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I don’t understand people’s obsession with these types of events. Is it the feeling of grandiosity? The opportunity to walk amongst gods?
But then again, it’s impossible for me to understand some people due to how drastically different my personality is compared to the rest of my peers.
Don’t get me wrong. I get along with almost everyone and I’m often described as extremely polite and a good sport, but my close friends are only a few. The only reason we’re tight is because we grew up together and I spent several years familiarizing myself with their personalities.
Maybe my inability to form close connections after my childhood is due to being completely detached from most people’s source of happiness. A glaring example is my complete bafflement at these people’s sense of a thrill. They talk about the Heathens as if they’re the personification of everything they aspire to be.
Wealth, influence, and, most importantly, morbid power.
I, Brandon King, belong to one of the most influential families in the UK, if notthemost influential, but I still don’t get people’s obsession with selected elites.
Is it the illusion? The unknown? Something entirely different?
The girl’s chatter comes to a halt and she looks up as everyone else grows silent. I follow her field of vision and pause when the balcony doors on the second floor open and five men stroll outside, all of them wearing neon-stitch Halloween-esque masks.
The one in the middle has an orange mask and carries a metal club. He’s tall and broad, but the guy by his side who’s wearing a yellow mask is taller and buffer, and he reeks of hostility, even from this distance.
He stands out because he’s the only one without a weapon, but he still emanates a nefarious energy. The rest of them, however, seem to have their thoughts and tempers under control.
Red Mask’s fingers wrap around a bat, letting it rest nonchalantly on his shoulder.
A recurve bow is nestled in Green Mask’s hand and there’s a quiver attached to his back, and White Mask strokes a heavy-looking chain that’s hanging around his neck.
They’re all dressed in black T-shirts and trousers like a conformist unit of destruction.
Fortunately, I’ve never crossed the Heathens’ paths or interacted with them, which can’t be said about my prick of a brother. Is he with them? Perhaps he’s playing a sick game to be part of their inner circle?
Or is he maybe somewhere in front of me or behind me? Maybe next to me?
The problem is, I can never imagine Lan being a participant in another group’s glory or a mere follower in someone else’s mayhem. He’s too narcissistic for that. Besides, how could he possibly get an invitation?
The same way I got invited?
Probably.
Maybe.
I watch the five Heathens closely. The one in orange, standing tall in the middle, is most likely Jeremy Volkov, the leader of the Heathens and a Russian mafia prince. If my friends’ gossip can be trusted, he’s ruthless to a fault and is rumored to kill everyone in his wake.
Green and Red Masks are possibly Gareth and Killian Carson. The siblings are affiliated with the mafia but are more American royalty instead of mafia princes. However, I’m not sure which is which. White Mask seems like the leanest of the bunch, so he can’t be any of the three previously mentioned.
Yellow Mask can only be Nikolai Sokolov. Another Russian mafia prince, Killian and Gareth’s cousin, and the craziest twat who ever walked the earth.
If rumors are anything to go by—and in Nikolai’s case, they probably are—he’s capable of punching someone to death just because they had the audacity to piss him off. I’ve only stood close to him once, a week ago when—again—my twin brother was fighting him in an underground fight club.
I honest to God thought he’d pummel Lan to death.
He didn’t, because my brother is a cat with nine lives.
My concern about Lan shifted to disturbing unease when Nikolai looked at me with a manic expression while wearing my brother’s blood on his bandaged hands.
I had this inherent need to get the hell out of there. And I did—after dragging my brother along, of course.
I’ve never gotten that feeling from someone younger than me, and Nikolai iswayyounger. Nineteen, I think. A kid right out of secondary school—high school for Americans.
Only, he looksnothinglike a kid.
Even now, while wearing black clothes, his build stands out as if he’s sculpted from pure muscle and malicious intent.
