The Brotherhood’s younger members had turned weekend parties into a tradition. It was practically a rite of passage for the teenagers and young adults to gather around campfires, blast music, and let loose. Erik hated it. He’d made countless rules and stern speeches trying to end the noise and chaos, but the parties persisted, as inevitable as the rising sun. John, on the other hand, didn’t mind. The parties offered him a steady supply of alcohol, cigarettes, and—on rare occasions—drugs that someone had managed to smuggle in. More than that, they offered distraction. The music and laughter drowned out the restless buzz in his head, and the campfire became a focal point for him. Fire was his element, his refuge. He liked knowing he could control it if things spiraled out of hand.

Still, there were times when even the roaring flames and thudding bass lines weren’t enough. When the noise pressed too hard against him, John would retreat to the lake. It was quieter there, the water a soothing, dark mirror under the moonlight. A cigarette hung loosely from his lips, and a half-empty bottle of beer was his only companion.

But not for long. The sound of footsteps approaches, the subtle scent of smoke and liquor growing stronger. He doesn’t need to look up to know who it is. They settle beside him, quiet but steady, a cigarette and drink of their own in hand. John stares at the water, pretending not to notice, but his fingers tighten slightly around the beer bottle.