“PRIDE” | Chapter Excerpt

No matter how hard he tried, Seth couldn’t scrub the image of Dante’s corpse from his mind. It returned like a haunting jolt—except this time, the horror was real.

He needed to sweat it out. Burn it away. While the others headed to The Monastery for overpriced cocktails and shirtless distractions—exactly the kind of thing Dante would’ve eaten up—Seth slipped away to the gym.

“Getting a quick pump in before tonight,” he’d said.

No one was really listening. They never did. Especially not Felix. Now that Noah was back, Seth barely existed.

The shopping plaza at Sunset and Crescent Heights was quieter than usual. A chill ran up his spine as he stepped out of the elevator from the subterranean garage. The air felt stale and metallic, as though the hallway hadn’t exhaled in hours. What was normally a buzzing space—couples headed to movies, walk-ins getting last-minute haircuts—was eerily still. A few shops had closed early for Pride weekend, their neon signs flickering faintly in the slow dusk.

Seth jogged up the escalator, hoodie up, earbuds in, already half-disconnected.

At the entrance to Crunch, one of the staff members was just pulling the glass door closed.

“Can I squeeze in here?” Seth asked, tilting his head in that calculated, harmless way that usually worked.

The guy—Tad, according to his name tag—sighed and rolled his eyes. He stepped aside and waved him in. “We close in thirty minutes.”

“More than enough,” Seth said with a tight smile, slipping past.

As he entered, he glanced back and saw Tad lock the door and pull the string on the neon OPEN sign. The glow went dark.

Normally, an empty gym was a relief. Fewer people to compare himself to. Less imagined judgment. But with the memory of Dante’s suspended body pressing in, Seth couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was watching.

Thirty minutes suddenly felt too long.

He flew through his workout—quick sets, sharp form, just enough of a pump to stretch his shirt. No rest. Just motion. Just sweat.

Bending to return his dumbbells, he caught a flicker in the mirror’s corner. A shape, low and moving. A shadow sliding past.

Seth startled. One weight slipped and hit the mat with a heavy thud, just missing his foot.

He spun around. Nothing. No one.

The gym stood still, bathed in artificial light. Machines idle. Mirrors warped and reflecting only absence.

“Calm down,” he muttered. “You’re letting Noah’s crazy theory get in your head.”

He turned to the cable machine, positioning himself with his back to the front desk. Pull. Release. Pull. Release. His arms throbbed in that satisfying way, veins rising beneath the lights.

In the mirror, fragmented through reflective angles, he could just make out the reception area behind him.

At first, it looked normal—Tad’s workstation glowing faintly, overhead lights steady.

Then something moved behind the counter.

Seth didn’t flinch. Probably Tad stretching, checking his phone.

But the shape moved again.

Deliberate. Large. Not Tad.

An arm—thick and gloved—reached out from behind the counter.

Tad’s head snapped back.

Seth let go of the cable. The weight clanged forward. He adjusted his stance and shook out his arms, refusing to look again.

Behind him, the lights above the front desk flickered once. Then held steady.

He checked his phone. Ten minutes until closing. Still no texts.

“Shocker,” he muttered.

He gathered his things and headed toward the locker room. A stack of folded towels waited on the counter. He grabbed one without noticing the thin trail of blood seeping slowly behind it, dripping down the cabinet’s edge.

The gym felt hollow—scooped out and left to echo.

In the locker room, he tossed his belongings on the bench outside the steam room. He stripped, wrapped the towel around his waist, and adjusted the wall thermostat until the steamer hissed to life.

The room was tight enough to feel personal, big enough to require a sign warning against fooling around—not that it ever worked. The front wall was glass, turning anyone inside into a shadow. A single glance could invite company. No touching required.

Seth let the fog build. Steam curled upward, blurring the tiles and softening the recessed light. Once the space resembled a fogged-over beach day, he opened the door and stepped inside.

He took the top bench, back against the cool tile, directly facing the door. Closing his eyes, he finally let his shoulders relax.

The morning had been too much. For a moment, he’d believed Dante was right—bringing everyone together again during Pride might’ve healed something. Maybe Felix would finally talk to him. But then Dante was hanging there, and Felix hadn’t even looked at him—just fixated on Noah.

Noah. Always Noah.

If you asked Seth, Noah was the reason he and Felix broke up. Noah had a way of inserting himself into every crack in their lives and widening them.

A metallic clink snapped one of Seth’s eyes open.

“Hello?” he called out.

The steam had thickened. He’d need to leave soon.

No answer.

Maybe it was the thoughts of Felix and Noah that made him feel feverish, but the room was definitely becoming hotter. Another sound—his custom ding for Felix’s texts—pierced the fog. His phone screen glowed blue from the bench.

“Finally,” he said aloud. They’d remembered him.

He stood and walked to the door. It didn’t open.

“What?”

A metal pull bar from one of the cable machines was looped between the handles, locking them together.

“Hey! Tad! I’m still in here!”

He yanked hard, but the doors wouldn’t budge.

Was it still getting hotter? He couldn’t tell if the wet on his skin was steam or sweat.

Then he saw it. Through the fogged glass, a shadow lingered in the locker room doorway.

Someone pushing a towel cart.

“Hey, asshole! Not funny. Let me out!” Seth shouted, banging on the glass.

The figure didn’t move.

Then, with a violent shove, the cart skidded toward the door. Towels scattered across the tile—along with something else.

Tad’s body flopped out sideways.

His jaw was torn open at an unnatural angle, a grotesque gape. Blood soaked the towels stuffed in his mouth, puffing them outward like a sick parody of a silenced scream. His head hung, cocked as if he’d died mid-sentence. Crimson smeared the floor beneath him.

Seth screamed.

The heat surged. He tried to scream again, but his throat was too dry. His lips cracked open like paper cuts. Blisters swelled on his chest, skin peeling in raw curls.

He slammed his palm against the glass. The steam erased him in seconds.

The shadow never moved.

Seth never saw a face.

His last thought wasn’t of the heat, or the pain, or the silence. It was of Noah—hollow-eyed, frantic, saying things Seth had rolled his eyes at.

Maybe Noah was right.

They were being watched.

And maybe, if he were lucky, his death would matter just as much as Dante’s.

But no one was left to hear him scream.