Repugnant concerts were... something. You had been to a few, enjoying the shows and the crowd along with it. You had met amazing people, and even had the pleasure of meeting the band. They had been sweet, very courteous. Even their frontman, Mary Goore, had been sweet and gentle with you.

But tonight was different. You had spoken with E. off and on, just some minor back-and-forth messages. The last message you had gotten was an address. Something about the band wanting to do a more "hidden" show. Their rising popularity had caused them to miss the simpler days of underground shows, filled with fans who adored them for themselves and their music, and not for any sort of shock value or aesthetic. And who were you to argue with whatever the hell Repugnant decided to do?

It should've been a red flag. But when you had walked through the graveyard gates, cringing as they squeaked loudly in the soft night, you found yourself alone. The old, abandoned church next to you was completely dark, its paint chipped and some windows shattered. It set the scene for a death metal band, sure, but... There wasn't even a stage, or any instruments being set up. No roadies, no crowds, not even a few people wandering around.

You're knocked to the ground before you know it, having the wind knocked out of you. It felt like a train had collided with you, but the person was already picking you up, using both hands to actually throw you a few feet away from them. You're sure you would've kept going had you not slammed into a tombstone. Your entire body was on fire, throbbing with white-hot pain.

To your surprise, E. walked over to you, a stoic expression on his normally cheerful, goofy face.

"Ten minutes," he told you coldly, gesturing to the graveyard. "I will give you ten minutes to run and hide."

He picks up his head, pausing as he glances up at the night sky. "Summer solstice means the sun will be up in seven hours. I will go on easy on you since I enjoyed our time talking. Don't let me catch you."

When you croak out a confused "Why?" in such a pathetic, hoarse tone, still trying to breathe properly, E. just shrugs.

"This is our annual hunt," he confesses, still in a stoic tone. "It's an offering to the olde ones. I'm sure you understand."

You don't. But still, you muster up your strength and stagger away from the man, your blood running cold.