Damn. If I didn’t have some kind of inkling of what he was, I might believe him, too. He’s smooth, measured, practiced. He sells empowerment wrapped in rebellion, and it’s catnip for people who feel helpless.
And fuck, I don’t think he’s entirely wrong.
“Close your eyes,” Phoenix instructs. “Breathe with me. In through the nose, four counts. Hold. Out through the mouth, slow, eight counts. Again.”
The room fills with synchronized inhales and exhales. Phoenix slowly walks up and down the aisles, watching all of us. His voice dips into a lull, like a hypnotist.
“With every breath in, you draw life. With every breath out, you release pain, sickness, fear. Your body is holy. Your womb is holy. Your blood is holy. You do not need their interference. You need trust. Trust in yourself. Trust in me. Trust in the process.”
My chest tightens. That last part wasn’t accidental. Slip his name into the mantra, and now they’re breathing him in, breathing him out. Binding his damn name to their lungs.
I crack one eye open. Around me, people look blissed out, faces slack, hands on hearts. One man is trembling like he’s about to faint from spiritual rapture. The reality is, he’s probably shaking from pain. There’s a reason people come to Phoenix. They’re sick. They have ailments. There really are things wrong with their bodies.
My eyes are supposed to be closed, but I have to know, I have to see. So, with my head tilted down, I look up from beneath my eyelashes and watch as the guru walks aroundthe room. Phoenix crouches beside a young brunette who can’t be older than nineteen. His hand settles on her shoulder. His thumb drags once, deliberate. She doesn’t flinch, doesn’t pull away. She looks like she might cry from the privilege of being touched. But his touch lingers. Too long. Way too damn long to be professional.
There it is. The rot under the robes.
That didn’t take long.
My stomach flips. I force my eyes closed before his catch mine. If he sees me watching, I blow my cover. And I can’t risk Willow’s shot at this.
“Visualize it,” Phoenix croons. “The tumors dissolving. The scars fading. The toxins leaching out of your pores. See yourself reborn. See yourself divine.” His footsteps pad around the room as he walks among us. “Feel the ground beneath you. This earth has held you since the day you were born. She has always wanted you to heal. You have always had the power.”
The room hums with agreement, like a congregation murmuring amen.
“Now,” Phoenix says, “inhale, four counts. Hold. Exhale, eight counts. Do not resist. Do not fight. Surrender. Let the breath flow through you.”
The collective air in the room moves in waves—inhale, hold, exhale. Dozens of bodies pulling oxygen in sync, as if he’s timing their heartbeats with his. I keep pace, because not blending in isn’t an option, but my brain is screaming that this is mass conditioning.
“See the sickness leaving you,” Phoenix continues. “See the pain bleeding away. See your womb glowing. Your blood purifying. See the chains doctors placed on you falling away.”
I crack an eye open again. Phoenix glides between the mats, barefoot and silent. He stops near a tall woman with a scarf tied around her head—chemo patient, if I had to guess. She lookslike she’s praying. Phoenix bends low, his fingers brushing her cheek. Too long. Too intimate. His thumb trails down to the hollow of her throat, a gesture that might almost look paternal to anyone desperate to believe—but my stomach knots. That wasn’t a blessing. That was a test. A grooming move.
He moves on. Stops near another girl who has to be barely old enough to order a drink. She breathes heavy under his gaze, chest rising like she wants to please him. His eyes stay pinned there.Too long.
My lungs strain against the rhythm. Four in, hold, eight out. Instead of searching for healing and serenity, I picture my fist breaking his nose.
But Phoenix smiles, straightens, and addresses the whole room. “You are divine. You do not need their machines or their pills. You need trust. Trust in your body. Trust in your blood. Trust in me.”
That lands like a hammer. I don’t have to look around to know what’s happening—I can feel it. The crowd inhales his words like scripture. Some of them are crying. Some of them are trembling. One man whispers, “Yes, yes,” like he’s been waiting all his life to be told this.
This doesn’t happen to just everyone walking through these doors. These people have been following Phoenix online for some time. You have to warm people up to believing to this extent. It’s the whole frog in boiling water thing. You can’t just toss them in, or they’ll jump right out. These people have been slowly pre-heated.
I force my eyelids shut again, but not before Phoenix’s eyes flick my way. Just for a second. A measuring glance. The kind of look a wolf gives when he wonders if you’ll fight back or just bleed out quietly.
Every instinct I’ve got tells me the same thing: Willow’s right. This man is a predator wrapped in wellness doctrine.
And I just signed myself into his den.
After what feels like a fucking eternity of sitting on that mat breathing in and out with faked reverence, Phoenix closes out the breathwork portion and tells us to rise. We file out of the practice room like obedient sheep. Phoenix leads the way, barefoot on polished concrete, not a bead of perspiration on him despite the ninety-minute sermon disguised as breathwork.
The hallways are a maze—curving, narrow, no windows, doors every ten feet. Too many doors. My gut prickles. This is designed to disorient, to make sure you don’t know where you’ve been.
Through one half-open door, I catch sight of a circle of people sitting cross-legged on rugs. They’re holding hands, eyes closed, whispering the same phrases over and over. “I am healing. I am divine. I am whole.” The cadence matches the breath work from earlier, a rhythm that seeps under the skin.
The next door reveals bodies moving in synchronized, jerky stretches, led by a man who looks like he stepped out of a fitness catalog. They’re not graceful; they look… possessed. The kind of movement that burns up the rational brain and leaves nothing but devotion.
Another door. People flat on their backs on mats, staring at the ceiling. No music. No talking. Just vacant eyes, mouths slightly open. Like corpses rehearsing for the real thing.
