Blood dripped from his nose. My lip was split open, warm blood sliding down my chin and trickling onto my hoodie.
I was positive that both of us would have mild concussions by the time this was over.
This wasn’t torture to us. It wasn’t hazing.
We thrived on this kind of violence. We could’ve kept fighting for hours, maybe days, until one of us finally dropped.
My next swing connected with his jaw, snapping his head sideways.
Here, we were showing our true strength.
How we refused to quit and were worthy of being a Night Son.
We stopped when the light above us cut off.
Paul’s silhouette faded into the darkness, the sound of his footsteps retreating the only noise in the chamber. The door opened, and a thin beam of light seeped through the shadows, before it shut again.
I stood there, waiting for what was next.
A simple fight wouldn’t cut it. Initiation wasn’t that easy.
Another light clicked on, and the spotlight now focused on the far side of the chamber. As I walked toward it, a faint ache spread through my muscles. I’d feel that fight for the next week.
Even from across the chamber, I could make out the brass cage waiting for me. Weak cries spilled from inside it. Desperate, pleading sounds that annoyed me.
The closer I got, the louder they grew.
A man fell to his knees when he saw me approaching. His filthy fingers curled around the bars, as if he wished he could tear them apart.
He was tall with shaggy red hair, and his skin was slick withsweat and grime. His shirt was ripped in shreds, displaying offensive tattoos he needed to die for anyway, and he reeked of cheap liquor.
His voice was hoarse as he asked, “What the hell am I doing here?”
I stepped up to the cage and leaned forward until the cold bars brushed against my cheek. “You’re my sacrifice.”
His already-pale face went even whiter.
“What?” he whimpered, scrambling backward until he slipped and collapsed onto his ass.
I stepped back as the man hauled himself upright. His hands returned to the cage bars like he had to hold them to keep himself steady.
To my right, several racks held the tools meant for the job. Devices designed for one purpose only: death. Beside the rack stood a narrow metal table with a folder resting on it.
Before any of us had agreed to Initiation, we had been told one thing: if you wanted to prove yourself worthy of being a Night Son, you had to kill.
Unlike some new initiates, I wasn’t new to murder. By nineteen, I’d already begun killing my fair share of men, all under my father’s supervision. He treated those kills like training exercises, and afterward, he’d pointed out the mistakes I’d made and explained what I should’ve done differently.
My father was a killer. Benny was one too. Most of the men who surrounded me were.
Still, there was an art to it. One simply couldn’t go around murdering people. I mean, you could, but you’d get caught.
Getting away with murder required precision, planning, and obsession over every detail. One mistake was all it took to lead to a lifetime of rotting in an orange jumpsuit and eating shitty food where fuckers pissed in your chili.
It was even harder in today’s age. Technology had turned the world into one giant surveillance system.
This was required to join the Night Sons, to prove we couldhandle violence and weren’t merciful men. They wanted any innocence inside us eradicated. Not that I had any to begin with.
The victims for Initiations weren’t chosen for entertainment or personal vendettas. The Elders only selected those who deserved to die, and they were always predators and abusers who poisoned society.
