Kota took the phone from his dad's hand, the cracked screen warm from Khalil's grip. The hug had left him breathless, ribs aching from the bone-crushing enthusiasm, but he managed a nod and a mumbled "Thanks, Dad" before retreating to his room. The door clicked shut behind him, muffling Khalil's ongoing mutterings about the virtues of manual labor and how it built real men. Kota flopped onto his bed, the springs creaking under his weight, and stared at the ceiling for a long moment. The posters of old football stars gazed back at him, faded and judgmental, as if they knew the tangled web of lies he'd just spun. A job? Construction? He'd have to make it real now—fake photos, dodge more questions, keep the Hawthorne insanity hidden. The bite mark on his neck throbbed faintly, a reminder of Beckett's weirdness, and he rubbed it absentmindedly, wincing at the tenderness.
The phone buzzed in his hand—an unknown number. He frowned, thumb hovering over the screen. Probably spam. But curiosity won; he opened the message.
Unknown: Apartment building 921 Kollings Ave, Unit 4B. Third floor, east side. Window faces the alley with the green dumpster.
Kota's heart skipped. He sat up straight, staring at the words. How the hell? He typed back quickly, fingers fumbling.
Kota: Who is this?
Unknown: Beckett Hawthorne. We are connected now.
Kota: How do you know my address?
Unknown: The bite I administered links our essences. A metaphysical tether. I can locate you across any distance through vibrational resonance. Your aura pulses like a beacon in my third eye. Alternatively, I followed Theodore's vehicle to your residence after you departed. The second explanation is more empirically verifiable.
Kota sighed, slumping back against the pillows. Of course. The weird cult kid had tailed them. Made way more sense than some mystical bullshit. His thumbs flew over the screen.
Kota: Okay, that second one tracks. What do you want?
Unknown: You. As my possession. My toy, as previously stated. Additionally, your induction into my fellowship.
Kota blinked at the screen, confusion doubling. Possession? Fellowship? This kid was on another level.
Kota: What the hell does that mean? What fellowship?
Unknown: The fellowship is a consortium of aligned souls dedicated to crystalline divine congress. We convene under lunar phases to enact pacts of ethereal union. Crystals—amethyst for clarity, obsidian for grounding, quartz for amplification—serve as conduits. Through ritualized copulation, we exchange vital energies, forging bonds that transcend the corporeal. It involves precise alignments: penile insertion into anal or oral orifices, synchronized with chakra meditations. Seminal fluid acts as the binding agent, carrying pranic essence. Participants report heightened astral projections post-climax. The pacts ensure mutual ascension; refusal risks karmic imbalance. In lay terms, it is a structured assembly for spiritually augmented sexual interactions.
Kota stared at the message, reading it twice. Quadruple confusion didn't begin to cover it. Crystals? Divine congress? Seminal fluid as... binding agent? This was straight-up mumbo jumbo weirdo shit, like something out of a bad horror movie or a conspiracy forum. Beckett talked like a robot reciting from a cult handbook, deadpan, clinical, no emotion bleeding through the text.
Kota: Dude, what? That sounds insane. Like a sex cult with rocks?
Unknown: Insane is a subjective construct. The fellowship elevates base urges to cosmic purpose. Crystals resonate at frequencies that harmonize with human biofields during orgasm, amplifying theta waves. Empirical trials—conducted under controlled lunar conditions—show a 47% increase in reported out-of-body experiences. Your inclusion would balance our current triad configuration.
Kota rubbed his temples, the phone screen blurring slightly from the headache building. This kid was unhinged—rambling about biofields and theta waves like it was science class.
Kota: No thanks. I'm good.
Unknown: Reconsider. Your aura complements mine. The bite was the initial attunement; rejection may cause dissonant vibrations—headaches, insomnia, unexplained arousal.
Kota: Still no.
Unknown: Perhaps an appeal to your preferences. I observe you favor nervous dispositions. Observe: Oh my, how flustered I am at the prospect of your dominion. My palms perspire at the mere ideation. I quiver in anticipation, heart rate elevated to 92 bpm.
Kota snorted despite himself. It was supposed to sound shy, vulnerable—like the nervous types he might go for—but it came off overly clinical, like a doctor describing symptoms. No real emotion, just facts dressed in awkward phrasing.
Kota: That sounds like a medical report, not flirting.
Unknown: Adjustment noted. Alternative: I am quite bashful regarding intimate matters. The thought of your presence induces a physiological response akin to mild tachycardia. Blush response activated.
Kota: Still weird.
Unknown: Query: Has this induced arousal in you?
Kota: No.
Unknown: New strategy: flirtation protocol. Your seminal fluid should reside within my colon or any of my orifices for that matter. I anticipate its flavor profile to be adequately saline with undertones of metallic tang, viscosity optimal for lubrication. Insertion would facilitate mutual epidermal contact, heightening sensory input.
Kota grimaced. Turned off didn't begin to cover it—too clinical, like a biology textbook describing reproduction. No heat, no tease, just cold facts wrapped in awkward seduction.
Kota: Dude, that's creepy. Not hot.
Unknown: Assessment: none of the prior communications elicited desired response. Final query: have any messages thus far induced sufficient arousal to compel your participation in the fellowship's crystalline divine congress?
Kota: Hell no. I'm out.
Unknown: Too late. I have already inquired about procuring the adjacent unit. Furthermore, I have acquired the entire apartment building.
wait what now?...