Page 2 of Into Pitch

A man in front of us turns his head just enough to look at Imogen’s dress and whistles.

“Jesus,” he says, voice playful. “Someone understood the assignment.”

Imogen beams at the compliment. “Thank you!”

His friend laughs. “You been before?”

Imogen tilts her head, curls bouncing free around her toned shoulders. “No. Have you?”

“Twice,” the man smiles in return, almost smug. He jingles his wrist and my eyes dip to the silver chain bracelet. A few charms hanging off of it, catching the light when he moves. Small shapes that I can’t make out from here.

He sees me looking and lifts his wrist a little further, letting the charms clink together softly like they belong to a private language all their own. “It’s not that bad. People wouldn’t come back if it was.”

“Mm,” I hum, noncommittal.

Because that’s promising.

Imogen nudges me with her hip. “See? People come back. It’s fine.”

“It being ‘fine’ isn’t why people come back to things,” I mutter under my breath.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means…” I glance at the building again. The floodlights make the entrance look like a stage, but the shadows around it feel a hell of a lot more like teeth. “People come back to chaos all the time. Think bad train wreck you can’t look away from.”

Imogen’s expression softens behind her mask, because she knows me too well. She’s known me long enough to hear what I’m not saying.

She reaches over and hooks her fingers around my wrist, squeezing once. “Sadie,” she sighs, and her voice shifts into that tone she uses when she’s trying to keep me from bolting. “This isn’t your mom’s boyfriends. This isn’t your childhood. This is a night out. A weird one, sure, but—”

“But I know,” I cut in, because I do know, and I refuse to let my past turn into a leash around my throat in front of her or anyone in this line.

I tip my chin toward the man’s bracelet. “What do the charms mean?”

He laughs like the question is cute. “Depends on who you get.”

“Who you get,” I repeat.

“Yeah.” He lowers his voice. “Different encounters and different staff members. Or different rooms even. It’s like… curated.”

“That sounds like a nightmare,” I say flatly.

His friend snorts. “That’s Pitch.”

I glare at Imogen over my mask. “Did you know there were bracelets?”

“Oh for sure, they’re all over social media if you know where to look.” She grins and shows the bare skin of her own wrist. Clearly intrigued as she all but bounces on her heels.

The line inches forward and up close, I can see why that excitement has rippled into contagion.

There’s a checkpoint under a temporary canopy near the doors. Masked staff stand behind folding tables draped in black cloth. Their masks aren’t lace or domino; theirs are smooth and uniform, matte black, featureless. Their entire outfit is black to match, so nothing of them is identifiable.

There are red flags everywhere, but since when have I ever given a flying fuck about those?

One table has a series of lockboxes lined up like something you’d see at a courthouse, and I purse my lips when I see everyone’s electronics being placed within them. There is even a sign on the stand beside it, simple white text on black:

NO DEVICES. NO EXCEPTIONS.

Another sign beside it: