Kota stepped out of the shower, steam still curling around the cracked mirror like smoke. He grabbed a towel from the rack, rubbing it roughly over his head and shoulders before wrapping it around his waist. The hot water had washed away the last traces of the day's sweat and dust, leaving his skin warm and loose. His muscles ached in that good way, the kind that came from real effort mixed with everything else. He wiped a hand across the mirror, clearing a streak so he could see his reflection: tired eyes, short hair still dripping, the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw. Nothing special. Just him.
In the kitchen he pulled open the fridge. Khalil had left a foil container of rice and beans from last night, still good. Kota dumped it into a bowl, added a splash of hot sauce from the bottle on the counter, and heated it in the microwave. The hum filled the quiet apartment while he leaned against the sink, staring out the small window at the parking lot below. Streetlights glowed orange against the dark. A couple of kids kicked a soccer ball under one of the lamps, their shadows stretching long. Normal Sunday night stuff.
The microwave beeped. He carried the bowl to the living room, dropped onto the couch, and flicked on the TV with the remote. The old flat-screen flickered to life on some reality channel. Love Island, season 26. He'd seen bits and pieces of it before—Khalil usually kept the remote locked on sports or old movies—but tonight the apartment was empty, no one to judge. He left it on.
The screen showed a sunny villa, palm trees swaying, people in swimsuits lounging around a pool. Voices overlapped, dramatic music swelling every few seconds. Kota barely paid attention at first. He shoveled food into his mouth, eyes half on the bowl, half on nothing. The show had been background noise for the last five hours, ever since he'd gotten home. Conversations about dates, recouplings, someone crying in the bathroom, someone else yelling about loyalty. It all blended together.
Right now they were in the middle of a group scene. A bunch of guys sitting around the fire pit, shirts off, tans glowing under string lights. The narrator's voice cut in, smooth and teasing. "But earlier today, things took a turn when Jordi was caught in a very private moment by his roommates."
Cut to grainy footage—probably from a hidden camera in the bedroom. A guy, Jordi, shirtless on his bed, hand moving under the sheet. Quick zoom on his shocked face as the door swung open. Three other guys walked in, froze, then burst out laughing. One of them slapped the wall. "Bro! In the middle of the day?" Jordi yanked the sheet up, face red, stammering excuses. The roommates kept ribbing him, one mimicking the motion with exaggerated thrusts.
Kota snorted once, not really laughing. It was dumb. Predictable. Same drama every season. But he didn't change the channel. The noise felt good, filling the empty space. He finished the bowl, set it on the coffee table, and stretched out on the couch. Legs up, head back against the cushion. The show rolled on—confessionals, arguments, someone saying "I deserve better" for the tenth time. He let it wash over him.
After a while he realized he wasn't even watching anymore. Just listening. The apartment felt different tonight. Quieter, but not in a bad way. Khalil was still at work, double shift. No lectures about "real men" or "staying strong." No rules about screen time. The phone on the cushion next to him was his now. Fully unlocked. No parental controls. Total freedom.
That hit him slow, like the warmth from the shower settling deeper. He picked up the phone, thumbed it open. The home screen stared back, plain icons, no apps he hadn't added himself. No social media. Not one. He'd never bothered before, Khalil would've flipped. Instagram, TikTok, Snapchat, all blocked or forbidden. But now?
He opened the browser and typed "how to set up Snapchat." The results loaded instantly. Step-by-step guides, screenshots, videos. He clicked the first one, skimmed it. Download the app. Make an account. Pick a username. Easy. He tapped the app store link, watched the little circle spin while it installed. The icon appeared, yellow ghost on black. He opened it, started the signup.
Username suggestions popped up. He typed "KotaReal" first—taken. Then "KotaHtown"—available. He hit next, entered his birthday (he lied by a year, old habit), verified his phone number. The app asked for contacts access. He skipped it. No need to pull in Khalil's number or anyone else yet. Camera permission. He allowed it. A selfie option appeared, but he ignored that too. Just a blank profile for now.
He leaned back again, thumb scrolling through the quick-start tips. Add friends. Send snaps. Stories. Streaks. It felt foreign, like stepping into someone else's life. But also... exciting. He could post whatever. See whatever. Talk to people without anyone hovering. No more sneaking glances at school group chats on borrowed phones. This was his.
The TV droned on. Jordi was still the topic. Now the guys were confronting him by the pool, half-laughing, half-scolding. "You couldn't wait till lights out?" one asked. Jordi shrugged, grinning sheepishly. "What can I say? I'm human." More laughter. The narrator cut in with a dramatic sting. "Will this moment cost Jordi his spot in the villa? Or will it make him the most talked-about islander?" (lowkey might just ripoff love island next series)
Kota half-smiled. Same old chaos. He was about to close the browser and actually set up the Snapchat properly when the phone buzzed in his hand. Not a text. A DM notification. From an unknown account. The username made his stomach drop.
@ArchAnalBeckett
He opened it.
"Welcome update: The Arch-Anal Coalition of Seminal Indulgence has successfully onboarded 8 new initiates in the past 47 minutes. All passed preliminary vibrational compatibility screening and signed the digital oath of retention. Current membership: 11 (including core triad). Inaugural ritual remains scheduled for Saturday at 22:00. Your presence is expected as tether-bearer. Further details forthcoming. Gratitude for your earlier assistance with the monolith."
Attached was a blurry photo of the onyx crystal in the apartment, now lit with a ring of small white candles. The black stone gleamed, reflections dancing like liquid.
Kota stared at the screen. Jaw slack. Eight new people. In less than an hour. After all the monologuing, the weird dirty talk attempts, the clinical seduction scripts that landed like wet paper towels. Eight actual humans had read whatever Beckett sent and thought, Yeah, this sounds good. Sign me up for the seminal retention sex cult with the giant rock.
He let out a short, disbelieving laugh that turned into a groan. "What the actual fuck."
The TV kept playing. Someone on Love Island was crying now. Dramatic music swelled. Kota didn't notice. He just kept staring at the message, thumb frozen over the screen, trying to wrap his head around the fact that Beckett's freaky little group had just tripled in size while he was eating leftovers and half-watching reality TV.
Eight new members. Already.