because it seems as if time would probably stretch oddly in here.
Without sound or movement cues, seconds feel longer. My pulse is steady, but my awareness sharpens, honing in on small things; the way the lights don’t cast shadows the way they should, the way my breath sounds louder than it ought to in a room this big.
I stop near one wall and look closely at my reflection.
Up close, the glass isn’t flattering. It exaggerates tiny imperfections like the dark circles under my eyes or the faint tension at the corner of my mouth. I tilt my head and so do all the versions of me in varying directions.
“You may sit.”
I spin around in search of the voice that cuts through the silence. It’s low and smooth, close enough to be intimate but not directional enough for me to trace.
“You may stand.”
The words arrive without echo or amplification I can identify. I turn again, searching for the source.
“Or you may move on.”
My heartbeat kicks a little harder this time. I scan the mirrors again, searching for the trick of a one-way pane, a darkened rectangle, anything that would give away where the voice is coming from.
Every reflection only shows one thing—me.
I wet my lips and breathe in slowly, feeling the air in my lungs and grounding myself in the reality of my body in this space.
Sit.
Stand.
Move on.
The choice hangs in the room with me, heavy and deliberate.
And for the first time since I stepped inside Pitch, I understand something clearly, without fear clouding it: This isn’t about obedience, but response.
And I came to do this damn thing, so I’m doing it.
I sit down.