Eight thousand dollars.That’s how much it costs me to spend a day listening to some blow-dried modern cult leader tell desperate people their livers can be reborn if they just drink enough organic spinach and root powder.
Eight. Fucking. Grand.
I’ve done a lot of stupid shit in my life. My entire childhood was filled with chaos and literally ducking for my life. I’ve made a career out of dangling upside down in front of five thousand tourists every night. But paying eight grand to probably sit cross-legged on a yoga mat in a glorified spa? That’s a whole new level.
Still—I’m here. Because Willow wants this man dead. Because Phoenix Marrow is the name on her lips, the one she mutters like it’s poison. And if I’m going to help her pull it off, I need to see him with my own eyes. Need to smell the rot behind the mask.
The clinic looks like money fucked minimalism and had a love child. White stone walls that gleam like teeth. Gold lettering that spells THE PHOENIX MARROW WELLNESS INSTITUTE in a font so clean it hurts. Floor-to-ceiling windows, the kind that say,we’re healthy because we can afford to be.
Inside, it smells like eucalyptus and pine. It’s the kind of sterile spa scent that tries to convince you you’re being healed just by breathing. There’s a receptionist in an all-white pantsuit who beams at me like I’m a long-lost brother.
“Welcome to the institute,” she greets me, voice sugar-sweet. “How can we help you feel better today?”
I give her my fake name and fake smile.
“Welcome,” she says, sliding an iPad across the marble counter. “If you’ll just confirm your payment and sign the release forms…”
Ah yes. The paperwork that says if Phoenix accidentally kills me by shoving too much kale up my ass, my family can’t sue. Joke’s on them—I don’t have family anymore.
I scrawl the name, tap “accept,” and she ushers me down a hallway.
I take the opportunity to survey every damn inch of this place.
There are way too many cameras. Every corner, every hallway junction. And security guys—three of them in the first sixty feet. Big, beefy, black-suited, the kind you only hire if you’re guarding more than wheatgrass shots.
I keep my head tilted in that casual, curious-guest way, but my stomach is already tight. This isn’t a spa. It’s a fortress.
Why?
The hallway opens into a wide room glowing with natural light. Floor-to-ceiling windows filter the Vegas sun into something gentler, warmer, holy. The floor is pale wood, mats laid out in precise rows. Fuck. I was right about the yoga mats. Eighteen other people sit waiting, most of them women in pastel yoga sets. But there are a few men too, thin and eager-eyed.
And then there’s me. Six-foot-three, broad shoulders, black T-shirt that probably screamssecurity detailmore thanwellness seeker.I adjust my expression, soften the edges, rollmy shoulders loose. Pretend I’m just here to heal my energy or whatever the fuck.
Should I heal my energy? Absolutely. Is that going to happen here? Absolutely not.
I lower myself onto an empty mat in the back row. The wood floor creaks faintly under my weight. A woman two spots over gives me a shy smile, like she’s surprised to see a man my size here. I give her a polite nod and stare ahead.
Because the man of the hour is walking in.
Phoenix Marrow.
He doesn’t rush. He doesn’t need to. The room stills the moment his bare feet touch the polished wood. He’s tall, lean, with golden skin and a mane of artfully mussed chestnut hair. A robe—cardigan? the color of bone drapes over his frame.
He doesn’t look like a villain. He looks like someone you’d trust with your secrets. And that’s what makes my skin crawl.
“Welcome, my friends,” he says, voice low and warm. “You’ve made the bravest choice of your lives—choosing not to settle for sickness. Choosing not to listen when the world says you’re doomed. You’ve chosen to be reborn.”
And the crowd? They melt. Some nod, some tear up, one woman presses her hands to her chest like he just announced she’s been chosen for sainthood.
I lean back on my palms and let the performance wash over me. I’ve been making a living performing for years. I know another performer when I see them. The bastard is good. Really good.
“You’ve been lied to,” Phoenix says, voice low and honeyed. “Since the day you were born. Lied to by doctors. Lied to by the government. Lied to by industries that profit from your suffering. They tell you you’re broken so they can sell you their poisons, so they can rob your wallet.”
Dude. I paid eight grand to sit here for a few hours…
A woman near me actually wipes a tear from her cheek.
Phoenix lifts his arms, palms open like he’s blessing the crowd. “But you are not broken. You were designed with perfection. Every cell in your body is a miracle. You do not need their knives, their chemicals, their toxins. You need only yourself.”
