The blender roars back to life. What was already a crime against cuisine becomes a war offense. The smell hits us: metallic copper cut with bitter kale, earthy mushroom, sour citrus. It’s like someone tried to make a Bloody Mary out of roadkill.
Phoenix claps once, his eyes filled with a kind of gleeful anticipation. The chefs pour the smoothie into tumblers, rich red-brown sludge that looks like it should be in a crime lab evidence bag.
“Drink, and be renewed,” Phoenix intones.
My stomach instantly cramps. My body screamsDon’t do it, you bastard. Don’t you dare put that in me.
But I know how this game works. Phoenix is watching. Everyone here is watching. If I don’t drink, I’m the heretic. The problem. The outsider. I’m here because of Willow. To find her an in. If I draw attention to myself, it could circle back around toWillow somehow, and I won’t ruin her shot to take this asshole down.
So, I lock my jaw, steel my gut, and prepare to sacrifice my dignity—and my gag reflex—for Willow.
The chefs walk around the room, distributing the disgusting concoction. I try to smile as I accept mine, but I’m positive it’s more of a grimace. The tumbler is cold in my hands, condensation slicking my palms like the cup knows it’s about to ruin me.
The smell hits before it even touches my lips. Metallic, like licking a penny. Bitter kale and turmeric trying and failing to cover the copper tang of blood. There’s a sour, almost fishy note that makes me certain someone slipped in a gallbladder for fun.
I glance sideways. Everyone else is lifting their glasses like this is communion. One woman whispers, “Thank you, Phoenix,” like he just personally breastfed her salvation.
Phoenix himself prowls down the line, making eye contact with each of us as we drink. His stare is loaded, invasive, like he’s not just watching buttaking stock of your soul.
He stops in front of me. His gaze flicks over my frame, and a slow smile spreads across his face. “Ah,” he says, voice low but even. “A body like yours already knows discipline. You’ll find this drink unlocks new strength. Drink, and prove yourself.”
I should plaster a smile on. I should play the part. But I’m starting to sweat, and I don’t think I have it in me to act right now.
I tip the glass back.
It hits my tongue like liquefied despair. Cold, thick, not smooth at all. More…chunky.
Oh fuck, there are bits.
My teeth crunch down on something that squishes, releasing a flood of copper and bile. My whole body convulses. I swallowhard, desperate to keep it down, but the texture is like wet rubber bands marinated in pennies and lawn clippings.
The woman next to me sighs, blissed out, and whispers, “It tastes like life.”
No. No, ma’am. It tastes like roadkill blended with the worst kale smoothie Jamba Juice never dared make.
I force it down, sip after horrific sip, throat burning, eyes watering. Phoenix doesn’t look away. He watches me swallow every last chunky ounce, and I canfeelhis smug satisfaction.
Finally, I slam the empty tumbler down like I just won a bar bet. My stomach lurches, violently protesting. For one terrifying second, I think I’m going to puke it right back into Phoenix’s robe pockets.
Instead, I burp.
It comes out loud and wet, unmistakably liver-scented.
The room gasps. But Phoenix chuckles like I just proved his entire point. “See?” he announces to the group. “His body accepts it. Even in discomfort, he allows the divine fuel to take root. That is strength.”
No, jackass. That is me clenching every sphincter I have and praying I don’t recolor your white linen pants.
I wipe my mouth, force a grin, and nod. Inside, I’m screaming.The things I do for this woman.
Phoenix moves on, satisfied. My stomach does another violent twist, and I know—absolutely know—I will be seeing this smoothie again later, one way or another.
The “meal” (I use that term loosely—felonies against my digestive system are not meals) ends with Phoenix raising his own tumbler like some holy chalice. He gives yet another speech, the guy obviously likes the sound of his own voice. And then he too downs the disgusting, borderline cannibalistic crime against smoothies. Everyone else clinks their empty tumblers and sighs,their faces glowing with gratitude like they just drank the blood of Christ.
I’m wishing I had known to smuggle in Pepto-Bismol without looking suspicious.
And then, thank fuck, it’s over.
We shuffle back into the lobby, shoes squeaking against polished marble, everyone buzzing about howlife-changingthe experience was.
