Page 3 of Into Pitch

MASKS ON. SILENCE RESPECTED.

I laugh once, low. “Silence respected,” I murmur.

Imogen leans close. “That’s kind of hot.”

“Of course you’d say that.”

A woman two people ahead turns, her mask sparkling. “Do you think they really mean you can’t go back once you’re inside?” She asks her boyfriend, half giggle, half nervous.

He scoffs. “They can’t keep you anywhere. That’s illegal.”

I had thought the same thing when I had seen the rules listed on the invite and the waiver they had sent once you accepted.

“Right?” She sighs in relief, and then laughs like she’s embarrassed for even asking.

The boyfriend looks over his shoulder at me and Imogen as if we’re part of the conversation now. “It’s just theatrics to make it feel scarier.”

Imogen nods enthusiastically. “Exactly. It’s like immersive.”

I sigh and watch the featureless masked staff take someone’s phone, drop it into a lockbox, and slide a tiny metal key across the table. The person pockets the key without bothering to look down and moves on.

Not much like the rave I expected this place might be, seems a lot more like intake.

But then, through the open doors, I catch a flicker of colored light. A pulse of a bass, distant but present, like a heartbeat behind walls. Purple and blue spill into the night, mixing with the floodlights, making the entrance look less like my damnation and more like the mouth of a club.

And that makes it easier to breathe.

“See? It’s a party.” Imogen soothes, following my gaze.

“A party in an asylum,” I deadpan.

She shrugs. “Best kind.”

I laugh a little at that and follow the line as it shifts forward again so that we’re at the front.

A staff member gestures for me first without words. Just a hand in a black glove, palm up, waiting.

I pass over the invite because I can assume that’s what they want.

The staff member takes it carefully, like it matters, and like this piece of card stock is important as any passport. They flip it over and run it under a small handheld scanner. I purse my lips, getting a strange sense of nerves at the very real chance that the guy Imogen has been dating at the clinic had given her fakes.

The scanner emits a soft chirp.

Approved.

My lungs deflate in relief and the staff member holds out their other hand, palm up again.

I blink. “Right, phone,” I mutter, more to myself than them, and pull mine out of my jacket. It feels wrong handing it over. Not because I need it—God knows I lived most of my life without anyone to call—but because it’s a tether to the outside world, and I didn’t realize how much I liked having the option to reach for it until someone demanded it.

I place it over into their hand and watch as they set it into the lockbox and slide the key to me.

I pocket it without looking and am immediately drawn to the next staff member in the lineup.

They reach for my wrist and I don’t bother to pull away, but my muscles do tighten out of reflex.

Their gloved fingers wrap around my arm just enough to steady me. They bring the same bracelet on others in line around and clasp it with a small, decisive click. Cold metal biting into my skin for just a second before it warms.

Then, finally, they speak. “Welcome to Pitch.”