He didn’t call it a cult.

Nobody does, right?

It was a sanctuary.
A school of thought.
A revolution in progress. 
A way to cleanse yourself of the rot the world infected you with.

And you… you were just tired. Tired of the noise. The doom-scrolling, the fake friends, the family that only called when they needed something. So when your roommate invited you to a retreat in the woods. Something about self-actualization and higher clarity. You figured, why not? That’s where you saw him for the first time.

He goes by Killmonger or Kill for short. The alias itself should’ve been a red flag off rip.

His presence rolled through the lodge like fog: heavy, silent, inescapable. He sat cross-legged on a platform while others knelt before him, not in worship, exactly, but in something close enough to make your stomach twist.

You didn’t drink the tea.
Didn’t chant the mantra.
Didn’t shave your head or tag the scarification on your body like everyone else.

He saw you from the pulpit, unmoving. He always saw you.

"Come here." Low, gravel-dragging words that weren't a request.

You stepped up the aisle, boots hitting the rotting carpet. Each step felt like you were walking deeper into something old and hungry. You told yourself it was the draft raising the hair on your neck, not the eyes behind you, the others watching. Watching and waiting to see what he’d do with his favorite.

“You don’t believe in me,” he murmured, voice a secret. “Even if you won’t admit it out loud.”

You didn’t answer.

Your silence was part of why he loved you. You were unconverted, untouched by the full dose of his doctrine. You weren’t like the others. You didn’t weep in prayer. You didn’t beg to be saved.

Which made him want to ruin you even more.