Chapter 10 #2
I force my eyelids shut again, but not before Phoenix’s eyes flick my way. Just for a second. A measuring glance. The kind of look a wolf gives when he wonders if you’ll fight back or just bleed out quietly.
Every instinct I’ve got tells me the same thing: Willow’s right. This man is a predator wrapped in wellness doctrine.
And I just signed myself into his den.
After what feels like a fucking eternity of sitting on that mat breathing in and out with faked reverence, Phoenix closes out the breathwork portion and tells us to rise.
We file out of the practice room like obedient sheep.
Phoenix leads the way, barefoot on polished concrete, not a bead of perspiration on him despite the ninety-minute sermon disguised as breathwork.
The hallways are a maze—curving, narrow, no windows, doors every ten feet. Too many doors. My gut prickles. This is designed to disorient, to make sure you don’t know where you’ve been.
Through one half-open door, I catch sight of a circle of people sitting cross-legged on rugs. They’re holding hands, eyes closed, whispering the same phrases over and over. “I am healing. I am divine. I am whole.” The cadence matches the breath work from earlier, a rhythm that seeps under the skin.
The next door reveals bodies moving in synchronized, jerky stretches, led by a man who looks like he stepped out of a fitness catalog. They’re not graceful; they look… possessed. The kind of movement that burns up the rational brain and leaves nothing but devotion.
Another door. People flat on their backs on mats, staring at the ceiling. No music. No talking. Just vacant eyes, mouths slightly open. Like corpses rehearsing for the real thing.
Every room hums with the same feeling: desperation. People clawing at hope like it’s their last breath.
I know not all of these practices are fraudulent. I know breathwork is beneficial. I know meditation is powerful. I know that mind over matter is a real thing at times. I know all this wellness stuff here isn’t all bogus.
But it’s the angle this place is taking.
They’re feeding off people’s desperation. Their pain. And Phoenix—slick bastard—he’s figured out how to package it. How to sell holiness to the dying.
You hear about the toxicity of wellness cult-ure, it’s been a social issue for years.
The way it works, and the way it thrives, is that so much of this stuff is healing.
There’s some truth in every bit of what Phoenix is preaching.
But there must always be a balance. There must always be reason.
And pushing people past their limits is not okay. These people are actually sick.
I walk with the herd, hands shoved into my pockets, keeping pace. Inside, my skin is crawling. If Willow were here, she’d already be sharpening her daggers and have a plastic bag tucked in her back pocket.
We march into a “kitchen” like a field trip group about to get a lesson on farm-to-table kale. The smell hits first—sterile bleach fighting against roasted garlic. Weird combo. My brain can’t decide if it wants to tell my digestive system to gag or get hungry.
Phoenix is already waiting at the front, standing behind a long butcher’s block like he’s about to crown himself the Gordon Ramsay of Godhood. His voice booms, smooth, hypnotic.
“What we put into our bodies matters more than anything. Medicine tells us the body breaks down with age. That it decays, grows frail. And our food is designed to make this happen. The amount of toxins in food these days would have killed someone who lived two hundred years ago. The addictive additives that are in our food keep us slaves.” He places a hand reverently on the counter, like he’s about to bless it.
Again, he's not wrong.
Fuck. This is why he’s good.
“Our ancestors knew better. They ate every part of the animal. Nothing wasted. Because they understood the truth—that the life force doesn’t just sit in a filet or a drumstick. It lingers in the blood, in the marrow, in the organs.”
People nod like he just solved world hunger.
Phoenix spreads his arms theatrically. “But modern man? We’ve grown soft. Afraid. Conditioned to believe that the richest, healthiest parts are somehow grotesque. And because of this fear, you are starving. Starving for the fuel that will make you whole again.”
And that’s when the chefs walk in.
Not line cooks. Not smoothie-jockeys in aprons. These guys look Michelin-star-level—towering hats, pressed whites, stainless steel trays glinting under the overhead lights. And on those trays?
Oh fuck.
It takes me a beat to process what I’m looking at.
Wet. Shiny. Slabs that jiggle when they move.
Squishy tubes, pale and lumpy like someone skinned a sausage.
A bloody heart still twitching—or maybe my brain’s just filling in the horror show.
One tray looks like it’s holding a prop from The Walking Dead.
The woman next to me clasps her hands to her chest. “Ohhh,” she whispers. “Divine fuel.”
No, sweetheart. That’s a damn spleen.
Phoenix beams like this is the grand reveal of his magic trick. “Tonight, you will taste life itself.”
I want to vomit.
The chefs line up their instruments with surgical precision. Knives gleam. Boards are set down. And then the chopping starts.
It’s a symphony of schlup, schlop, thud. Wet meat slapping wood. Knife blades carving through connective tissue. The squish of fat splitting open.
I’m transfixed and horrified. My brain keeps running captions: That’s definitely a kidney. Oh hell, is that a pancreas? Nope, don’t think about it. Don’t think about how it smells like pennies and wet dog in here.
One chef lobs a lobe of liver into a blender. It lands with a meaty slap. Another scrapes minced heart into the pitcher, the pieces sticking to the blade like crimson Play-Doh. Then in goes something tubular, chopped into chewy-looking rings. Calamari if calamari was designed in hell.
The blender whirs, high-pitched, mechanical. Red froth spatters against the glass.
Finally, a few normal things make an appearance. Kale. Ginger. Turmeric. Sure, I can deal. I know that stuff is good for you. Then, powdered mushrooms. Still manageable. And finally—a jar of something unlabeled, a pale dust Phoenix calls his “sacred wellness powder.”
Yeah, that screams definitely not FDA-approved.
Phoenix lifts the jar, eyes glittering. “This completes the alchemy. The body cannot reject what the spirit embraces.” He sprinkles it in like he’s salting a steak, smiling while the audience murmurs in awe.
The blender roars back to life. What was already a crime against cuisine becomes a war offense. The smell hits us: metallic copper cut with bitter kale, earthy mushroom, sour citrus. It’s like someone tried to make a Bloody Mary out of roadkill.
Phoenix claps once, his eyes filled with a kind of gleeful anticipation. The chefs pour the smoothie into tumblers, rich red-brown sludge that looks like it should be in a crime lab evidence bag.
“Drink, and be renewed,” Phoenix intones.
My stomach instantly cramps. My body screams Don’t do it, you bastard. Don’t you dare put that in me.
But I know how this game works. Phoenix is watching.
Everyone here is watching. If I don’t drink, I’m the heretic.
The problem. The outsider. I’m here because of Willow.
To find her an in. If I draw attention to myself, it could circle back around to Willow somehow, and I won’t ruin her shot to take this asshole down.
So, I lock my jaw, steel my gut, and prepare to sacrifice my dignity—and my gag reflex—for Willow.
The chefs walk around the room, distributing the disgusting concoction. I try to smile as I accept mine, but I’m positive it’s more of a grimace. The tumbler is cold in my hands, condensation slicking my palms like the cup knows it’s about to ruin me.
The smell hits before it even touches my lips. Metallic, like licking a penny. Bitter kale and turmeric trying and failing to cover the copper tang of blood. There’s a sour, almost fishy note that makes me certain someone slipped in a gallbladder for fun.
I glance sideways. Everyone else is lifting their glasses like this is communion. One woman whispers, “Thank you, Phoenix,” like he just personally breastfed her salvation.
Phoenix himself prowls down the line, making eye contact with each of us as we drink. His stare is loaded, invasive, like he’s not just watching but taking stock of your soul.
He stops in front of me. His gaze flicks over my frame, and a slow smile spreads across his face. “Ah,” he says, voice low but even. “A body like yours already knows discipline. You’ll find this drink unlocks new strength. Drink, and prove yourself.”
I should plaster a smile on. I should play the part. But I’m starting to sweat, and I don’t think I have it in me to act right now.
I tip the glass back.
It hits my tongue like liquefied despair. Cold, thick, not smooth at all. More… chunky.
Oh fuck, there are bits.
My teeth crunch down on something that squishes, releasing a flood of copper and bile. My whole body convulses. I swallow hard, desperate to keep it down, but the texture is like wet rubber bands marinated in pennies and lawn clippings.
The woman next to me sighs, blissed out, and whispers, “It tastes like life.”
No. No, ma’am. It tastes like roadkill blended with the worst kale smoothie Jamba Juice never dared make.
I force it down, sip after horrific sip, throat burning, eyes watering. Phoenix doesn’t look away. He watches me swallow every last chunky ounce, and I can feel his smug satisfaction.
Finally, I slam the empty tumbler down like I just won a bar bet. My stomach lurches, violently protesting. For one terrifying second, I think I’m going to puke it right back into Phoenix’s robe pockets.
Instead, I burp.
It comes out loud and wet, unmistakably liver-scented.
The room gasps. But Phoenix chuckles like I just proved his entire point. “See?” he announces to the group. “His body accepts it. Even in discomfort, he allows the divine fuel to take root. That is strength.”
No, jackass. That is me clenching every sphincter I have and praying I don’t recolor your white linen pants.
I wipe my mouth, force a grin, and nod. Inside, I’m screaming. The things I do for this woman.
Phoenix moves on, satisfied. My stomach does another violent twist, and I know—absolutely know—I will be seeing this smoothie again later, one way or another.
The “meal” (I use that term loosely—felonies against my digestive system are not meals) ends with Phoenix raising his own tumbler like some holy chalice.
He gives yet another speech, the guy obviously likes the sound of his own voice.
And then he too downs the disgusting, borderline cannibalistic crime against smoothies.
Everyone else clinks their empty tumblers and sighs, their faces glowing with gratitude like they just drank the blood of Christ.
I’m wishing I had known to smuggle in Pepto-Bismol without looking suspicious.
And then, thank fuck, it’s over.
We shuffle back into the lobby, shoes squeaking against polished marble, everyone buzzing about how life-changing the experience was.
Life-changing? Sure—if you count “questioning why you were born with taste buds” as life-changing.
The lobby is plastered with glossy posters and brochures. Awaken the healer. Repair and Heal Your Womb. Rebirth Through Flame. Each one a new cult starter pack. Then I spot it, front and center on a sleek glass table: The Couples Retreat.
I grab one, flip it open. The price hits me like another organ smoothie to the face. $40,000 for three days.
Forty grand to camp out in matching white robes while Phoenix tells you kale is God and orgasms cure migraines.
Still, my brain is already moving. This? This might be Willow’s way in. As much as I want to throttle myself for even thinking about it, the retreat could get her close enough to take him out.
I slip the brochure into my back pocket like contraband.
The relief that washes through me as I step outside is instant. I feel like I just escaped the fucking Temple of Doom. The desert heat clings even as the sun dips low. The building’s glow makes the whole block feel like a shrine, humming with the devotion of the desperate.
And then, as I’m walking back to my car—my stomach revolts. No warning. Just full mutiny.
I dive for the nearest hedge and projectile-launch the smoothie of Satan back into the world. It splatters against leaves and the dirt like a Jackson Pollock painting no one asked for. The smell wafts up, a grotesque perfume of undigested liver and kale.
A couple walking by gasps. “Is he okay?”
No, sir, he is not. He just willingly ingested a nightmare because he’s fallen for a woman who stabs assholes to tables like it’s foreplay.
Another heave. Another splatter. My abs are seizing, sweat slicking down my neck. I cling to the hedge like it’s the only thing keeping me from collapsing face-first into my own shame.
And then my phone buzzes.
With shaking, sweat-slicked hands, I pull it from my back pocket.
Willow.
Can I take you out for dinner tonight?
I start laughing, breathless and half-choking on bile. Dinner? After what I just survived? Girl, unless you’re serving bleach martinis and a side of stomach pump, I’m not surviving a dinner date.
I type back:
Not feeling great tonight. Can we do breakfast tomorrow instead?
The thought of any food going into my body sends my body into fight or flight. Another heave. More kale liver spray for the bushes.
She replies almost instantly:
Are you okay? Do you need me to bring you something?
And that—that—undoes me. Because she’s worried. She’s worried about me, the man who’s just committed a war crime against his own digestive tract for her mission. It’s been more than a damn decade since anyone worried about me.
I stare down at the mess I’ve made, bile burning my throat, and grin like a lunatic.
The things I’ll do for this woman.
I would choke down another round of organ sludge. I would eat kidneys, spleens, eyeballs, whatever nightmare Phoenix serves, all without blinking—if it meant Willow got her justice.
Hell, I’d drink it every morning for the rest of my life if she asked.
Because that’s what obsession looks like. And it’s not pretty. It’s not sane. But it’s hers.
I spit one last time into the hedge, wipe my mouth on my sleeve, and stagger to my car. The smoothie may have won the battle, but Willow? She’s the war. And I’m all in.