Kota hesitated in the hallway for only a second after Theo and Grayson bolted past him, their shouts echoing down the corridor as they chased after Beckett. Confusion still buzzed in his head like static—the fresh bite mark on his neck throbbed with every heartbeat, a sharp little reminder that something deeply weird had just happened—but curiosity (or maybe sheer bewilderment) won out over self-preservation. He rubbed the mark once more, wincing at the tenderness, then followed the sound of their voices.
He caught up to them at the top of a secondary staircase tucked behind a discreet panel in the wall—one he hadn't even noticed earlier. The stairs descended sharply into shadow, lit only by strips of dark purple LED that ran along the edges of each step like veins. The air grew cooler as they went down, carrying a faint metallic tang mixed with incense—sandalwood, maybe, or something earthier. Theo and Grayson were already halfway down, still arguing in hushed, urgent tones.
"—can't just drag him off like that! He's not one of your aura toys, Beckett!" Theo's voice cracked with worry.
Grayson snorted. "Let him have his fun. Maybe Kota likes being manhandled by the family weirdo. Stranger things have happened today." (hhehe see what ive did there)
Kota reached the bottom step and froze.
The basement room stretched out before him like something carved from a fever dream. The walls were matte black, absorbing light except where the purple LEDs glowed in thin, pulsing lines that traced geometric patterns across the floor and ceiling—spirals, interlocking triangles, symbols he didn't recognize. A massive four-poster bed dominated the center, draped in black silk sheets and surrounded by low tables covered in crystals: amethyst points, obsidian spheres, clusters of clear quartz that caught the purple light and refracted it into eerie violet sparks. Incense burned in brass holders shaped like grinning skulls, thin trails of smoke curling upward. A single black velvet chaise sat against one wall, and above it hung a large inverted pentagram made of polished onyx, suspended by thin silver chains.
Beckett stood in the middle of it all, now wearing a long black robe that hung open at the chest, revealing the same slightly tanned skin still glistening faintly from the pool. Around his neck dangled a heavy silver skull pendant, its empty eye sockets seeming to stare directly at Kota. The robe's hood was pushed back, exposing damp platinum and black hair that fell in messy strands across his forehead. He looked less like a naked pool lounger now and more like the high priest of some underground cult—calm, unblinking, utterly at ease in the dim violet glow.
Grayson let out a low whistle. "Well, damn. First time in weeks you've worn clothes, little bro. I was starting to think you'd forgotten how zippers work."
Beckett didn't react. He didn't even glance at Grayson. His blank gaze fixed solely on Kota. One pale hand lifted, finger extended again—same commanding point he'd used in the kitchen.
"Sit."
He indicated the bed.
Kota blinked. "Uh… what?"
Theo stepped forward quickly, placing a hand on Kota's arm. "Beckett, no. He's not—whatever this is, he's not doing it. Come on, Kota, let's go back upstairs."
Beckett moved faster than Kota expected. In two fluid steps he closed the distance, both hands cupping Kota's face. His fingers were cool from the pool water, thumbs pressing under Kota's jaw to tilt his head up. Kota stiffened, breath catching as Beckett examined him—tilting his face left, then right, studying every angle like a jeweler inspecting a gem. The skull pendant swung forward, cold metal brushing Kota's chest through his hoodie. Beckett's expression remained utterly blank, but his eyes—visible now behind the lowered sunglasses—were wide, pupils dilated in the low light.
"You shall be my toy," Beckett said, voice soft and flat, like he was reading from a script only he could see. "The rest of you may leave."
The room exploded.
Theo's hand tightened on Kota's arm. "Absolutely not! Beckett, let him go right now!"
Grayson laughed, but it sounded forced. "Toy? Really? You're taking the cult aesthetic a little too seriously, kid. He's not your plaything."
Beckett ignored them both. His grip on Kota's face didn't waver, but his other hand slid down to capture Kota's wrist—fingers wrapping tight, nails digging into the skin hard enough to sting. Kota winced, a small sound escaping before he could stop it, but he didn't pull away. Something about Beckett's calm intensity pinned him in place.
Theo's voice rose. "Beckett! I said let go!"
Grayson stepped forward. "Yeah, back off, aura boy. You're freaking him out."
Beckett's lips curved upward. It was meant to be a smile—probably—but the expression landed somewhere between serene and deeply unhinged, more rictus than warmth. His eyes never left Kota's.
Then he leaned in and licked a slow, deliberate lick up the side of Kota's face—wet, warm, tasting faintly of chlorine. Kota flinched, but Beckett's grip held him steady. The lick ended at his ear, followed by a low, invigorated moan that vibrated through Kota's skull.
Theo made a strangled noise. "What the hell—"
Grayson stared. "Okay, that's… new."
Beckett released Kota's face abruptly, turned on his heel, and walked to one of the low tables. He began rearranging the crystals with manic precision—moving an amethyst point three inches left, rotating a quartz cluster forty-five degrees, muttering softly to himself in a language that sounded half-made-up. His robe slipped off one shoulder as he worked, exposing more of his back.
Theo grabbed Kota's other arm. "We're leaving. Now."
Grayson nodded vigorously. "Yeah. This is officially too weird, even for us."
They started dragging Kota toward the stairs, but Beckett's voice cut through the air—still calm, still flat.
"Dismissed."
Theo and Grayson froze. They exchanged a look—half fear, half resignation—then released Kota's arms. Without another word, they turned and hurried up the stairs, footsteps echoing until the door at the top clicked shut behind them.
Kota stood alone in the violet-lit room with Beckett.
The youngest Hawthorne finished adjusting a final crystal, then walked back to Kota. He knelt gracefully in front of him—robe pooling around his knees like spilled ink—and looked up. Kota's heart slammed against his ribs. He took an instinctive step back, palms raised.
"Look, man, I'm… I'm really tired. Like, really tired. I don't know what this is, but I can't—I'm not up for anything else today. Please, just… stop."
Beckett tilted his head, expression still blank. He raised both hands, fingers forming a series of quick, precise signs—arcs and circles in the air. Then one finger extended toward Kota's waistband and began tracing slow, deliberate circles around the button of his jeans.
Kota's stomach dropped. "No—Beckett, seriously, I'm begging you. I can't—"
But Beckett didn't touch him. He simply finished the circle, stood up smoothly, and turned away. His voice drifted back over his shoulder, soft and emotionless.
"Dismissed."
He walked to the far side of the room and resumed rearranging crystals, humming faintly to himself.
Kota stood frozen for several long seconds, pulse roaring in his ears. Then he backed toward the stairs, never taking his eyes off Beckett's robed back. He climbed quickly, heart hammering, and shoved through the door at the top.
The hallway felt blindingly normal after the violet basement—soft daylight, normal art on the walls, the faint scent of whatever Austin was cooking next. Kota leaned against the wall for a moment, breathing hard, hand pressed to the bite mark on his neck that still throbbed in time with his heartbeat.
He stared at the closed door behind him, then muttered to the empty hallway:
"What the fuck is this bitch doing?"