We stopped pretending it was a game the night we tied her to the altar. The Circle was supposed to be fun, reckless nights, bodies worshiped like temples, and dares that ended in moans instead of mistakes. But something has changed. The symbol carved into the wood grows sharper every time we see it. Someone is feeding it in the dark. And now our rituals taste like devotion laced with sin. We don’t just touch anymore. We take. We claim. We ruin. They say you can walk away from this. They’ve never felt the ropes. Never begged for the burn. Never been worshiped and wrecked in the same breath. The Circle doesn’t play anymore. The Circle practices and once you’ve been marked, you’re ours.