chapter four

Elias had never been good at deception, but desperation made for a quick teacher.

He'd spent three days researching, diving deeper into forums and Reddit threads that spoke in careful code about places that existed in the city's shadows. The more he searched, the more obsessed he became, not just with finding the club, but with the possibility that somewhere, he might finally understand himself.

The coffee shop was in a neighborhood he'd never visited before, tucked between a vintage bookstore and a art supply shop. He'd found the reference buried in a forum thread: The Grind on Morrison Street. Safe space. They might point you in the right direction if you ask the right way.

It took Elias twenty minutes of sitting in his car across the street before he found the courage to actually enter.

The interior was warm and deliberately eclectic—mismatched furniture, local art on exposed brick walls, a pride flag hanging casually near the counter. The clientele was diverse, comfortable, people existing without the carefully maintained facades Elias was used to.

He felt immediately out of place in his expensive casual wear, too polished, too obviously from a different world.

"What can I get you?" The barista was young, with multiple piercings and kind eyes.

"Just coffee. Black." Elias's voice came out steadier than he felt.

He found a corner table and tried to look natural, like he belonged here, like his heart wasn't hammering against his ribs. Around him, conversations flowed easily—people laughing, a couple holding hands without looking over their shoulders, friends debating politics without lowering their voices.

This was what existing freely looked like.

Elias pulled out his laptop, pretending to work while actually watching, learning, trying to understand how these people moved through the world with such apparent ease. Did it come naturally? Or had they all fought for it the way he was fighting now?

An hour passed. Then another. He ordered a second coffee, then a third, drawing out his time, building courage for what he'd come here to do.

Finally, as the afternoon shifted toward evening and the crowd changed, Elias approached the counter. A different person stood behind it now—older, maybe early thirties, with careful eyes that suggested he'd seen everything.

"Can I help you?" His tone was neutral but not unwelcoming.

Elias's carefully rehearsed words dissolved. "I... I heard this might be a place where someone could get information."

"Information about what?" The bartender continued wiping down the espresso machine, not looking directly at him.

"About places. In the city. Places that are..." Elias struggled for the right words. "Exclusive. Private."

The bartender's hands stilled for just a moment. "You're going to need to be more specific."

Heat crept up Elias's neck. Around them, the coffee shop continued its normal rhythm, but he felt exposed, certain everyone could hear this conversation.

"I'm looking for somewhere safe," he said quietly. "Somewhere people go when they're trying to figure things out. About themselves."

The bartender finally looked at him directly, assessment clear in his gaze. Elias forced himself not to look away, to let himself be seen even though every instinct screamed to retreat.

"You're awfully well-dressed for someone looking for underground clubs," the man observed.

"Does that matter?"

"Depends on why you're looking." He set down the cloth, leaning against the counter. "These places you're asking about—they're not games. They're not tourist attractions for rich kids looking for thrills."

"That's not what I want," Elias said, more firmly than he felt. "I need... I need somewhere I can be honest. Somewhere without judgment."

Something in the bartender's expression softened slightly. "How old are you?"

"Twenty-three."

"And you're sure about this? Once you walk through certain doors, you can't unknow what's on the other side."

Elias thought about his mother's concerned questions, about Alexander's manufactured relationships, about the suffocating weight of pretending every single day. "I'm sure."

The bartender studied him for a long moment, then seemed to make a decision. "Wait here."

He disappeared into the back. Elias stood at the counter, trying not to look as anxious as he felt. What if this was a mistake? What if he was being reckless, naive, walking into something dangerous because he was too desperate for answers?

But what if he wasn't? What if this was exactly what he needed?

The bartender returned, sliding a small black card across the counter. It was matte, expensive-feeling, with only an address embossed in silver and four words: Midnight. Sunday. Alone.

"That's two days from now," the bartender said quietly. "You go alone, exactly at midnight. There'll be a door with no sign. Knock twice, pause, then once. They'll ask you questions. Answer honestly—they can tell if you're lying."

Elias picked up the card with trembling fingers. "What kind of questions?"

"Why you're there. What you're looking for. Whether you understand consent and boundaries." The bartender's expression was serious. "These places exist because people need them, but they're built on trust and discretion. If you violate either, you'll never be allowed back."

"I understand."

"Do you?" The bartender leaned in slightly. "Because you look terrified. Which is normal, but you need to be sure. Really sure. This isn't something you do on impulse."

"I've been thinking about this for months," Elias admitted. "I just didn't know where to start looking until recently."

The bartender nodded slowly. "One more thing. Whatever family or friends you have—don't tell them where you're going. Not because it's shameful, but because privacy is the foundation. People go there to explore without the weight of outside judgment. You protect that, or you don't go at all."

"I won't tell anyone."

"Good." The bartender straightened. "If it's not right for you, you can leave anytime. No pressure, no judgment. But if you do stay..." He paused. "Be open to what you might learn about yourself."

Elias slipped the card into his pocket, feeling its weight like a promise. "Thank you."

"Don't thank me yet. You might hate me Sunday night for pointing you in that direction."

But Elias didn't think he would. Even standing here, terrified and uncertain, he felt more alive than he had in months.

He left the coffee shop as the sun set, the black card burning against his thigh through his pocket. The address was across town, in a district known for upscale nightlife—ironic, somehow, that what he was looking for existed in plain sight among the city's elite.

Driving home, Elias's mind raced through scenarios. What would the club look like? Who would be there? What exactly did "guided experiences" mean?

More importantly: would he actually go?

Sunday was two days away. Forty-eight hours to talk himself out of it, to rationalize that he was being reckless, that he should handle this differently.

But even as he thought it, he knew the decision was already made. Had been made the moment he stepped into that coffee shop. Maybe even before that—the moment he'd started searching, started questioning, started refusing to accept the suffocating life of performance he'd been living.

At dinner that night, his mother asked if he was feeling well. "You seem distracted, sweetheart."

"Just tired," Elias lied, the black card hidden in his bedroom like a secret that was only his.

Across the table, Alexander scrolled through his phone with practiced boredom, probably arranging his next public appearance. Probably having no idea that his stepbrother was two days away from walking through a door that might change everything.

Elias looked at him and felt that familiar, uncomfortable tightness in his chest. After Sunday, would he finally understand what that meant? Would he finally have a name for the feelings he'd spent years refusing to acknowledge?

He didn't know. But for the first time in his life, he was ready to find out.

Sunday. Midnight. Alone.

Two days felt like both an eternity and nowhere near enough time.