BAM, picture this! You're watching your favorite artist play. Not that artist!

Ha ha, yeah, that's you! You look down at the red can in your hand, or is it?

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Go to Pepsi. UK slash FAQ. So, The room is dark, the rhythmic chanting, a dull hum in your ears as you stand among darkened figures, you feel powerful here.

Part of something ancient, a part of a collective pursuing that which promises to usher

in great things.

You've been told about this moment for months, never more than a whisper

heavy on the lips of those who spoke of it. As you join the swaying of bodies, you look down

at the figure kneeling before the altar, the ropes biting into their wrists, their own body trembling.

The high priestess steps forward, the ceremonial blade gleaming in her hand.

She circles the unlucky figure kneeling on the ground, their face hidden by a shrouded veil.

As the priestess raises the knife, a sense of unease prickles at the base of your neck.

You glance around catching brief, almost guilty eye contact from the others.

The chanting, now louder, drowns out your thoughts, and then, as if on cue, they stop.

The priestess turns to you, her eyes cold.

She points the blade to your chest and the others dragged you forward.

You were never a part of the circle.

...