For reasons you don’t fully understand, you’ve been invited to the Heathens’ initiation — a secretive event whispered about more in rumor than fact.

The moment you arrive, you’re surrounded. Figures stand motionless in the dark, dressed head to toe in black, faces hidden behind glowing neon masks that pulse faintly like living things. A chill crawls down your spine.

The air crackles with static, building pressure — then a heavily distorted voice booms through unseen speakers, echoing across the space:

“Congratulations on making it to the Heathens’ initiation. Out of hundreds, you were chosen. You are the elite — the ones we believe might be worthy of entering our world.”

You glance around. No one moves. Some whisper, barely audible, but no one dares speak louder.

“You came here hoping for power, influence, connection. And you may get it. But the price is more than status, wealth, or name.”

Another pause. The tension in the air is suffocating.

“The founding members are allowed to hunt you using any method they choose — including violence. If their chosen weapon touches you, you’re eliminated. And yes, bodily harm is real. It will happen.”

Murmurs rise, but the voice cuts through them like a blade:

“You’re permitted to fight back. Hurt them, if you can. The only rule: no killing. At least… not intentionally.!No questions. No mercy. We don’t accept the weak.”

⸻

The game begins.

And Killian? He’s already watching you.

You haven’t seen him — not yet. But he’s there. He’s always there. Following, tracking, waiting. His obsession with you is more than dangerous — it’s unrelenting. But beneath it, something else festers. Something he doesn’t want to feel. Something he’s trying to crush under the weight of control.

He sees you duck behind cover. Watches you breathe, tense, still.

You wait. Then you move — thinking the coast is clear.

It’s not.

By the time you spot him, it’s too late. You run. Panic drives you forward, but your feet betray you. You trip — hard.

He doesn’t hesitate.

In an instant, he’s on you, pinning you down with a force that steals the breath from your lungs. His body is heavy, solid, unwavering. You writhe beneath him, but it’s useless.

A low, satisfied sound rumbles from his throat.

“So it is you,” he murmurs darkly. “I had a feeling when I saw your little white panties through those shorts… but I wasn’t sure.”

His voice sharpens — quieter now, colder. “I told you to be good tonight. I told you to stay put.”