Kota stared at the phone screen in his hand, the cracked display glowing faintly in the dim light of his room. The last message from Beckett hung there like a threat, cold and clinical: "Too late. I have already inquired about procuring the adjacent unit. Furthermore, I have acquired the entire apartment building." His stomach twisted into knots. Acquired? The whole building? This kid—this weird, naked, cult-obsessed Hawthorne—was talking about buying his entire home like it was a pack of gum. Kota's mind raced back to the mansion, the infinity pool, the twelve garages; money like that made impossible things casual. But here? In his rundown complex with peeling paint and flickering hallway lights? Panic surged hot in his chest.
He typed back furiously, thumbs slamming the keys.
Kota: What the hell do you mean you acquired the building? You can't just buy people's homes!
The reply came almost instantly, Beckett's deadpan tone bleeding through the text like a robot reciting facts.
Beckett: Explanation: I dispatched an electronic correspondence to the proprietor of the edifice at 921 Kollings Avenue. My personal reserves currently total 785,555.43 United States dollars, which may prove insufficient for outright acquisition of the structure in its entirety, given market valuations for comparable multi-unit residential properties in this quadrant approximate 1.2 to 1.5 million dollars. However, supplementing with paternal financial resources—accessible via joint fiduciary accounts—should facilitate the transaction. The proprietor responded affirmatively to preliminary overtures; negotiations commence imminently.
Kota's breath caught. He bolted upright on the bed, the springs creaking in protest. This wasn't some joke—Beckett had actually emailed the landlord. Funds, paternal resources; it all screamed Hawthorne-level wealth, the kind that bent reality. If Beckett bought the building, Khalil would flip. Questions would pour in: Why the sudden ownership change? Who was this rich buyer? And worse—suspicion would land square on Kota, the only one acting weird lately. The bite mark, the late arrivals; it would all unravel.
Kota: DON'T DO THAT! If you buy the building, my dad will get extra suspicious. He'll ask questions I can't answer. Please, just stop.
A pause. The typing bubble appeared, disappeared, appeared again. Beckett's response finally landed.
Beckett: Concession acknowledged. Acquisition of the edifice in toto may induce undue scrutiny upon your paternal guardian. I shall retract the comprehensive offer forthwith. Alternative: procurement of the contiguous residential unit adjacent to yours. Unit 4C, presuming standard sequential labeling. This locus shall serve as the nascent headquarters for the Arch-Anal Coalition of Seminal Indulgence. Relocation of fellowship artifacts—crystals, incenses, ritual accoutrements—commences upon lease ratification.
Kota's eyes widened. Arch-Anal Coalition of Seminal Indulgence? What the actual fuck? The name alone sounded like a bad porno crossed with a conspiracy theory. And next door? Beckett moving in right beside them? Khalil would notice a weirdo like that immediately—the naked lounging, the crystal mumbo jumbo leaking through thin walls. No way.
Kota: NO! Absolutely not. You can't rent next door. That's even worse!
Beckett: Elucidate the objection.
Kota: My dad! He'll see you, hear you—whatever crazy shit you're doing. It'll make everything suspicious. Please, just leave me alone.
Beckett: Objection noted. However, the tether demands proximity. The bite's attunement weakens beyond a fifty-meter radius, risking energetic dissonance. Headaches. Vivid dreams. Spontaneous seminal emissions. Contiguous habitation mitigates this. Refusal is inadvisable.
Kota groaned, flopping back onto the bed. This kid was relentless—clinical explanations for everything, like emotions didn't factor in. He had to negotiate, talk Beckett down somehow. Appeal to his weirdness, maybe. Turn the crazy against itself.
Kota: Okay, fine. But not next door. What about a higher unit? Like, way up. Floor 11 or something. Higher apartments... uh... infuse better with solar energy. And... semen energy? Yeah, the altitude aligns the chakras or whatever. Better for your... coalition thing.
He hit send, cringing. It was bullshit—total made-up nonsense, stringing together half-remembered words from Beckett's earlier rants. Solar energy? Semen energy? He hoped it sounded mystical enough to bite.
The typing bubble appeared immediately.
Beckett: Intriguing postulate. Elevation indeed correlates with enhanced solar flux—photons penetrate with greater intensity at superior altitudes, unfiltered by lower atmospheric particulates. Seminal energies, as carriers of pranic force, may amplify via gravitational differentials, aligning with crown chakra activations. Windows of larger expanse would facilitate lunar infusions during nocturnal rites. Affirmative: I shall procure the quadrilateral-bedroom domicile on level eleven, equipped with expansive fenestrations for optimal energetic confluence. Transaction initiated.
Kota sat up again, staring. He bought it? The fake mumbo jumbo actually worked? Relief mixed with disbelief—Beckett's clinical mind had latched onto the pseudoscience like it was gospel.
Kota: Wait, seriously? You're doing that?
Beckett: Affirmative. Relocation to superior elevation optimizes the fellowship's paradigms. Stipulations: your attendance is mandatory each weekend cycle, minimum duration eight chronological hours. As the Giver of Chakra-Infused Semen, your role entails seminal deposition via penile insertion into designated orifices—anal primary, oral secondary. This sustains the tether and elevates collective vibrations. Concurrence required.
Kota's face heated. Giver of Chakra-Infused Semen? Weekend visits? This was escalating from weird to nightmare. But refusing might push Beckett back to the building-buying plan—or worse, showing up unannounced. He was cornered, defeated by the relentless logic and cash.
Kota: Fine. I agree. But only weekends. And nothing crazy.
Beckett: Accord registered. Initial convergence: forthcoming Saturday, 0900 hours. Prepare your essence.
Kota dropped the phone onto the bed like it burned him. He stood up slowly, pacing the small room—posters staring down, the faint hum of the air conditioner mocking his silence. The day replayed: the mansion, the twins, Beckett's bite, the cult basement, now this. A sex cult HQ on floor 11. Weekend obligations. His life had derailed into insanity.
He stopped by the window, staring at the alley below.
"What the fuck is my life?"