Bedroom Society of Silence Chapter 1 Prelude the first
choice They were not bound, they were not forced.
They were simply told sit, see nothing and choose by freshmen.
White tank tops, red shorts, bare feet against cold stone.
They sat quietly in separate rooms.
Blindfolds rested in their laps. In front of each a small folded
piece of paper. The light was soft red.
Nothing else existed but the air, the stillness, and the
question Behind the silence. Each boy opened his paper.
Each boy read the same line. Rules of the Red Broom Society 1
You will not speak of this night. 2 You will not see who
touches you. 3 You may say No 4 If you stay, you commit five in
four years. If you survive and are chosen
again, you will take the other chair.
Some trembled. 1 breathes too fast.
One mouths the rules to himself, again and again, like a prayer.
One reached out into the darkness, not blindly, but
curiously. And one boy, only one smiled.
Not wide, not proud, just enough to suggest he wasn't afraid.
They did not stand. They tied the blind doves
themselves. They had chosen the myth.
They said it didn't exist, not officially, not in schools
records, not in the blueprints, not even in the memories of the
staff who are trained or may be paid to forget.
It was a myth that drifted through whispered conversations
in locked bathrooms and after parties, between bites of stolen
kisses and breast laced with alcohol.
The Red Room, not many new, but they were stories, and though no
one believed them, the whispers persisted.
The stories weren't the kind you laughed at, they were the kind
you didn't repeat out loud. But to the chosen ones, they
knew what it meant. It meant that when your final
year came, and if your name was on the list, a list no one ever
saw, yet everyone feared you would be summoned.
No one knew who made the list, only that it arrived sealed in
red wax. No sender, no name, just a mark,
a single eye open and watching. You entered at midnight, alone.
You stayed five hours. When you came out, you were
either different, or you never came out at all.
The hallway, 10 doors, 5 left, 5 right, velvet lined walls,
silence that soaked into skin. At the far end, a full length
mirror, seamless still. 5 seniors stood in a line,
barefoot, dressed in black slacks and white undershirts,
holding silver cards with Roman numerals engraved on them.
Leo, sharp as sculpture, dark eyes that devoured praise.
His calm was not peace, it was patience.
Min small, framed, hesitant. A faint scar ran beneath his
left eye, not quite healed, not quite hidden.
Yuki Tanaka, unblinking, unmoving.
A stillness that felt less like silence and more like watching
Ethan rise. Easy smile that never reached
the eyes, one hand always flexing, always needing to do
something. June Park, quiet, observant,
sketchbook cradle like it held his breath.
Ice too intelligent to be ignored.
Only Ethan and June made eye contact.
Leo glanced at Ethan a beat too long, then away.
Min looked down at his shoes. Yuki didn't look anywhere.
The mirror began to hum, and the doors clicked open.
Room 1. Leo.
Leo stepped into the red velvet darkness like a Prince returning
to a throne. He never abdicated.
The room was flawless. To the left, a velvet sofa.
To the right, a crystal tray of unlabeled liquor bottles, their
amber liquid catching the low light.
Next to them, three glass trays of pills.
Leo didn't need any of it, not tonight.
He walked forwards, hands behind his back, expression unreadable.
The boy sat blindfolded, thighs parted slightly, White tank
topped over his chest, red, short, snug hands resting
obediently on his knees. The boy flinched.
Leo smiled. Good, he whispered.
You're scared? The boy didn't pull away.
Leo didn't ask what the boy wanted.
He showed him room 2. Ethan.
The door shut behind him like it's sealed off oxygen.
Ethan exhaled hard, scanned the room, red, still soft.
His eyes fell on the boy, not tight, not panicking, not even
pretending to resist, just seated, calm.
His eyes found the ink, a black snake tattoo wrapped tight
around the boy's upper arm. It shimmered like oil, looked
like it might move if you stared long enough.
Ethan crouched, leaned in, licked it.
The boy didn't react. You enjoying this?
Nothing. No sound.
Ethan froze. You like this?
The boy shifted, only a little, but enough, and that turned him
on. Room 3.
Yuki. Yuki entered like a ghost given
shape. The boy sat in the chair still,
weighed him. Yuki circled once, knelt in
front of him, spoke softly. You're beautiful.
That won't protect you. Then he sat cross legged on the
floor and watched. He didn't blink.
Room 4 min. Min's finger brushed the scar
under his eye as he stepped inside.
The boy was blindfolded, unmoving.
But then a hand reached down, not pleading, just offered.
Min stared at it. You want me?
The hand didn't pull back. Min lowered himself, knelt,
pressed his forehand gently against the boy's chest.
Maybe this time it won't break me.
He didn't move again. Room 5, June, June didn't speak.
He moved in slow, deliberate arcs, circling the boy once,
then again. On the third pass, he stopped
directly behind him, not touching, just listening.
The shallow breath, the slight hitch in the throat, the effort
to seem unaffected. He sat on the floor, sketchbook
in hand. Observe first, break later.
The pencil slid softly across the paper, catching the tilt of
the head, the twist of the shoulder blade, the glint of
sweat on skin. He spoke.
Don't talk. Not a warning, not a rule, just
structure. He stood, walked forward, placed
his fingers at the hem of the boy's shirt and lifted it
slowly. Each inch revealed a line he
would later draw the curve of the ribs.
The light hollowed it. The boy shivered, not violently,
just enough to register. June folded the shirt neatly and
set it beside the chair. No shame in being seen, he
murmured, Only in hiding something I already know.
The boy was aroused. He didn't know why, yet that was
what made it beautiful. June watched not as a man
watching another man, not even like an artist sketching a body.
He watched like the sea watches a storm, calm but endless
beneath. His pencil moved quickly, line
after line, breath after breath. Stop.
The boy froze, shaking. June stood closed his
sketchbook, stepped close. You're not doing this for me, he
whispered. You're doing this because of me,
His voice, soft silk against a knife.
He kissed the edge of the blindfold, just once.
You may finish next time. Then left him trembling,
leaking, unsatisfied. Exactly how June liked them.
12:30 The chime sounded soft and echoing.
Each senior left their room, the door sealed shut behind them
with the soft finality of confession ending, then clicked.
Hidden seams in the walls opened silently and the cleaner stepped
in. 10 of them, sophomores and juniors, barefoot mask, dressed
in Crimson linen robes. No words, no names, no eye
contact. Each emerge from an invisible
panel behind the freshman's chair, a door that only opens
once the seniors are gone. They moved like ritual dancers,
each one assigned to a boy, removing blindfolds momentarily
to wipe sweat from brows, replacing garments with fresh
versions, applying cooling oils to red in skin, adjusting
lighting, repositioning restraints, fluffing the velvet.
Only one cleaner whispered. Next year you'll wear the
gloves. And then the doors sealed again.
No trace left the room. Perfect.
Once more the Hallway, 5 seniors waited in silence, now barefoot
in cold air, shirts slightly wrinkled, eyes reading more than
they said. The mirror stood still.
Yuki was the first to lean against the wall.
He hadn't spoken since they arrived.
June sat a cross legged on the floor, flipping through his
sketchbook. But he wasn't drawing.
Leo catching the reflection of Ethan in the mirror.
Ethan didn't look away. Finally, it was Min who broke
the silence. Yeah, it was good. 4 pairs of
eyes turned towards him. He licked his lips low, like
tasting something old on his tongue.
June looked up. Ethan raised an eyebrow.
You mean? Leo began.
Min nodded. Just once.
Freshman year I said yes, I stayed.
I didn't even know I liked it until I couldn't stop.
His voice didn't crack, but something in his gaze, something
inside the scar under his eye said he wasn't bragging.
He was remembering Min's flashback.
He knelt in the chair, not yet scared.
The blindfolded itched, The air was too warm.
He didn't expect to wanting anything.
He thought he flinch, maybe cry, maybe run, but the boy who
entered had touched him softly, hands on his hips, breath in his
ear. You'll forget everything but the
heat. Min remembered nodding.
He remembered being guided down. He bit his first.
Don't stop. He said.
It was the first time he ever felt chosen.
The other said nothing. Yuki looked at him, not with
judgement, just stillness. Ethan broke the silence.
So you're the one who's done this before?
Min chuckled. Bitter didn't make it easier,
just made it worse. He stood up, Wanting it doesn't
mean you're ready for it. He turned to face the mirror
inside it for just a second. His reflection was smiling, but
Min wasn't. The others lingered near the far
wall. Min was silent again.
Leo sat, stretching his neck. Ethan stepped aside.
June followed, not with footsteps, just presents
suddenly beside him. Ethan didn't turn.
He stared at the closed door. He knew he walked through again
in minutes. You watched me when we walked
out, he said. June said nothing.
You think I don't know that look?
Still silence. Ethan exhaled sharp.
Wasn't like I enjoyed it. He wasn't even reacting.
So what, you're judging me now? June's expression didn't change,
but something in his posture shifted like a held breath.
I didn't judge you. He said I remembered you.
Ethan blinked. What the hell does that mean?
June stepped closer. Their arms brushed, their chest
almost touched. It means I remember who you are
before this place, and I'm trying to figure out who you'll
be when it's over. Ethan's jaw clenched.
If I'm still here? You mean a beat?
You think I won't make it? June didn't answer, the silence
longer than comfort, shorter than mercy, Said everything.
Ethan swallowed, laughed once, loud.
Guess we'll see. June nodded and whispered.
I hope I'm wrong, then. The mirror hummed.
Red Room, Society of Silence, Chapter 2 The hallway had gone
quiet behind him. The others had disappeared, 1 by
1, into the rooms they'd been assigned.
The air shimmered faintly. A mirror at the end of the hall
was humming now, almost gently, like it was remembering
something. Min didn't move.
He was curious because in the glass he saw a face.
The face he never seen four years ago.
The boy who had undone him with a whisper, then disappeared like
he was never real. The boy was looking at him now,
reaching out from the other side of the glass.
Min stepped forward. I always wanted to know who you
were, he whispered. His fingers touched the surface
and it gave away. Just gone.
The mirror returned to stillness.
Room 1 June. He doesn't dominate.
He doesn't seduce. He witness.
The room greeted June exactly as it had before, still red and
reverent. The blindfolded freshman was
already seated when he entered, back straight, fist bawled in
his lap like he was holding something in a breath, a memory,
a need. June said nothing.
He closed the door behind him and placed his sketchbook on the
chair, then walked in slow, deliberate arcs around the boy,
not touching, just listening. The air felt thick, not hot, not
cold, like the room had exhaled and wasn't ready to inhale
again. On the third pass, he stopped
behind the boy, close enough to feel the worms radiating off his
back. Still no words.
He crouched to retrieve his sketchbook.
Then, for the first time in this room, June spoke.
Don't pretend to be brave. The boy twitched, only slightly.
June smiled without showing it. Lift your shirt.
The boy did, hesitant, blindfold still in place.
The tank top rose slowly, exposing A trembling rib cage
and a soft line of muscle underneath.
June knelt in front of him. He didn't touch him yet.
The boy shifted, not backward, but forward.
Not quite an offering, not quite a plea.
June didn't react. He only said keep your hands
where they are and began to draw.
The light hit the boy's skin in perfect arcs.
Time passed slowly and deliberately.
Finally, when he had finished sketching, June stood.
He walked around the boy again, not touching, not teasing, just
studying, measuring. He returned to the door.
Before leaving, he looked once more, not at the boy, but at the
space around him. You may touch yourself after I
leave, but don't finish. He opened the door, paused.
If you do, I'll know. And then June was gone.
The boy sat trembling, unsatisfied, confused, and
maybe, just maybe, a little addicted room to Leo.
The worst submission is the one you volunteer for.
The room was already warm when Leo entered.
The boy was seated blindfolded, calm hands placed neatly on his
side. His red short perfectly pressed,
his white tank top Clintons slightly to his chest with the
faintest Sheen of sweat. Leo shut the door and rolled his
shoulder once. His own shirt, thin ritual
white, was already sticking to his back.
He dragged a hand down his face. This room felt different, thick,
not in temperature, in expectation.
He circled the boy, slow, trying to find what Ethan had seen in
him. He made you mow, didn't he?
No answer, but the boy's chest rose just a little.
Leo stepped in close. One knee brushed the boys.
Still no reaction. The tension made his skin
prickle. What did he do?
Leo asked, voice low. Did he make you beg?
Did he pin you down? Still nothing, not even a nod.
But Leo was already halfway gone, somewhere between
obsession and jealousy. Do it, do it to me like he did
to you, he muttered. It wasn't a command, it was a
surrender. That was when the boy moved.
Not suddenly, just with purpose. He stood silently and faced Leo
even through the blindfold, like he could see him.
His hand rose slowly, deliberately, to Leo's waist.
Leo didn't stop him. Leo raised his arm without
thinking. Then the boy dropped to his
knees. There was no performance, no
ceremony. Firm, certain.
Leo gasped. Not from the touch, from not
being asked. He wasn't being punished.
He was being remembered. Each motion echoed Ethan's
brutality. It was quieter now, more
measured, and that's what made it worse.
When it ended, he simply stepped back, adjusted Leo's waistband,
sat again, hands folded. Leo turned to face him, still
blindfolded as if nothing had happened.
Room 3. Ethan.
Control was never the point, He just didn't know how to be
touched. The door shut softly behind him.
Ethan stood there a little longer than necessary.
The freshman inside wasn't who he expected.
Smaller, softer, looking blindfolded like the elders,
seated calmly, his hand folded in his lap.
He looked like he had a mood since being placed.
Ethan blinked. No heat, no fire, just
stillness. He approached.
The boy, didn't react, not like last time, the one who'd gone
stiff and silent until Ethan forced a sound out of him.
This one, just breathe. He didn't say anything, and then
the boy leaned forward, slowly, carefully, like he was trying to
understand Ethan's shape through the air alone.
Ethan didn't stop him. A hand brushed his knee, a palm
rested on his thigh, because this time he wanted to be
touched without question. He didn't hide.
The boy didn't speak. Ethan closed his eyes, there was
no performance, no manipulation, just presence.
The boy tilted his head as if listening.
But Ethan has left the room. Room 4.
Yuki Tanaka stillness isn't surrender, it's calculation.
Yuki entered the room like a shadow, No noise, no wasted
movement, just the sound of the door latching softly behind him
and his bare feet crossing the cool floor.
The freshman sat in the chair like the rest, tent top pressed
flat, red shorts folded perfectly at the knee, blindfold
secured, still patient, probably rehearsing fear.
Yuki didn't speak. He didn't touch the tray of
objects by the wall. He didn't glance at the couch.
He walked forward, stood directly in front of the boy,
and crouched. The air between them crackled.
Was a silence too heavy to be called peace?
Yuki raised one hand. 2 fingers touched the boy's knee.
The boy twitched. Not enough to retreat, just
enough to register. Yuki tilted his head, examining
the fabric, the line of the skin, the place where body meets
restraint. Lift your shirt.
He said, a whisper, almost disappointed.
The boy obeyed. Yuki watched.
Lower it. The boy complied.
Turn. The chair squeaked slightly as
the boy turned his back. Yuki stepped behind him, ran 2
fingers up the curve of the spine through the cotton tank.
Still nothing. Still no mark.
He crouched again. Yuki exhaled, almost silently.
Not you, He whispered. He stepped back, left the shorts
where they were, walked down the door.
Before leaving, he glanced once more, not at the boy, but at his
own reflection in the mirror mounted on the wall.
It didn't move, but Yuki's own voice echoed softly as he left.
Yuki left the room with his face unreadable.
At the end of the corridor. The mirror pulsed once, just
once, a barely visible ripple along its surface, like someone
had breathed against it from the other side.
Yuki stared at it. No one was watching him, and yet
the mirror felt like it was. He stepped toward it.
The hum grew deeper, as if resonating with something inside
him, something he hadn't given permission to be found.
His hand lifted almost against his will.
He touched the surface. It rippled, and then it pulled.
His body lurched forward, his heels dragging.
His hand clawed at the edge of the frame, but the mirror was
stronger. It didn't RIP him in.
It invited him so completely. His residence came too late.
His scream twisted into a silent shape behind the glass.
His face, for a single searing moment, was reflected in perfect
clarity, eyes wide, mouse open, fingers reaching.
Then he was gone. The mirror stilled, but no one
ever heard him. Room 5.
The boy who waited. The chair was cold.
The freshman in Room 5 had sat still for a long as he could.
At first he thought it was part of the game, part of the
anticipation, but as minutes passed and passed and passed, he
realized no one was coming. But when the silence got too
loud, he folded and curled into himself and waited for something
to break the silence. Nothing did.
Red Room. Society of Silence Chapter 3 The
mirror hums louder. It had started softly, like
breath behind glass, but now the mirror was humming again,
louder. The hallway pulsed with it. 3
seniors remained, 3 cards, 3 doors.
Two were already gone. The Red Room was no longer
pretending to wait. Room 1, waiting freshman.
The hallway was silent behind the first door.
No senior, just a boy waiting in the room.
The boy sat still. No one came.
No footsteps, no echo, no hum. He smiled, relieved.
For once, not being chosen was freedom.
He leaned his head back and breathed.
Room 2 June. The sketchbook was open, the
pencil in his hand. June moved like he always did.
Smooth, deliberate, just detached enough to study without
being drawn in. He sketched hundreds of bodies,
dozens of vases, but never his own.
Not out of vanity, out of fear. But this time, the boy moved
first. He reached up, grabbed the
sketchbook and stepped forward. June blinked.
He never gave it up, but his fingers let go.
The freshman turned him around, guided him gently, pushed him to
sit on the velvet sofa, his shirt lifted.
He wasn't restrained, wasn't commended, just observed.
The freshman began to draw, not with hesitation, with reverence.
June sat back, breasts uneven, eyes wide.
June looked down, trembling. The sketchbook was handed back,
still warm, still open. June turned towards the mirror,
whispered. Is this what you wanted?
The mirror did not answer, but it didn't hum either.
For June, it simply watched Room 3, Leo.
And while the mirror watched June, another door clicked open.
The freshman didn't know how long he'd been sitting.
Time didn't work here, not inside these red walls.
His blindfold itched, his shorts clung to his thighs.
He couldn't tell if it was sweat or just fear.
No instructions, no footsteps, just a mirror humming on the
other side of the wall. He couldn't see it, but he could
feel it. He sat up straight, shoulders
tense, knees close. Not for readiness, from
restraint. Leo entered, slow, deliberate.
He didn't rush to the boy, didn't speak.
Instead, he stood at the edge of the room, hands clenched behind
his back, eyes tracing the lines of the freshman's body like he
was trying to see something Ethan left behind.
The boy sat still, blindfolded, barely breathing, but Leo saw
it. He moved closer, not to
dominate, not yet to compare. The boy was untouched, at least
it looked that way, but something about the way he held
still, like he was waiting for deja vu, made Leo's stomach not.
He crouched, one hand resting on his own knee, close enough to
feel the heat of the boy's skin. He didn't know why it made him
angry, but it did, quietly, more to the silence than to the boy.
What did Ethan do to you? No response, just breath and
stillness. Leo's jaw tightened, the calm
burned. He stepped in.
The boy's scent hit him, faint oil, sweat like a lab.
Something in Leo's stomach flipped.
He remembered. He remembered.
Not the room, not this red silence.
But three winters ago, the campus was half dead over break.
Leo elected that way. Less noise, fewer eyes, just him
and whatever didn't want to be found.
He stopped by the camp building that night.
He knew Ethan had a lab key. Everyone knew Ethan was pre Med
biocamp, dead serious about it. Top scores, no distractions.
But that night Leo had seen the lights on in the lower laps.
He wasn't snooping, not at first.
Then he heard something soft. Not words, just breath.
He moved to the side window, didn't enter, just watch.
Ethan was alone, sitting on the floor in front of an open
drawer, Hans cradling a photo. A man shirtless, sun too bright
behind him. Ethan stared at it like it hurt
to look, then wiped a tear quick.
Leo didn't move, didn't breathe too loud.
He just watched Ethan do what Ethan never did in front of
other people. It only lasted a second, but Leo
never forgot, because it wasn't the control that drew him in.
It was the glitch, the proof that Ethan wasn't built
different. He was just good at hiding the
cracks. Back in the room, the boy leaned
forward. No, a slap, not cruel, just
breaking, forced him down onto the couch, Eyes wide, blindfold
tight. He hesitated, just for breath,
but he need to feel something real.
Pressed one hand to his throat and he moved forward, rough with
need, held the throat the entire time.
When he pulled away and saw the boy's face, his hand lifted.
The neck was slack, the body limp.
The mirror hummed louder than it ever had, but deep, low growl
from the wall. Leo backed away, stumbled,
opened the door, and ran. He didn't make it far. 2 figures
in Crimson robes waited in the hallway, cleaners silent,
expressionless. They didn't grab him, just
walked forward until he had no choice but to turn back.
They closed the door behind him. A thin line of blood slid out
from under the door. Inside the room, there was no
screen, no thrashing, no pleading.
Just a final click. But then the silence boomed.
The mirror didn't shatter. It shimmered like breath fogging
on cold glass. Then two faces, side by side,
one slack jawed, one wide eyed, both caught in the precise
instant between knowing and regret.
And on the floor outside the frame, just a line, still red,
still moving. Room 4.
Ethan. He didn't look at the boy,
didn't speak, didn't approach. Ethan sat by the side table,
poured himself a drink, dark amber, no label.
Then another for the boy. Then another, and another.
The freshman drank because he was told to.
Ethan didn't watch him, didn't touch him, just kept pouring.
He raised his glass towards the boy.
Even the boy couldn't see. Then drank alone.
The hum returned. He stood up, left his glass,
didn't look back. He walked to the door, opened
it, and paused. The mirror was waiting, just
watching. He shut the door behind him.
Inside the room, the boy lay slumped unconscious.
Maybe worse. On the table, Ethan's half
finished drink, the cleaners behind the wall, the walls
whispered behind velvet. A seamless door slid open
sideways, revealing a narrow corridor lit by faint red floor
glow. 5 pairs of Crimson robed figures stood silently.
They didn't speak, except one. The red haired boy stepped
forward. 3 down. He whispered.
The youngest looked up, expression unreadable.
The red haired boy stepped into a scene.
The others followed, vanishing one pair at a time.
Room 5, The one who waited two hours.
No touch, no voice. Still no one.
When the door opened, it wasn't a senior, it was a cleaner. 2
They studied him, checked his eyes, straightened his clothes.
The door closed. The boys sat alone, silent.
The hallway, two people stepped out, June and Ethan.
June holds a sketchbook, the one the freshman handed back.
He hasn't fully looked, not until now.
As they stepped into the hush of the corridor.
He glances down and sees himself beside him.
Ethan walks in silence. He Glens his sideway.
June is staring at the sketchbook like it's a mirror
he's not ready to face. Ethan step closer, just enough
to see the drawing. June snaps the book shut too
fast. Ethan raises an eyebrow, almost
says something but doesn't. The silence stretches, not
uncomfortable, just alert. Red Room Society of Silence
Chapter 4 The hallway. Only two cards remain, 2 doors,
and for the first time in hours, neither opens right away.
Ethan leans against the wall near Room 5, not pacing, not
impatient, just waiting. June arrives seconds later.
His sketchbook is closed, fingers brushing the covers like
it itches. They lock eyes too long.
Ethan speaks first, calm, unreadable.
You don't look tired. June shrugs.
You don't look surprised. I'm not.
Silence settles. Not cold, but practiced.
June glances towards the sealed doors, his voice low. 3 hours, 2
left Ethan without turning. Silence always wins.
June steps a little closer, not intimate, just closer.
You always like that part, the hush, the rules.
You liked breaking them. Something flickers, not quite a
smile, not quite a wound. June tilt his head.
Think they knew it'd be us. Ethan doesn't pause.
They always knew. Then a chime down the corridor.
A cleaner appears, silent, waiting.
June starts walking as he brushes past Ethan.
He murmurs. Don't die in that room.
Ethan watches him go, then answers just loud enough.
Don't vanish in yours. The doors open.
Room 1 and 2. Room 1 stayed quiet.
The longer the silence stretched, the more certain he
became he had been spared. But Room 2 was no longer holding
back. The door opened, not for a
senior, for 2 Crimson robed figures.
Inside, the boy was already standing, as if the mirror had
given him instructions no one else could hear.
One cleaner step forward. No clipboard, no question, just
a folded robe placed gently into his hands.
The second cleaner spoke, barely above a whisper.
The mirrors finished with you. No hesitation as he passed
between them, a spiral of ink, coiled and delicate, like a
secret that had always known. It's timing.
Not a mark of punishment, a mark of completion.
He didn't speak, didn't turn, but as the robe slipped over his
shoulders, one cleaner murmured, so soft it was almost a breath.
It remembers who served. And just like that, he stepped
beyond the threshold, not vanished, Released.
The hallway held its breath, and the mirror stayed very, very
still. Room 3, June.
The door cracked open, slow, like breath drawn through teeth.
June stepped inside. Room 3 no longer smelled like
skin or sweat. The mirror hum.
No grief left hanging in the velvet.
Just bleach. 2 Crimson robe figures stood inside.
One adjusted the couch cushions with clinical care.
The other wiped the last Crimson Trace from the corner of the
floor, each motion practiced, unflinching.
June didn't speak, didn't ask what had happened.
He already knew. One cleaner looked up, met his
gaze, and nodded once. This room no longer remembers.
The second gestured silently toward the hallway.
Follow. He did not because he was told,
because something in him was too hollow now to refuse.
The door opened before they touched it.
One cleaner step aside, voice low and certain.
This one still holds something. Then they left.
June stood alone at the threshold, sketchbook in one
hand, control in the other, both slipping, and as he stepped
forward, memory opened wider than the door.
Four years earlier, before there were robes, before Simon grew
teeth, there were five boys. White tank tops, red shorts.
Too much curiosity. The room was smaller back then.
Or maybe they were just younger. The same velvet, the same
mirror, but less knowing. They stood in a loose circle.
June, Ethan. Min, Leo, and Yuki each
pretending this was just some test.
Leo laughed nervously, the sound a little too loud.
Yuki chimed in, voice flat. Secret society, maybe?
I heard the student council president did this first.
Ethan frowned. He was already analyzing.
Yeah. Then where's the hazing?
No beer cans, no screaming, just velvet.
Min spoke quietly, eyes flicking toward the mirror.
I don't like the humming. They all paused.
Then, as if summoned, the hum returned, soft, deep, felt more
in the chest than in the ears. June didn't speak.
He just stared at the mirror like he already suspected the
truth, like part of him already knew what he became.
One by one, they signed the invitation cards.
No confetti, no ceremony, just ink.
A moment too quiet. Then they lifted the blindfolds.
Min was the first to slip his on, then Yuki, then Leo, then
Ethan. June took the longest, but when
he tied it, he tied it tight. Room 4 June, the door sealed
behind him. Soft, certain, absolute.
Room 4 exhaled A heavier silence.
Not emptiness, but aftermath. The room reeked faintly of
alcohol. He crossed the room and sat in
the sofa. The sketchbook was still open in
his hand, the page still warm at the vision of himself captured
by someone else's. His hand trace the page, his
belt loosens. Instinct not performance.
One hand on paper, the other slipping lower, just the quiet
catching up to him. Then he stops, because the
mirror shimmers. No hum, no glow, just awareness.
And in that silence, he whispers, not to the boy, to
himself. I didn't think I could still be
drawn. The cleaners in the hallway, 2
Crimson row figures glide past. Room for the other leans in,
voice low. They all been touched now.
The younger glances back, no retouch needed.
The other listens, not to the sound, but something deeper.
Another pause. What happens?
When to remember? The younger ask.
They'll make space for only one to walk out, The other replies.
They move on toward the last door.
Quiet door, Room 5. Ethan.
The door shuts behind him, soft, final.
Ethan steps into the velvet drenched quiet.
The boy is there exactly as he was two hours ago, blindfolded
and still, but not afraid. There's no brace, no tension.
Ethan watches longer than he means to, because this boy, he
didn't resist, didn't obey, didn't flinch or fold or
perform. He just existed, like the room
itself. Ethan kneels, not because he
must, because he doesn't know how else to begin.
Then contact, gentle, steady, human.
The boy exhales, not relief, not submission, just
acknowledgement. Ethan shift closer, not looming
but leaning, letting his body shape to the voice.
The couch groan softly beneath them.
Their knees touch. His hand brushes the boy's ribs,
bare, warm and breathing, and something inside Ethan, the part
that used to be all tease and control, goes still.
No whispers, no orders, no games.
He closes his eyes and for the first time in hours, he doesn't
want to win. He just wants to be forgiven.
He doesn't say it, but the boy stillness answers anyway.
Ethan excels, slow, unguarded. Four years earlier, Back then,
the Red Room was colder, brighter.
Before the velvet soaked up everything, The ritual had
ended. White blindfolds tossed aside
tank tops, wrinkled knees aching from velvet floors.
Ethan remembered sitting alone, shoulders against a far wall,
trying to breathe normal again, trying to act like it hadn't
changed him. Min was curled up in the corner,
arms around his knees, not crying, just still.
Leo and Yuki were silent too, staring at their hands like the
answers were supposed to be written there.
But it was June. Ethan watched.
Ethan hated him for that. Calm, or maybe envy did.
He reached out, just a brush of fingers against June's arm.
Nothing dramatic, nothing staged, just real.
June looked down at the touch, then up, smiled, and in that
second Ethan understood something.
He couldn't admit back then, that June hadn't been calm.
He'd been holding it in, and Ethan had wanted to be 1, to
break him. Not violently, not cruelly, just
deeply. Back then, he didn't have the
words, didn't have the mirror to show him, didn't have the boy in
this room now, teaching him what Con Zen actually feels like now.
He exhales again, still rustling against the boy's shoulder,
still unspeaking, but different, because the past was gone, and
tonight it was finally catching up the corridor.
June steps out of Room 4, the sketchbook clutch tight to his
chest, closed. This time, his hands shake just
slightly. Down the corridor, Ethan exits
room 5. He doesn't look shaken, but he's
not steady either. He walks slower than usual, like
the room left something inside him he's still trying to name.
They lock eyes across the hallway, not close, not far.
June speaks first, dry, quiet. You still leave the glass half
full. Ethan stops the faintest twitch
of a smile. You used to finish it for me.
Their gazes hold no footsteps, no movement, just breath,
shallow and deliberate. June lowers his eyes first, then
glances at the mirror. You think it's choosing?
Ethan follows his gaze. It already did.
A pause then, June's voice softer now.
Four years ago. You think it saw us?
Ethan doesn't blink. It never stopped.
Their hands don't reach, their feet don't step forward.
And somewhere behind the velvet, the mirror listens.
Red Room, Society of Silence, Chapter 5.
The final name. The mirror didn't hum anymore.
It breezed a breast that filled the corridor, pressing against
velvet skin and the stone walls that have been seen too much.
The hour of ending had come. No more choices, no more
illusion of control. Where once there were five, now
only two remained, and the mirror was no longer watching.
It was remembering the hallway. The air was heavier now.
Ethan stood at the edge of Room 1's door.
His hands were too still, his eyes fixed ahead, seem more than
he wanted to. At the far end, June stood near
Room 5, sketchbook clutch to his side like a relic.
Skin cooling, breath shallow, their gaze met across the
velvet. Hush, not accusing, only
understanding. Neither spoke what was left to
say. Then a sound, and the mirror
exiled again. June's voice came first, soft,
as if afraid to break the air. Last hour.
Ethan nodded, voice low, dry. The rooms already decided.
A pause, not of hesitation, but recognition.
June took a slow step forward, not toward Ethan, not toward any
door, just closer to the truce hanging between them.
You still think we're walking out of this?
Ethan mouth twitched, not a smile, a memory of one.
We are already inside it. The doors unlatched 2 at once,
and the mirror patient endless waited for the final breath.
Room 1, Ethan. The door sealed behind him,
soft, final, certain. Velvet swallowed.
The sound, the doubt, the hesitation.
The boy was waiting, blindfolded.
He thought it would be another empty hour.
No footsteps, no touch. His guard had slipped.
His hand moved, reaching, not pleading, not inviting, just
tired of the dark, that small human gesture.
Crack something in the Ethan. He stepped forward, slow, let
his hand hover over the boys and then contact, fingers brushing,
palms aligning. The boy exhaled, soft, like
relief that didn't expect to be heard.
Ethan knelt, his breath quickened.
His hand tightened over the boys.
You're my price, he thought, but didn't say.
He moved closer. His other hand traced the boy's
throat, jaw, the edge of the blindfold.
The boy didn't flinch, didn't lean, just stayed.
That steadiness unraveled. Ethan, his mouse, found the
boy's throat not to hurt, to taste.
Slow at first, then harder, marking skin with breath, with
tongue, with need. His hand moved down, deliberate,
and there, in the hush of the room, he took.
Not cruel, not tender like victory earned, like proving to
himself he could. When it was over, when he pulled
back, breathless, spent, he felt it.
The win, the proof, the claim. The freshman beneath him had
folded just enough, had given him the reaction he craved, and
yet it wasn't enough. It tasted thin, it tasted old,
it tasted like everything the mirror had been feeding him, but
nothing he actually needed. He stepped back, fixed his
clothes, left the boy as he found him.
Flashback The beach four years ago, the Saltair, the way the
sun made June skin glow gold, fragile.
June laughing, breathless. I can't, Ethan said.
Not cruel, not cold, just done. June's smile faltered.
What do you mean? Ethan looked at him, really
looked. The men who saw him, the men who
drew him. And that was the problem.
June didn't reach for him, didn't beg.
He just sat in the sand like the tide had already pulled him
under. The photo, the one Leo once saw,
was taken right after rooms 2-3 and four, the rooms that
remembered nothing. Room two opened first.
Inside, nothing. No boy, no breath, no waiting.
Velvet undisturbed, a chair offered but never claimed.
Stillness so complete it felt unnatural. 2 Crimson robed
cleaners stepped in. Their feet made no sound. 1
paused in the doorway, listening for a trace of heat, of breath,
of anything. The other moved to the center,
adjusted A cushion that didn't need straightening, smoothed
fabric that hadn't been touched. They left together.
The door closed behind them, a click that felt like a sigh.
Room 3's door creaked open like an old confession.
The air smelled faintly of bleach, of steel, of memory to
carefully wiped clean. Two more Crimson shapes entered.
This room remembers nothing. One said, as if speaking had
made it true. The other lingered by the
mirror, watch their blurred shaping glass that reflected
nothing back. The room was perfect again, Too
perfect. They left the door shut.
The lock turned. Room for the room that hadn't
decided what to forget. The air was heavy, stale, was
drink sour, was carelessness. The boy was still there, red,
short loosened, lips parted, breasts shallow. 2 cleaners
approached. One touched his wrist, counted
beats alive. The other lifted his hand
gently, wiped his brow with a cloth that smelled of clean
things, things the room had long lost.
Together, they helped him stand his feet on shore, his body
planked adrift between sleep and memory.
They let him through the hidden door, the one only cleaners
knew, that swallowed boys whole. And speed out, no question.
One of the cleaners glanced back at the glass on the table, at
the shadow of the couch. It's easier to clean, he said
softly, then to take the chair. No reply.
They straighten. What?
What's left? The door sealed, the lock
engaged. A final click, sharp as a
closing eye, and the light went out.
Room 5 June. The door closed behind him.
Soft. Sure, the velvet seemed thicker.
Heavy was memory. Heavy was everything June had
tried to control. The boy waited, blindfolded,
still not braced, not folded, just waiting.
June froze, sketchbook in one hand, control in the other, both
slipping. He stepped forward, slow,
deliberate, until he could feel the boy's breath between them.
He didn't touch him, didn't speak.
Then June lifted his gaze to the mirror.
It watched. It always watched, and for the
first time, he asked, a whisper, a plea he hadn't meant to make.
Will you let him draw me? The mirror shimmered.
June's fingers trembled as he united the blindfold on the boy.
The clothes felt soft as breast into the boy's lap.
The boy blinked, adjusting not too light but to possibility.
Flashback 4 years ago. June had it meant for it to get
this far. The kiss was too fierce, too
hungry. The cup of pencils clattered to
the floor, and the sketchbook, the one he'd been working on
before Ethan arrived, slipped. The pages fell open, spilling
across the floor. June froze.
He saw Ethan's gaze drop. Ethan Crouch and reaching for
the page like he found treasure. You drew me.
His voice was low, almost gentle, and that made it worse.
June's hands move fast, sweeping the drawings into a pile.
His fingers shook. Can I draw you?
June looked up, and the word was out before he could stop it.
Sharp, final, no Later, June would remember this night, how
Ethan had looked at him like he was something to be understood,
How the sketches on the floor had felt like confessions he had
meant to make, and how saying no had felt like the only way to
survive that moment. But also the start of losing
Ethan in ways that would haunt him long after June placed a
sketchbook in his hands. I don't want to hold it anymore.
No command, no seduction, just truth.
The boy raised the pencil, steady, sure.
June sat down, took off his shirt, let himself be seen.
The pencil moved. June felt it, the rise, the
warmth, the heat. Not from touch, from being seen.
When the boy offered the sketchbook back, June stared at
it. There he was, not the June he
tried to control, the June that room had always seen undone,
aroused, human. And still, it wasn't enough.
The hallway, the doors to Room 5, close behind Drum.
From the far end, Room 1's door opened.
Ethan stepped out, slower than he meant to, like each step cost
him more than he expected. Their eyes met, and for a moment
they both thought they'd be the last.
June looked of him. Ethan's jaw tightened, but he
couldn't hide the break in his eyes, a bitter half smile.
I saw it. You let him draw you.
Is that how you win now? June didn't flinch, didn't
argue. No, he said, and this time his
voice was almost gentle. I just stopped hiding.
Ethan's breast caught, like he hated how much that landed.
And then the space between them vanished.
June's hands gripped Ethan's shirt, fingers curling tight in
the fabric as their kiss deepened, like trying to undo
four years of silence in a single moment.
Ethan's hand trembled at June's sides.
Not from passion, from everything he hadn't said,
everything he thought he buried. And then June broke the kiss,
just enough to look at him, to really look at him.
Ethan's eyes. They weren't hungry anymore.
And with that, he pushed Ethan back.
Ethan's shoulders hit the mirror like the room itself was
catching him, and for a breathless second, both of them
stared at that reflection, Ethan's eyes wide with horror.
The kind that comes too late, The kind that sees what's been
done and knows it can't be undone.
And the mirror, it took it all in.
It fed, silent and patient, because this, this was what it
had been waiting for. The campus. 9:00 in the morning.
Students moved in clusters, backpacks swinging, voices loud.
Among them walked a boy, dark curls unruly from sleep, skin
sun warmed. His feature bore the soft angles
of the Middle East, browse knit in thought, mouth set as if
holding back a question he hadn't dared to ask.
He moved slower than the rest, not lost, just listening, as if
word was telling a story only he could hear.
His gaze flickered across the quad min beneath the oak, a
sandwich untouched, staring at nothing, as if his hunger had
been replaced by memory. Yuki on the library steps, a
book open in his lap, but his eyes miles beyond the pages,
watching for what no one else could see.
And then two seniors passed nearby, Ethan among them.
His shirt was rumpled as hid. He dressed in a hurry.
The friend walked close, voice lowered but urgent.
You hear about it yet? Ethan didn't look at him.
About what? The crash early this morning,
out past the main road. They're saying Leo, freshman.
A pause. Ethan stride faltered just
slightly. Dead.
He asked, voice careful, Too careful.
His friend hesitated. No one's saying it, but yeah.
The boy, the one watching, slowed his steps.
He didn't mean to eavesdrop, but the words clung to him, Crash
dead. Ethan didn't speak again, just
kept walking, faster now. His friend followed later.
The boy we've been following closed his dorm room door,
peeled off his shirt, and there it was, a folded cart.
The red wax cracked. The seal mark was a single
watching I. You stayed through the first
choice, through every room, through the final hour.
Thank you for stepping inside. This had been Red Broom Society
of Silence.