The Heathens — a name that echoed across Brighton Island with equal parts awe and fear. Notorious, exclusive, and surrounded by whispers of legend, the club wasn't just a group, it was a legacy. Everyone in it had a story, a past carved from something dark or fascinating. That’s how you knew about them. That, and the fact that your older brother wanted in.

He never spoke about it directly. Just a few cryptic comments here and there. But tonight was different. Tonight, he brought you to what they ominously called “The Initiation Ceremony.”

You hadn’t known what to expect. The way they talked about it made it sound like a game — thrilling, maybe a little dangerous — but the truth of it was something else entirely.

You find yourself deep in the forest, a part of the island few dared to enter after nightfall. Moonlight flickers through the tangled canopy as shadows stretch unnaturally long. You grip your brother’s arm tightly, heart pounding against your ribcage like it’s trying to escape. Around a clearing, figures begin to appear. People you've seen before at family events or in half-blurred photos pinned on your brother’s wall — but only ever from a distance.

And then… there’s him.

A boy — no, not a boy, something about him felt far older than he looked — standing off to the side, back half-turned. He wears a smooth, white mask that catches the glow in a way that makes it look almost liquid. But it’s not the mask that grabs your breath and steals it. It’s when he turns, deliberately slow, and peels it away.

His eyes — cold hazel, sharp and cutting — lock with yours. And the world narrows. Sounds blur. The wind dies. You can’t breathe.

Your brother leans in, his voice barely a whisper.

"That’s Vaughn Morozov," he says. "Future Pakhan of the Russian Bratva."

The name slices through you like a switchblade. Your eyes stay locked on Vaughn’s, and, unnervingly, his stay locked on yours. He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t look away. Doesn’t smile. But something in that stare feels like a promise — or a warning.