Chapter 2: The Circle of Confession

Chapter 2: The Circle of Confession

Stepping over the threshold was like entering a different dimension, one governed by laws of physics he didn’t understand. The air inside was warm, smelling of brewing coffee and lemon-scented furniture polish. Family photos lined the hallway wall—smiling children on a beach, a grinning couple on their wedding day. It was a shrine to the very normality Eli despised, a domestic tableau so aggressively pleasant it felt like a provocation.

The cheerful woman who had let him in—she introduced herself as Sarah—closed the door behind him, the soft click echoing in the sudden quiet. "Shoes off, if you don't mind," she said with the same easy smile. "We try to keep things comfortable."

Eli numbly toed off his scuffed boots, placing them next to a pair of well-worn sneakers and some sensible women's flats. The sheer absurdity of it—a killer's support group with a no-shoes policy—sent a wave of vertigo through him. He had come here expecting a den of monsters, a gathering of the damned. Instead, he’d found a book club.

"We have a few different groups running tonight," Sarah explained, gesturing deeper into the house. "Troy likes to keep the circles small. More intimate, you know? Makes it easier to share."

She led him past a living room where a dozen people sat in a loose circle, their faces illuminated by the soft glow of a table lamp. A quiet murmur of conversation drifted out. They were all so… ordinary. A young woman in a college sweatshirt, a man in a business suit with his tie loosened, an elderly woman knitting in a rocking chair. None of them looked like they were confessing to murder. They looked like they were discussing property taxes.

Sarah guided him to a smaller room, a den or study, where a fire crackled in a brick fireplace. Four chairs were arranged in a tight semi-circle around it. Three were already occupied. A young woman with anxious, darting eyes. A man in his fifties, impeccably dressed, who stared intently into the flames. And another man, powerfully built, with calloused hands resting on the knees of his worn jeans. He looked like a tradesman, a farmer—someone who worked with their hands. He offered Eli a brief, unassuming nod as he sat down.

Moments later, a man entered the room, completing their circle. He was in his sixties, with a kind, grandfatherly face, neatly combed grey hair, and wire-rimmed glasses. He wore a comfortable-looking cardigan and moved with a quiet, deliberate grace. This had to be Troy.

"Welcome, everyone," Troy said, his voice a calm, therapeutic balm that immediately set Eli’s teeth on edge. It was a practiced sound, a voice honed to soothe and disarm. "Welcome, Eli. We're glad you found your way to us."

Eli just nodded, his throat too tight to speak.

"The rules here are simple," Troy continued, his gaze sweeping over each of them. "This is a safe space. What is said in this room, stays in this room. We are here to confess, not to boast. To share the burden, not to revel in it. We do not judge. We only listen. Now," he clasped his hands together, "who would like to begin?"

An uncomfortable silence descended, thick and heavy. The impeccably dressed man continued his vigil with the fire. The anxious young woman seemed to shrink into her chair.

Then, the man in the work jeans cleared his throat. "I can go," he said. His voice was plain, direct, with a slight gravelly edge.

Troy smiled warmly. "Thank you, Mike."

The man, Mike, leaned forward slightly, his forearms resting on his thighs. He looked directly at Eli, a glint of something cold and calculating behind his easy smile. "I guess it started with the strays," he began, his tone conversational, as if discussing the weather. "When I was a kid, out on my folks' property. Cats, mostly. Sometimes a dog that wandered too far from its yard. At first, it was just curiosity."

He paused, looking around the circle. "You know that feeling? The one that asks… what's inside? What makes it tick? How much can it take before it stops ticking? It wasn't about hate. I didn't hate them. It was… a science project. A puzzle."

Eli felt a cold dread mix with a sickening pull of recognition. He knew that feeling. He had dissected it in his own mind a thousand times.

"I learned a lot," Mike continued, a flicker of pride in his voice. "Learned about anatomy. Learned about pain thresholds. Learned how to make it last. But the thing they don't tell you is… it's like any other drug. The first time is a rush. But you build a tolerance. After a while, a cat is just a cat. The puzzle is too simple. The pieces are too small."

He laced his calloused fingers together. "You start looking for a bigger puzzle. Something more complex. Something with… more at stake. You start watching people. Not in a creepy way, at first. Just… observing. The way they walk, the way they laugh, the way they trust so easily. They're all walking around with these intricate machines inside them, and they have no idea. No appreciation for the mechanics of it all."

The room was utterly still, save for the crackling of the fire. The young woman was pale, her knuckles white where she gripped the arms of her chair. Even the well-dressed man had finally torn his gaze from the flames and was watching Mike with a rapt, unnerving intensity.

Eli, however, was captivated. This wasn't the sloppy, emotional ranting he’d expected. This was a clinical dissertation. It was the calm, rational progression of an addict seeking a stronger dose. Mike wasn't just confessing to an urge; he was explaining its architecture.

"The high from the animals faded completely," Mike said, his voice dropping a little lower, drawing them in. "It became a chore. A hollow echo of what it used to be. The hum, that itch… it was still there, but it was demanding something else. Something that could look back at you. Something that could understand what was happening to it. That's when I knew. The puzzle had to have a voice. It had to be able to beg."

A raw, animal honesty radiated from him. It was horrifying, repellent, and yet it was the most genuine thing Eli had ever heard. Mike wasn’t trying to shock them. He was simply stating a fact of his existence, as plainly as if he were admitting he needed air to breathe. He wasn't a monster pretending to be a man; he was something far more terrifying—a man who had calmly and logically reasoned his way into becoming a monster.

The hum in Eli’s own soul vibrated in sympathy, a tuning fork struck by a kindred frequency. He felt a profound, chilling sense of being seen.

Mike leaned back in his chair, the confession apparently concluded. He looked around the circle, his expression open, almost vulnerable, as if waiting for a verdict.

Troy broke the silence, his voice still infuriatingly gentle. "Thank you for sharing that, Mike. It takes courage to be that honest with ourselves."

He turned his serene gaze towards Eli.

"Eli," he said softly. "It's your turn."