Page 1 of Into Pitch

Gravel crunches under my boots like someone is chewing glass with their mouth open.

The night is cold enough to make my lungs feel clean when I breathe in and my fingers would have long past gone numb if it weren’t for them being tucked into the pockets of my leather jacket. The kind of cold that makes you feel awake and sharp and a little stupid standing outside in it.

Ahead of us, the line snakes toward the mouth of the building we had been waiting two weeks to enter. An old asylum that has been purposefully adapted for whatever happens tonight beyond its doors.

Though calling it an asylum in my head feels dramatic, like I’m trying to make this bigger than it actually is. But the place is exactly what you’d imagine when you hear abandoned psychiatric hospital; hulking brick, dead windows, and iron-limbed trees reaching over the roof like they’re trying to drag it back into the earth. Parts of the façade have been boarded up, and other parts are open black holes where glass used to be. A few floodlights shine up at the front entrance in a way that makes shadows cut hard and ugly across the walls.

It should look condemned by all rational logic, but it falls in the category of prepared.

Someone has put a lot of thought into this event. You can feel it in the order of the line, the way people aren’t milling around like they’re lost. The way there are temporary barricades guiding us into a funnel toward the doors. It also helps that no one is wandering off to pee in a bush or smoke behind a tree like this is some backyard concert.

It’s just straight-up organized.

Imogen leans into me, all perfume and gold, her breath a little white in the air.

“Look at you,” she grins, as if she’s seeing me for the first time tonight.

I snort. “Look at me? Look at you. You’re liable to blind someone in that dress.”

“It’s not a dress. It’s armor,” she scoffs, lifting one shoulder and making the gold-and-white fabric catch the light. Her domino mask sits perfect over her warm honeyed eyes, half angel, half something theatrical. Golden heels digging into the gravel with every small shift of her weight, and I don’t know whether to admire her for committing to them or shake her for wearing them on ground that swallows stilettos whole.

“You’re going to break an ankle,” I mutter.

She snorts like she’s already decided that might just be worth it. “Live a little, Sadie.”

I roll my eyes, but it’s in fondness. Imogen has always had this talent for dragging light into places that don’t deserve it.

I glance down at myself, mostly to reassure my brain that I dressed like a person who fits in with the crowd around me. I’d spent two hours deciding my outfit and had settled on a leather thigh-length skirt, black lace tights, and a red tank tucked loose into the waistband like I couldn’t be bothered to make it perfect. Paired it with my black leather jacket and a pair of boots, and I’d been rather happy with the result.

I would have left my hair down, but had twisted up the blonde into a clip that Imogen insisted I borrow because, according to her, “If we’re going to a secret underground thing together, we should at least be coordinated in some manner.”

And as the rules stated, I had found a mask online to slap atop the smoky makeup I had perfected over the years. A black lace that covers just my eyes and nose, tied tight enough that it won’t slip if someone bumps me. It looks delicate in nature, but also gives an edge I hadn’t anticipated but am not angry with.

Imogen reaches into her clutch and pulls out two black cards. Even in the dark, the red lettering on the front catches the floodlights.

PITCH.

The word is embossed so deep you can feel it through the matte paper. It’s ridiculous how expensive it looks and that someone would spend money on invitations for something they are trying to keep somewhat a secret.

She wiggles one at me. “Last chance to bail.”

“Yeah, yeah.” I take it from her, flipping it over.

On the back, there’s a raised square; an embossed scan code, like a QR code but pressed into the cardstock so it’s tactile. The kind of detail you only notice when you run your thumb over it. No ink or print, just texture. Like they built it to survive sweat and fingerprints.

Imogen watches me inspect it like she always watches me inspect things—like she’s amused by my need to understand how something works before I step into it. “They’re serious about fakes,” she snorts.

“They’re serious about everything,” I mutter, and then catch myself because I sound like I’m trying to talk myself out of this.

I’m not.

If I didn’t want to be here, I wouldn’t be here.

It’s that simple. Nobody dragged me to this and nobody held a gun to my head. I could be at the bar right now, wiping down tables and telling drunk men to keep their hands to themselves and pretending my life is fine because it’s survivable. Instead, I’m standing in a line outside an abandoned asylum with a black card in my hand and a lace mask on my face.

Infinitely better by most standards, my own included.

Ahead of us, people shift and talk in low bursts, their voices muffled by their own masks. Most of them are dressed like they’re going to a party; sleek black dresses, pressed shirts, leather, glitter, and the occasional flash of color. There are a few couples holding hands and a few singles standing slightly apart, watching everyone in obvious excitement.