He sat in a burgundy leather chair, his fingers tracing the tight seam along the arm. A wide fireplace crackled beside him, its heat pressing softly against his freshly shaven face. Above the mantel hung a six-by-four oil painting of the club’s founder, Earl Wellington II.

He was young in the portrait, light blue eyes set beneath dark hair, a noticeable scar cutting across his upper lip—the result of a polo accident, when an opponent’s club struck him mid-match. Alan knew the story by heart. He’d studied the club’s founding the way he studied for school, for every paper. He etched details into his mind as carefully as the painter had laid shadow and light across Wellington’s black suit.

The door behind him clicked open.

“It’s time,” a voice said.

Alan rose at once, unable to hide his smile. Excitement jolted through him, quickening his stride.

“Haven’t met you yet,” he said to the young man who’d come for him.

The man said nothing. He held his hand folded into the sleeves of his grey monk robe and walked with a careful stride down the hallway.

Alan fell quiet. It had to be a rule, silence for the ceremony. As they walked, more paintings lined the walls: previous members, their faces solemn, their names etched beneath them. Only those who had achieved something great earned a place here. That was why they walked in silence, he decided. Out of respect.

At the far end of the hall, gaps waited between the frames. Alan imagined himself there. His portrait among them.

At the end of the hall stood two tall mahogany doors that opened as if on their own, but on the other side stood two men in black gowns, their faces hidden behind papier-mâché masks shaped like crows. The long beaks reminded Alan of plague doctors.

Death, he thought. That had to be the symbolism. The death of the old Alan. The rebirth of the new. That was it.

He stepped through into a candlelit room. Tall candelabras lined the walls, their flames wavering. Before him stood other members in the same black gowns and crow masks as the doormen.

At the center sat one figure apart, settled into an ornate chair on a raised platform. He wore a red robe and a mask shaped like a bull’s head, black horns curving outward. On this feet, bright red shoes.

Red another symbol. Before Alan could settle on an answer, a voice spoke, sharp and commanding, cutting the thought short.

“Strip,” said the man in red.

Alan glanced around. Hesitant.

“Pardon?”

Silence.

Sweat gathered at his temples. Strip? His clothes? Rebirth. That was the only meaning he could find. A shedding. A return to nothing.

He nodded.

He removed his suit jacket. His tie. His shirt. Then his belt, his shoes, his pants, his socks. He paused at his boxers.

Rebirth, he told himself. These would be his brothers. His family.

He stepped out of them.

The room felt colder.

No one moved.

Nothing happened.

“Initiate, Alan,” said the man in the chair. “Tell us what greatness will you bring to the House, and to your brothers?”

Alan stood naked beneath the hollow black eye sockets of the masks, his thoughts scattering. He’d prepared for this. Rehearsed it. But the words had fled the moment his clothes hit the floor.

“I want to be a leader,” he said.

“Want?” the man echoed, amused.

Alan swallowed. “I will be one.”

“How?” the man asked.

“Networking,” Alan said. “Connecting with the right people.”

For the first time, there was movement. A low rustle. Whispers.

What had he said wrong?

Silence settled again.

He needed to fix it. Maybe he’d misunderstood the question.

“By serving my brothers,” he said quickly. “With loyalty.”

The room went still.

One of the crow-masked figures leaned toward the man in red and whispered something into his ear.

“We shall see just how loyal,” said the man, standing,

He was shorter than the others. His red robe dangled just above his red shoes. He stepped down. Shuffled away his sleeves.

Alan’s initiation would begin.

A few nights later, Alan found himself in a dining room with tall windows overlooking the skyline. A long bar ran along the back wall. Alan stepped up and ordered a drink. He wore a black tux with a black tie—no gloves, no hat. Only senior members earned those.

He spotted someone his own rank and lifted his glass.

“Alan,” he said, introducing himself.

The young man shook his hand. “Bobby.”

“One hell of a few weeks, right?”

“Two weeks bootlicking some guy, cleaning his apartment, picking up his laundry,” Bobby said, knocking back his shot. “Yeah.”

“And the initiation?”

“Don’t get me started,” Bobby said, raising his empty glass to the bartender for a refill. “And stripping down to my boxers.”

Alan’s brow lifted. Just boxers?

“And kissing that skull,” Bobby added.

Alan’s jaw tightened. A skull?

“Definitely…different,” Alan said.

Bobby nodded then drained his glass and drifted away.

Alan stood there, thinking, not sipping his drink.

“Al,” said a cheery voice, slapping him on the back.

When Alan turned, he saw his mentor, Alexander Roth. His thick black hair was slicked neatly back. He wore a top hat and white gloves, carried a black cane capped with silver.

Two young men stood beside him each with a drink in hand. One was tall and red-haired. The other shorter, dark-haired. Each in top hats and white gloves.

“First in the family to go to college, right?” Alexander said.

Alan nodded.

Alexander came from a long line of attorneys. A legacy admission. The kind of name that Alan had learned about in high school.

“This is Mark Ashford, the President of our club,” said Alexander gesturing to the shorter of the two young men, “And this prick is Eric Welts, the Vice President,” said Alexander lightly stabbing his cane into Welts’ side.

Alan shook Mark’s hand, then Eric’s.

“Alan here wants to get into politics,” Alexander added.

“Swell,” Mark said.

“You’ll make a fine leader,” Eric said.

All three of them smirked again.

Alan felt his face warm, then forced it down. He asked what they studied, what internships they’d landed. One had a position waiting at an investment firm. The other would be starting at his family’s business. Every so often they slurped their drinks, loud and careless.

It made Alan uneasy.

“You’re a loyal brother,” Alexander said, smiling thinly.

Alan took it as a compliment. Standing with the future leaders, for someone like him, new and unproven, it felt like an achievement.

Mark and Eric slurped their drinks again.