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Chapter Text

“Welcome to Arcadia Academy!”

The headmistress’s voice grates against my pounding head. The sunshine is too bright and the air is too fresh. Also, I stubbed my toe trying to walk across the chunky cobblestones that seem to make up every path on campus. 

“Your time here is just the beginning, but like a butterfly emerging from its cocoon, you will leave these halls ready to conquer the world with your musical gifts.”

The headmistress — I’ve already forgotten her name, something literary, I think — is tall, blonde, and perky. She stands on a small wooden platform at the front of a large hall lined with picturesque stained-glass windows. Pews stretch the length of the room. 

I shift in my seat, which is more complicated than it sounds due to the two large sweaty dudes on either side of me.

Forgive me for being grumpy, but a seven-hour trans-Atlantic flight to London, followed by a three-hour train ride to Manchester, topped off by a one-hour car ride to the middle-of-nowhere English countryside will do that to a person. I’ve been accepted to the most prestigious music school in Europe. Let alone, on a full ride scholarship. One would think I’d be grateful, and I am, but at the moment, I’m just trying to drown out the drone of orientation. 

“You have all received a packet of information containing your dorm assignments and class schedules. There is also a flier with a list of clubs offered here at Arcadia Academy. We hope you take advantage of these great opportunities to get involved and meet other students.”

I look at the club list. It’s printed on thick, shiny cardstock.

Deceased Denouements: Want to know how a story ends but don’t want to read the whole book? In Deceased Denouements, we forget about the boring stuff and skip straight to the juicy endings. Authors must be dead to be read. Meets Sundays at dusk.

“Now, all ears everybody!” Headmistress so-and-so claps her hands. The guy on my left, who had been snoring at the same pitch as a slowly deflating balloon, startles awake, shaking me out of a similar stupor. “This year we celebrate one of Arcadia Academy’s most honored traditions.” She pauses, looks around. I would probably find her enthusiasm more charming if my eyeballs weren’t about to melt out of my skull. Her mouth tugs downward at the silence, but she forges on. “This competition happens only once every four years, so you only have one chance to participate. Anyone and everyone is welcome, but only one group may earn the honored title of the winner of–” she pauses for dramatic effect, raises her fist in the air “–Battle of the Bands.”

This certainly gets the students attention. There is a rustle of movement, a symphony of gasps and excited whispers. 

Even I’ve heard of the iconic Arcadia Academy Battle of the Bands, although I hadn’t realized it would take place during my first year here. Almost all the winners go on to sell platinum records and sold-out stadiums. 

Somewhere over the Gulf of St. Lawrence, all the excitement I had felt about coming here had dissipated, replaced by sheer exhaustion and the realization I had just committed to spending two years away from my family, my friends, everything I had ever called home. But now, I remember what it had all been for. The chance to play music. To hone my craft and maybe make a name for myself. 

“Yes, it’s very exciting isn’t it? You will find another packet in your onboarding folder that outlines the details.” I rustle around in the folder until I find said packet. It’s thick. Must be a lot of rules. I haven’t yet decided if this place is stodgy or not. Everyone is dressed like they're straight out of a Burberry catalog. The lawn beyond the windows is a sheet of wet, lush green unlike anything I’ve ever seen back home, and the air smells like bread. And yet, as I look around I see the spotlights of individuality. A pink mohawk. A faux zebra coat. A plethora of instruments resting in sticker-covered cases. 

“Any of your professors can answer questions about the show,” the headmistress continues. “You’ll find sign up sheets located around campus. Remember, you can participate as a solo act or a group act.”

The winner of Battle of the Bands is almost always a group. I guess it’s tough to have as much presence when you’re just one person on a stage playing one, maybe two, instruments. It’s a good reason to start on the whole making friends thing. That and the fact that I had started to feel homesick the minute I stepped out my front door. 

I glance back at the club list.

The Goldclaws: Think dragons are just the stuff of myth? Think again! Every third Thursday, we gather at the east shore of Lake Lockwood to show off our wings and maybe even breathe a bit of fire.

What sort of clubs were these even? 

“It’s him!”

“Oh my god!”

“He is so hot!”

There is a sudden flurry of whispers. Heads turn towards the back of the room. Of course, mine follows. 

Beyond the sea of heads, I catch sight of a man walking with purpose towards the front of the room. He is tall. His skin is painted black. He is, for some reason, shirtless. And he’s wearing a costume that includes a long green robe and a white and gold mask. 

I’m not even really sure what to think. Every girl around me seems to be foaming at the mouth, so his presence isn’t frightening. Is he the start of some sort of pep rally? Or like, a weirdly sexy school mascot?

This man approaches the headmistress. She is all smiles. Now that I have a clearer view, I see that his mask has six slits for eyes. It stops above his mouth, revealing lips and a jaw that are also painted black. 

“I seriously want to lick his abs,” someone whispers from the row behind me. I fight the urge to roll my eyes, but they aren’t wrong. This mysterious man does have a nice body. Oh! He must be some sort of British celebrity. This is a rich-people school after all. They can afford to hire someone like that. 

As he steps on the platform, he takes the headmistress's hand and kisses it. She swoons, her cheeks growing so pink I can see the blush even from where I sit. The man flashes a grin, showing off bright white teeth.

“The beautiful Headmistress Yeats,” he says. His voice picks up from the microphone on the podium. It's rich and deep and tinged with mischief. “Our new students should feel blessed to be welcomed by someone who glows like the stars above. You shine both inside and out.”

Headmistress Yeats lets out such a high-pitched squeak that the microphone shrieks with feedback. She’s not the only one affected by his poetry. The girls behind me are hyperventilating.

I, on the other hand, am downright confused.

“That’s Vessel, innit?” The sweaty dude on my right asks the sweaty dude on my left, speaking over the top of my head. Dude on my left shrugs. “Yeah, I think so. Heard he’s the frontrunner to win Battle of the Bands this year.”

Wait – he’s a student?

“Would the Headmistress mind if I take a moment to talk about our club?” This Vessel fellow asks, still holding Headmistress Yeats’ hand.

She can’t even get the words out. Instead she nods enthusiastically, biting her lip and taking a step back so that he can speak into the microphone.

“For those of you that know me already, I hope my preceding reputation is a good one. Or maybe not so good.” He flashes another smile at us. “And for those of you that don’t yet know me, well…you will. I am Vessel and I have the esteemed privilege of being the current leader of Arcadia Academy’s Sleep Token.”

There is a round of enthusiastic applause laced with no small amount of squeals and giggles. 

“This year, our club has truly outdone itself. There will be no shortage of opportunities to join us in worship. In worship of what, you may ask? Well, of everything that Arcadia Academy holds sacred. The creative spirit. The bonds of friendship. Divine passion-” he says this last bit so seductively that I think one of the girls behind me faints. There's a thump and some sort of scuffle. 

“Now now, let us collect ourselves,” Vessel continues. “We still have an entire year left for heart-stopping adventures. The most important tenant of Sleep Token, of course, is to promote the celebration of music, in all its forms, shapes, and colors. All are welcome. All will find themselves pleased.”

With that, he departs the platform and repeats his long, quick strides towards the doors through which he entered. When he passes by me, his head angles ever so slightly. I can’t tell where he is looking, but somehow I feel his gaze on me. I follow his hulking form until he is gone.

Headmistress Yeats steps back up to the podium and tries to regain the composure of both herself and her audience. I’m still not sure who Vessel is exactly, but he made quite an impression. Well, with everyone else. To me he just seemed...silly, I guess. She begins to speak about campus security or something of that nature. Instead of listening I pull out the club flier once again and scan the list until I find what I’m looking for.

Sleep Token: Arcadia Academy’s very own host club, committed to upholding the universal truths of friendship, art, and love. We champion the well-being of all Arcadia’s students, providing a home for creative expression inspired by the school’s most aesthetic of gentlemen. All are welcome. All will find themselves pleased. All is in service to Him. See the schedule of events posted in Yorke Hall, Room 247.

What the hell did I just get myself into?

Chapter Text

I never thought I would say this, but I miss America. 

It’s not that my present surroundings aren’t beautiful and tastefully antiquated. They are. That’s the issue.

It became clear to me very quickly that I don’t fit in here. Not with my cheap clothes and hair that hasn’t been touched by professional hands in almost five years. While my fellow students wear name brand loafers and expensive-smelling perfume, I’ve had the same five sweaters on rotation since I arrived. I use a hand-me-down laptop that sounds like a dying animal when it boots up. My food hall lunches are stretched to last an extra meal or two. I didn’t exactly grow up poor, but I’m most definitely not rich. Only now am I realizing exactly how ‘not rich’ I really am.

No one makes fun of me, which I guess is alright. But no one really talks to me either. Last night I dreamed about game night with my friends back home, a regular occurrence that always ended with someone quite literally rolling on the floor laughing. In my dream, Jamie is doing that thing where he has too much to drink and reenacts a monologue from his all-time favorite movie, A Knight’s Tale. He is wandering around my living room, swaying and waving his hands while he orates: I give you the seeker of serenity, the protector of Italian virginity, the enforcer of our Lord God… Dream-me is giggling so hard that I’m pretty sure I laughed in my sleep. That's the thing about friendships – you laugh a lot. And I realized upon waking this morning, a heavy hollowness in my chest, that I hadn’t laughed since I left New York. Homesickness has set in like gum stuck in my hair.

In an attempt to combat this, I’ve parsed through the club list every night, but it's completely insane. I have yet to decide if the oddity is because everyone here is rich, or because everyone here is British. Either way, I was expecting a movie club or bowling league or something of that nature. Instead, there is Squirrel Club (students trap, train, and talk to campus squirrels), Marshmallow Maniacs (students eat and rank exotic marshmallows), and Juggling Club (from campus whisperings, I’ve deduced no juggling is involved – instead students drop acid and listen to Grateful Dead records).

Then there is Sleep Token. I have not seen Vessel since orientation, but I’ve sure encountered his aftermath. Anytime I run into a group of red-faced, squealing girls, I know they have just left Yorke Hall, Room 247. I had to google “host club” one night just to wrap my head around what could possibly be worth such a fuss, and what I’ve gathered is they are a glorified frat. Hot dudes try to woo their female peers with parties.

So in conclusion, not my thing.

My classes are my one saving grace. This semester’s course schedule includes everything from Ear Training to Music History to my favorite, Piano Literature. It’s the reason I came all this way in the first place. Crazy to think I learned how to play on my great-grandma’s upright piano and now I’m studying with piano greats in a school filled with Steinways. Arcadia Academy is prestigious for a very good reason. It’s not just rich kids and clock towers. There is so much knowledge and passion flowing among these halls that just to walk from classroom to classroom is to have an educational experience. I often find students practicing in the hallways or on the lawns, singing acapella or playing a variety of instruments (some of which I’ve never even heard of). During breaks I linger, taking in the sheer talent that surrounds me. It’s inspiring, to say the least. 

Monday marks the start of my third week on campus. I sit at the back of a lecture hall during Theory I, taking notes in a notebook already starting to fray from use. The professor, aptly named Dr. Minor, is discussing the basics of diatonic harmony. 

“Why do some chords sound good together, and some don’t?” he asks. He is a tall man, although like many tall men, he is hunched from years of needing to bend too far over. And he’s slightly intimidating, not in a mean way, but in a way that says he takes his job seriously.

A girl in the front row raises her hand. Her name is Mikaela and we have a few classes together. She has long dark hair streaked with blue and I’ve never seen her without her violin in a matching blue case.

“Chords using notes from the same key sound better together.”

“Exactly. These are our diatonic chords. Can anyone give me some reasons why it is useful to understand diatonic chords? Not just because they sound pretty, surely.”

Mikaela raises her hand again. Dr. Minor nods his head towards her.

“Well, if you’re learning a piece, you know what chords to expect once you know the key. It’s unlikely you’ll hear a chord that’s not diatonic, so whether you’re learning a piece by ear, or trying to quick-read sheet music, your brain can better prepare for what notes you may be asked to play.”

“Very good,” says Dr. Minor, pacing with his hands behind his back. “Anyone else?”

This time, a boy with a mullet and a Louis Vuitton backpack puts his hand up.

“Tom. Go ahead.”

“With all due respect sir, the fact that they sound pretty is useful. I mean, when you’re composing, you know what chords sound nice together and you know why. But let’s say you want to use a non-diatonic chord. It’s going to sound dramatic, maybe a bit jarring. Maybe that’s what you’re trying to evoke in your piece, you know. So you can use that chord on purpose to contrast with the rest.”

Dr. Minor peers at Tom with bright eyes.

“No disrespect taken. That’s a very good answer. When we understand diatonic theory we can better recognize which chords adhere to those rules, and which break them. As students, and we are always students, when we can perform an educated analysis of music from someone we admire, or maybe someone we don't, we can better inform our own process. So as you can see this is an important foundational concept to understand. If you open your books to page fifty-two, you will find an example of diatonic chords using A major scale.”

I open my textbook and follow along while Dr. Minor lectures on differences between major and minor diatonic scales. He is just starting to discuss the Roman numeral system used to identify diatonic chords, when the bell tower rings to indicate the end of the hour. There is a chorus of quiet shuffling as students pack up.

“Class, please finish reading chapter three before our next lecture. No other homework this week, but be prepared for a quiz.”

Plus side of not having friends – I have plenty of free time to keep up with my homework. It's early enough in the semester that I’m not buried, so I want to stay nice and ahead while I can. I dogear the first page of chapter three and stuff the book into my backpack.

Theory I takes place in one of Arcadia’s cloistered halls, and I exit the classroom only to find that it's pouring rain. My typical route to my dorm from here takes me across The Garden, a large greenspace in the center of campus. If I follow this path, I will be absolutely drenched by the time I get to my room. There’s got to be a better option, but when I look around, it seems the other students came prepared with umbrellas or raincoats. Then I recall something Headmistress Yeats mentioned during orientation. All buildings on campus are connected by a tunnel system. There’s a very good chance I’d get lost trying to navigate it, but at least I’d be dry. I think of all the expensive textbooks in my (definitely not waterproof) backpack.

Tunnels it is. Only problem: I have no clue how to find them.

Wait. I have a map! I set my backpack on the ground while students shuffle around me and dig out the original orientation folder. I flip through the papers until I find the tri-folded map.

I’m in Jordison Hall presently. Arcadia Academy has three cloistered halls: Jordison, Yorke, and Moreno. They are all built exactly the same – two-story stone buildings with open-air arched hallways placed in the shape of a square. In the middle of the square are courtyards with fountains and benches and short, scrubby Hawthornes. I find Jordison on the map, running my finger over tiny text, until I see what looks like a hallway leading away from the building. I know for a fact this is not an above-ground hallway, since when I look in that direction, there are only rolling hills leading to The Garden. This must be the tunnel. 

I take my time stepping over slick puddles on the cobblestone as I head that direction. At the end of the hallway, there are a few doors that open into various classrooms. Students shuffle in and out of these. But there is another, more inconspicuous door, set right in the corner. Based on the layer of dust covering the floor around it, it seems like the door hasn’t been opened in a long time. If I didn’t have other suspicions, I’d think it was just an unused closet. There is one oddity about this door though – a very old looking brass doorhandle in the shape of a tentacle, complete with suckers and everything. I twist the handle and the door opens with a shrill creak. Inside, stone steps descend into pitch black. 

Which is really, really lame. I’m not a big fan of the dark. In fact, one may say it is my biggest fear. It’s the same reason why I don’t like swimming in murky water. I hate not being able to see my surroundings. My brain kicks into overdrive and suddenly I’m imagining that around every corner, or swimming somewhere beneath me, is a horrible monster set to kill me. It's a childhood aversion I’ve never grown out of.

I pull my phone out and turn on the flashlight. Shining it down into the tunnel entrance lets me see a few more steps before even this light disappears in the gloom.

I turn around, thinking maybe a trudge through the rain is better after all, but the rain has grown even heavier. Drops hit the ground with the same velocity of gunfire. 

What’s the worst that could be in there? If the Headmistress mentioned the tunnels, there’s no way there’s anything spooky. Other students and teachers must surely use it from time to time. Janitors, too. And there’s got to be a light switch somewhere.

I groan a bit. My body steels itself for something my mind still hasn’t quite accepted. I look around again, checking the hallway behind me from where I just came, and the hallway to my left that continues the square, but no one else seems to even notice I’m here. Certainly no one else is approaching the door. I’m going to have to do this on my own it seems. Taking a deep breath, I put my foot down on the first step and journey into the depths of Arcadia. 

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

I leave the door open behind me. I mean, it's not like no one is allowed down here. The little bit of light shining in and the sound of students laughing makes me feel less alone. I don’t immediately find a light switch, but at the bottom of the stairs I think I see something reflective. Perhaps it’s down there.

“Just get to the bottom and see what things look like,” I whisper to myself. “If it’s too sketchy, I can always come back up.”

After about twenty heart-pounding steps, I reach the floor of the tunnel. It's quiet at this point, the students above just a faint echo. Then I see something that makes my heart soar. A light switch! And a totally normal one at that, set in white plastic with matching little white screws. I flip it on, and it takes a second before the lights flicker to life. I was halfway expecting dripping water and torches and old whiskey barrels. Instead, the tunnel is empty, though a bit dusty. There is a trail through the middle of the dust on the floor which means the tunnels have been used recently enough. I can’t tell if that makes me feel better or worse. The only thing scarier than an empty tunnel is a tunnel that you think is empty and actually isn't.

The light comes from buzzing, rectangular fluorescents. The tunnel walls are made of thick stone and it smells faintly like a backed-up bathroom drain. Up ahead, I see dark areas where the tunnel branches to the left or right, but my map tells me if I head straight, I’ll pop out in Thordendal Library. Then it’s only a minute’s walk to my dorm hall. 

With my phone gripped tightly in one hand and my map in the other, I begin my journey. The fluorescents make it less ‘Victorian ghost trying to possess me’ kind of creepy. Then again, they do make it a more ‘possible lunatic trying to murder me’ type of creepy. I pause before passing each branch in the tunnel, peeking around corners before continuing on with a quick shuffle. I don’t want to admit how many times I look behind me. 

It takes me five uneventful minutes of walking before I start to relax. More mundane thoughts of homework and piano practice take over my mind, like how I should try to book a piano room tomorrow so I can work on my scholarship project. One of the really awesome perks of being a scholarship student is that I have extra work to do just to maintain my scholarship. In this case, it’s an original piano composition due at the end of each semester.

Sooner than expected, I reach the end of the hallway. There is a door set in the wall directly in front of me. It’s almost identical to the door in Jordison, complete with a tentacled handle. There are two other doors as well – plain metal ones with silver doorknobs, one on each side of the tunnel. I look at the map. I don’t see these doors, but that doesn’t mean anything. The map’s details are fairly limited. Still, I can’t help but feel like the tunnel has ended too soon.

I touch the tentacle and a chill runs along my spine. Something is not right. Why am I all alone down here? I should have run into someone else by now. And why does it feel like this door is not where it should be? 

Then I hear something behind me. Not footsteps, but it’s moving at a steady pace. It sounds wet, like something being dragged through water. A sort of shluuuuuup-THUMP, shluuuuuup-THUMP. My body goes rigid. I look behind me. Nothing.

Then the light at the far end of the hallway goes out.

Shluuuuuup-THUMP.

Then the next light

Shluuuuuup-THUMP.

It’s my cue to get the hell out of here. I yank on the tentacle, but the door is stuck or locked or something. I can feel the hallway behind me getting darker. I can feel a presence getting closer. Before I can think about what to do, my body acts. I turn the knob of the metal door on my right and thank every god I can think of that it’s unlocked. Behind it, fluorescents are already on, highlighting yet another hallway. This one has walls made of white-painted cinderblock. I see a fire extinguisher. A coat rack with some neon orange safety vests.

I pull the door shut behind me and bolt. My feet echo on the floor, my breath picks up. I haven’t run in a long time, but this whole adrenaline thing seems to be doing the trick. Then there's a loud boom. Something is pounding on the door. When I look, the door is still closed, but the booming continues. I can even see a dent forming in the metal. I think I scream a little. 

Right when my legs start to protest, I see stairs. The stairs take me to another wooden door, another tentacled handle. Using both hands to grab the handle, I pull. This one swings right open. I slam the door shut hard enough I fall on my ass. Bright sunlight blinds me and I squint with my hand over my eyes, waiting for everything to adjust. Little by little, a room comes into view. It’s another classroom, I think. But there are no desks or chalkboards. Instead, there’s framed artwork, a big Persian run, and a fireplace burning hot. Sitting in front of the fire, wearing expressions of shock and horror, are four of the most beautiful men I’ve ever seen.

Chapter Text

It’s almost comical, the pause that occurs. I stare at them. They stare at me. I don’t recognize them at all, but the tall one sitting closest to me has a familiar sort of energy. He’s got big, soulful eyes, and right now, he’s looking at me like I’m a particularly shocking booger that fell out of his nose.

After the pause comes the commotion. All four of them fly out of their armchairs and run towards a door at the back of the room. They say nothing and they don’t look back at me. The door shuts with a resounding clang. Once again, I’m left alone, a reminder that makes me scramble away from the tunnels I just escaped and whatever cursed thing was in them. Only silence comes from behind that door now. My eyes are lasered in on the tentacle handle, just waiting for it to twist. I’m halfway tempted to open the door myself and check. It’s like that thing I have about the dark – scarier if I can’t see what’s happening. Thankfully, my body is glued to the plush rug beneath me. I run my fingers through the fibers and try to take deep breaths.

I’m not sure how long I sit there. Nothing moves except the flames in the fireplace. I can feel their warmth against my back, a welcome comfort.

“What do we have here? Such a beautiful lady doesn’t belong on the floor. I’m sure we could woo you more appropriately on the couch.”

A hand enters my field of vision. It's painted black and attached to a tall, green-cloaked man wearing a white and gold mask.

Vessel.

I shriek and leap to my feet. Not because I’m afraid of him (trust me, I just encountered worse), but because I realize there are three others standing next to him. They are also wearing masks, though they are very different from Vessel’s. For starters, they cover the entirety of their faces, while Vessel’s gives a clear view of his lips and jaw. 

They are looking right at me. Well, I think so at least. It’s hard to tell what’s going on behind their guises. But the dots start to connect.

“What room am I in?” I ask tentatively.

“Youre in Yorke 247, of course.” Vessel says, sauntering towards me. I take a few steps back and he stops. “But most girls use that door over there. Why are you coming from the tunnels?”

So this is the famous Sleep Token, huh? I must say, it’s a little more horror show than I was expecting. One of the shorter men’s masks bears the expression of a righteously angered god. There is another tall one, about Vessel’s height, with a shock of white hair that peaks over the top of a black and gold mask. He’s wearing a gorgeous red coat. Then a final shorter man with a similar black and gold mask, donned in a pinstriped suit and hoodie. The girls who come here must be some weird sort of kinky.

“Vess, what do we do? She’s seen us without our masks on.” This is whispered by the tall white-haired one.

While he is correct that I did in fact see them without their masks on, the details of their faces are already a blur. In fact, this entire day is starting to feel like a fever dream. If I suddenly woke up in my bed drenched in sweat with a hundred-and-two degree fever, I don’t think I’d be too surprised. But then I think of the man in front of the fire. His eyes were wide and warm and swimming with firelight. I know for a fact they were Vessel’s, and I catch myself staring at him, trying to find them beneath his mask. Instead, I’m met with six black eye slits, like little voids. My gaze travels down his bare torso. The black paint that covers his chest and stomach looks wet and streaky, like he put it on in a rush. I see pale skin peeking through. That feels strangely intimate.

“We do occasionally get obsessed fans who try to see us after hours. It’s to be expected in our line of work,” says the short one with the angry mask, interrupting me from The Adventures of Checking Out Vessel. This one’s forearms are drenched in colorful tattoos. “But I’ve never seen you at a club event before.”

He takes a few steps towards me, and I back up even more until my butt hits the cold stone wall. The tunnel door is only inches away from my left, so I start a slow slide down the wall to the right. “I just need to get back to my dorm,” I say.

“And where would that be?” he asks.

“I’m in Gaia Hall.”

“That’s a long way from here.”

“Yeah, I know,” I huff, starting to get irritated. Why am I playing twenty questions with Angry Mario? “It was raining so I took the tunnels, but I got lost, and something was down there and the lights started flickering– oh, never mind,” I say, waving the words away. If I try to explain, they will for sure think I am crazy. “Somehow, I ended up here and–”

“Wait,” Vessel interrupts. His voice is rich and deep. “You said something was down there. Like what?”

“It was nothing. Can you tell me how to get to my dorm from here? Please?"

Vessel looks like he’s about to say something, but the short one speaks first.

“I’m afraid we can’t do that. You’ve seen us without our masks on and that puts our club at stake.”

“But it was an accident… Wait, what are you talking about? I just need to get to my dorm.”

I put on a brave face and start to walk towards the large double doors on the other side of the room. I don’t make eye contact, and for a moment, I think I will succeed. Then the tall blonde stops me in my tracks, resting a hand on my shoulder. His touch is gentle but firm.

“Where are you from, anyways?” the short one continues. He has the tone of a man who is used to telling people what to do.

“New York,” I say, shrugging off the tall one’s hand. He lets me go, but stays close. “Why?”

“Long way to come for school. Let me guess. Scholarship student?”

“Yes?” I say, annoyed. I’m questioning why the girls in this school are so obsessed with these men. One judgy asshole, two tall weirdos, and a fourth man who has yet to say anything at all. Not a particularly appealing group.

“We can’t let you tell the rest of the school about our identities–”

“I don’t even know who you are!” I protest.

“I’m Three!” Tall Blonde says, holding up three fingers. Then he slides said fingers under my chin and forces me to look up at him. I wind up staring into haunting grey eyes. Okay, maybe I kind of get the appeal.

“And I,” Vessel says, pushing his body in between me and Three’s fingers, “am Vessel.”

“Charmed,” I reply. “But I already knew that.” Vessel smiles, showing off a pair of pointy canines.

 I look at the short one and raise my eyebrow.

“Two. And that over there is Four,” he says, pointing at the man in the pinstriped suit. He hovers in the background, watching in silence. “But most of us call him Ivy.”

“So your names are numbers…and a plant?”

“But write ‘em like Roman Numerals, love. We’re not heathens,” Three says, peeking out from behind Vessel’s large body.

Okay, so III. Just when I thought it couldn’t get any weirder.

“Here’s the deal,” II continues. “We have a certain secret recipe, so to speak, that has made us one of the most successful generations of Sleep Token at this school. The most important ingredient is mystery. Mystery is what flavors romance, and romance is our specialty. We take this very seriously. But now, you have arrived like a rival chef set to expose this secret ingredient. We need to be able to keep an eye on you.”

“You can’t hold me hostage.” They can’t, right? This school seems to have a whole bunch of made-up rules. 

“Tell me,” II says. “How are things going as a scholarship student? Settling in? Making lots of friends?”

Answers: Not great; Not really; And no.

“That’s what I thought,” II says, even though I’ve said nothing out loud. “We can help you with that. Our club connects people. Think of how many parties you will attend. How many students you will meet. You’ll become an icon of Arcadia Academy in no time.”

“I don’t need to be an icon,” I say.

“Then how about the simple pleasure of making friends?” II peers at me and behind the stern mask, his blue eyes seem somewhat earnest. Maybe he really does care about helping me. I think of my dream about Jamie and my friends at home, and my chest hurts a little. Having friends here would certainly be nice, and I haven’t had much luck making them on my own.

“So, what, I just come to your meetings and flirt with you guys?”

II laughs. “Oh no. That is the role of Sleep Token’s guests. You will be a Sleep Token employee – all unpaid, of course. You will help plan and cater our parties, pick up our costumes, clean up after events, and do anything else we may assign to you. In return, we will teach you how to fit in here. No more wandering around lost in damp tunnels, or spending nights alone in your dorm room. You help us with club duties, we help you make friends. And most importantly, we make sure you don’t reveal our identities.”

“This all seems a little dramatic, don’t you think?” I say. “You know I don’t remember anything about what you guys look like anyways? I wouldn’t be able to tell anyone about you even if I wanted to.”

“There is always another option,” he continues, his eyes narrowing. II, III, and Vessel are now all standing in a circle around me, each only a breath away. They all smell good (and expensive), but they’re so close I start to feel a little nauseous. “We do our due diligence and spread a rumor that you are this school’s charity case. Not because you are poor, but because you are poor and crazy. It won’t be hard to do of course, not with the influence we wield and your ramblings about monsters in the tunnels while dressed like that.” He points at my outfit, wet jeans and an old sweater. “Soon, no one will come close to you, and without the support of your classmates, and let’s be honest, even some of the teachers, your grades will collapse and your soul will grow weary until you have no choice but to fly your sad, soggy self back home.”

“II, we don’t–” Vessel starts to say, but II holds up his hand.

“That is all easily avoided, however, if you agree to my original proposal.”

I’m actually getting bullied. Of all the trials and tribulations I thought I would face going to a music school across the Atlantic, getting bullied by a man in a mask over the secret identities of a host club was not in my Bingo card. To be fair, I was considering his offer before he decided to threaten me with social ostracization. I’ve been thinking about joining a club since I got here, and while this isn’t exactly what I had in mind, it has to be better than Squirrel Club. I can’t deny Sleep Token’s popularity. And menial labor doesn’t scare me. Back home, I made money working at a local record shop.

What II is offering me is a chance. An opportunity to get more involved and make friends. My mind wanders back to the tunnel. While it already seems ages ago, what happened down there spooked me. It would be nice to not have to face those things alone. 

“Do us all a favor, love,” III says. “Say yes. II’s got a will to match good ‘ol Margie Thatcher’s.” 

I snort. “I mean, I guess–”

“You will join?” Vessel asks. His smile is wide, a toothy grin that immediately makes me like him more. He leans over me, his breath tickling my face. “It would be my honor to serve at your side. But you should know, I’m also quite practiced at serving on top, and from the bottom.” His smile has devolved into a self-satisfied smirk.

“Right,” I say, ignoring Vessel and turning to II. “As long as my job doesn’t involve any of that kind of service, I’m in.”

II holds out his tattooed hand. I swear beneath the mask he is smiling.

“Welcome to Sleep Token.”

Chapter Text

The next day, I wake to a black envelope slipped under my door. Written on a beautiful piece of matching black cardstock in gold script, the note inside reads:

This Employment Agreement is made as of September 12 for Arcadia Academy’s Sleep Token. Per the Agreement, both parties are bound to the following terms:

The Employee will perform all duties as required by any current members of Sleep Token. The Employee shall be sworn to secrecy of all personal and physical details of the club's members, as well as club operations unknown to the general public, including but not limited to discussion of the club’s Full Moon Rituals. In lieu of monetary reimbursement, Sleep Token will provide The Employee with regular education in the manners of higher academia through immersive cultural experiences and comprehensive networking.

The Employee shall commence work promptly on Monday, September 15. Additional information to follow.

Please sign and return prior to your starting date.

Respectfully, 

II

Sleep Token Club Vice-President and Treasurer

It sort of feels like signing my life away when I scribble my signature at the bottom of the letter and place it in intercampus mail. I am disturbed by the lack of a clear schedule and the vagueness of my responsibilities. The note about Full Moon Rituals also intrigues me. If it isn’t a public club event, then what exactly is it? 

Stress sets in, induced not just by my steadily increasing load of homework, but also by all the unknowns of this upcoming job. The rain continues, a pounding, suffocating torrent that makes it hard to sleep. At night, I toss and turn from dreams filled with images of blue eyes and black-painted abs and flashing white canines. 

At last, another note arrives Sunday night while I am furiously trying to finish a paper about the physiology of the hand. It tells me to arrive at Yorke 247 at two in the afternoon to prepare for tea. I take a deep breath, but that doesn’t help settle the flutters in my tummy as they dance the line between nervousness and excitement. 

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

There is more furniture in the room today than when I was first here. Vintage armchairs are scattered throughout. Between them sit small wooden tables, all decorated with delicate teacups. In the middle of the room, a fire roars merrily, bringing welcome warmth. I wonder who set all this up as I figured that was supposed to be my job.

“First things first, you need to put this on.” II hands me a bundle of green fabric wrapped in brass chains.

“Ummmm…why?”

I had carefully picked out my outfit for my first day – a pair of black slacks and a matching turtleneck with some statement earrings. Simple, elegant, and certainly one of the nicer outfits I owned. Now II is telling me I have to change into some sort of elaborate costume. I toy with the chains and see they are attached to what I think is a corset. There’s no way I’m going to be able to get this on myself.

“You never spend time with me anymore!” The door to the dressing room bangs open, and III walks in. Or more like stalks in. He moves with long, quick strides towards the fireplace in the center of the room. Today he’s wearing a colorful mesh t-shirt and black skinny jeans, but all his skin is painted bright red. He looks angry, but that could just be the hot-head paint job and violently expressive mask.

Ivy comes skittering after him, taking double the steps just to keep up. “I know they are your fans, but what about me? They seek you like you’re a prize to be won, but I know you are worth more than gold. Let me show you. It has been too long.” 

It’s the first time I’ve ever heard Ivy speak. His voice is deep, but it carries a sweetness that reminds me of a period romance movie. Where Vessel’s words are laced with innuendo, Ivy speaks like his vocabulary has been dipped in adoration. And his eyes, when they look up at III, are filled with pure devotion.

III considers Ivy in silence, his own eyes narrowed. “Will you stop staring at me?”

“Only if you stop staring at me.”

“You’re really getting on my nerves,” III bites out.

“Then tell me to go and I will.”

III says nothing. Their faces move closer until they are only inches apart. Ivy is standing on his tiptoes.

“If you’re wondering whether they’re going to fight or fuck, well, flip a coin.” II mutters from next to me. The tension between III and Ivy swells until it envelops me. My face grows warm, and I catch myself watching them with the same attention I’d give to a thrilling romantic drama.

III grabs the scruff of Ivy’s hoodie pulling him even closer. “Fine,” he says, his voice laced with exasperation. “Tonight. Let’s grab a drink.”

“How about a movie?” Ivy asks dreamily.

Outside the double doors, I hear the onset of feminine squealing I’ve come to associate with Sleep Token’s fan club.

“Show time,” II says, pushing III off of Ivy. “Save it for the girls.”

“Looks like the girls are already enjoying the performance," III says, winking at me before wandering off. My cheeks get even hotter. Ivy follows the taller man, and I wait for III to start complaining again. Instead, he stops, turns, and holds out his hand. Ivy takes it and they walk with interlaced fingers to a plush green love seat.

“You,” II says, snapping my attention back to him. He taps the rolls of fabric in my arms. “Change. Now.”

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

To my surprise, the outfit fits perfectly. An emerald dress flows down to my ankles. Its fabric is supple and fitted in all the right places. There are bronze chains and belts that flow across the dress, draped with ornate charms. I see a one-inch bronze dagger dangling from the belt to rest below my hip, and a large pink gemstone set right in the middle of a strap across my chest.

Then there is the mask. It's bronze and carved with elaborate floral shapes. A few pink gems are pressed into the forehead. Despite its metallic look, it’s lightweight. I strap it across my face and find I can see quite well through a couple of mesh cutouts around the eyes. The mask stops above my nose, allowing me to breathe easily too. 

I’m not usually one to ogle myself in the mirror, but alone in the dressing room, I can’t help it. I feel ethereal.

There’s a knock on the door.

“Hey, I think I left my–”

Vessel enters the dressing room. I squeal and try to cover myself with my arms, then realize I’m fully dressed. 

“What is the point of knocking if you come in here anyways,” I say, throwing my hands in the air. Anger – such a great mask for embarrassment.

“I thought you were II,” Vessel stutters. “You look like–”
“Like a five-foot-nothing egomaniac, apparently.” I start towards the door and try to push Vessel out of the way, but I trip on the hem of my dress and stumble. The floor looms closer, my arms flailing to try to catch myself. Before any sort of bodily harm can take place, however, I land in a pair of strong arms.

“I was going to say you look beautiful.” Vessel helps me stand. My embarrassment has settled so deep at this point, even anger can’t brush it away. I smooth down my dress and wait for him to move. Only then do his words sink in. “And…powerful,” he continues. “Like a garden goddess. Well, a clumsy goddess, I suppose. II ordered those costumes a long time ago and I always wondered who would ever wear them. I must say, it becomes you.”

He smiles showing off those canines that have already lodged themselves into the grey matter of my brain. Beyond his smile, I get nothing. His expressions are unreadable behind the mask, and I find myself longing for another peek at the eyes underneath.

The dressing room is already small, but with his large figure looming over me, it feels even smaller. His hands still cup my shoulders. I become lost in the long lengths of his fingers. They’re a pianist's hands, to be sure, traced with veins and the thin muscles that come from years of practice.

“What do you think of the room setup? I feel like I did a good job, if I do stay so myself.”
“You set that up? I’m pretty sure that’s supposed to be my job.”
Vessel shrugs. “I wanted your first day to go smoothly. Figure I’d do what I could to help you out before II’s got you hanging from the ceiling rafters cleaning our chandelier or something.”

“Well, don’t,” I say, and this time he moves aside when I make for the door. “The last thing I want to do is give II more fuel for the fire. If he thinks I’m not actually working, that just gives him reason to spread rumors about me.”

“I promise you, II is not as threatening as he likes to make himself out to be. Look.” Vessel reaches past me and pushes open the door.

Outside, the tea party is in full force. Classical music – Mozart’s Eine kleine Nachtmusik – drifts from speakers hidden somewhere around the room. 

III and Ivy still linger on the love seat, but are now surrounded by a cluster of women. The two appear to be fighting again, but their motions seem more animated and less volatile than before. III looks like he’s doing everything in his power to ignore Ivy. He speaks to a girl I recognize from my theory class, occasionally placing a hand on her shoulder. Her face is a cherry-red that nearly matches III’s body paint. Meanwhile, Ivy only has eyes for III, his posture vacillating between dramatic irritation, and a grief akin to losing one’s true love. The girls around them watch with wide eyes and open mouths, eating it up voraciously.

I find II sitting in another armchair, talking to a different group of girls while gesticulating to a clipboard. He’s unbuttoned the top button of his shirt and rolled up his sleeves, showing off a symphony of ink. Oh, he knows exactly what he’s doing.

“Shit. I need to hurry up and pour the tea.” Before II has my head on a stake and my ass flying back to the US.

“Relax,” Vessel says. “Let their thirst grow until it's unbearable. Only then should you quench it.”

“It’s a game,” I say. Vessel’s body is once again so close to mine, the proximity makes me breathless. And he called me beautiful. I’m going to be thinking about those words for a while, churning them over until they’re devoid of any meaning. It’s an infuriating way to feel towards a costumed man who spends his free time from academia professionally wooing women, but here we are.

“No, my dear,” he counters. “It’s a performance.”

 “Why aren’t you out there then? Aren’t you the star of the show?”

“I’m delighted you think so. I just came here to grab some props and–”

There is a loud bang, followed by utter silence.

In the middle of the room, a girl stands, staring at her phone. She must have stood suddenly, for she knocked her chair over in the process. Everyone watches her, including Vessel and I. I notice he’s shifted his body ever so slightly in front of mine.

“There’s–” she starts to say. I don’t recognize her, but the look on her face is one I know I I will never forget. She’s close enough to me I see her lower lip trembling. Her hands are shaking and she takes a shuddering breath before she says: “A student is dead. There’s been a murder.”