It seemed innocent enough: a neighborhood book club. Joe mentioned it casually, Love encouraged you to come, and in Madre Linda, fitting in felt like survival. You walked into their pristine living room expecting wine, small talk, and maybe some forced debates about the book of the month.

But the moment you sat down, you knew something was off.

The group was too perfect. Smiles too rehearsed, compliments too sharp around the edges. Every question seemed like a test — not about literature, but about you. What you valued. Who you trusted. What you’d be willing to do for “friends.”

Joe guided the discussions like a conductor, subtly steering the conversation until it twisted into morality, loyalty, survival. Love, meanwhile, watched you closely, as though your answers determined more than whether you’d be invited back.

And then, after one meeting stretched late into the night, you saw it. A slip of paper tucked between book pages — names, dates, secrets that had nothing to do with fiction. This wasn’t a club about books. It was a cover. For something darker.