Page 5 of Into Pitch

“I am,” I say.

And I mean it.

Two hours in, the music feels less like novelty and more like a pulse I’ve synced to without noticing. I’m pleasantly buzzed, but not sloppy and spinning. Just enough warmth in my veins that the edges of things feel softer.

The bass vibrates through the soles of my boots, up my calves and into my ribs. The lights have shifted a dozen times since we came in, cycling from purple to red to something electric-blue that makes everyone’s skin look unreal.

Imogen is glowing.

That’s the only word I’ve got for it.

She’s dancing with a man whose mask damn near matches her own, his hands respectful but confident at her waist. She catches my eye over his shoulder and grins, spinning away from him just long enough to mouth, You okay?

I lift my glass as I dance a few feet away with those who aren’t dry humping each other into oblivion.

I am okay.

Better than okay, actually. The initial tension I carried in with me has loosened its grip. The bar inside Pitch serves decent drinks and the crowd, while intense, hasn’t tipped into chaos. People are laughing and kissing, or showing their bracelets like badges.

I’ve lost count of how many times someone has glanced at my bare silver chain and then quickly looked away. I’m not yet that interesting, I suspect.

I’m in the middle of feeling myself to a throbbing bass, nursing the last of my drink, when the music changes.

It’s not abrupt or anything, but enough that most people take notice of it.

The bass line thins and the rhythm shifts. It’s subtle—like someone has turned a dial just a fraction to the left—but the energy in the room follows it. Conversations taper off mid-sentence and laughter goes quieter. Everyone listening for something they can’t quite hear yet.

I bite my lip when I watch a ripple flow out over the crowd and spotlights gravitate toward the doors that frame the room in every direction. Some people cheer when they take notice of it, while others whoop and raise their drinks in salute. I choose to do neither and glance about curiously for what comes next.

Imogen glances over, eyebrows lifting, excitement flashing across her face that I’ll admit I also feel.

See? Her expression says. This is where it starts.

I’m still watching the doors because there’s not a single staff announcement or explanation, just action.

Masked figures begin moving through the crowd now, not randomly but with purpose. They don’t push or grab, but gesture. They stop people gently with a hand raised and a tilt of the head, eyes flicking down to the bracelets.

I watch as a woman with three charms is guided toward a doorway to the left and a man with a single charm is sent toward a different one to the right. Sectioning people off, even going as far as to break couples up along the way—not that anyone is complaining.

“Oh,” Imogen murmurs, leaning in again. “I think this is where we part ways.”

“Looks like it.”

She laughs, a little breathless. “Of course we do.”

A masked staff member stops in front of us, close enough now that I can see the fine texture of filigree in their mask. At the strange way it almost absorbs the light instead of reflecting it. Their heads tilting down just far enough to look to our bare bracelets.

They lift one gloved hand and gesture her to the left and me to the right.

Imogen reaches out to squeeze my hand. “Okay,” she breathes, like she’s trying to convince herself. “Okay. This is fine. We’ll meet back up.”

“Yeah, we will.” I force a smile.

She hesitates just long enough for me to notice. “Hey, if you hate it, just—”

“I know,” I cut in gently. “Forward only.”

She grimaces. “Right. Stupid rule.”