We are the young gods. Poised for power and promise. We are the children of wealth, stature and means. The crowns placed atop our heads are our legacy and destiny; a birthright we grasp at from the cradle and take with us to our graves.
Together we stand, brothers and sisters, bound by blood. Our secrets, once spoken, remain with us, buried deep within the hallowed halls of our institution, never to be heard again.
The golden vices that drive us, the sins that please us, the havoc we may spread, is our right and privilege. There can be no dissenters. At any cost, our house will be protected.
The great halls of Harvard University is called home by many. An institution built on the pursuit of knowledge and furthering education of young minds, those who attend leave filled with a powerful intellect and a will to make the world in which they live a better place. Alumni set a precedent for greatness, one that many hope to reach.
Harvard is home to The Riot Club; an elite society which welcomes only those they deem worthy into their ranks. Only those who come from opulent fortune and success can claim membership. Legacies are wooed and worshiped while newcomers were sources of new connections, a deeper link to the wealth of the world.
It was typical for the club to get rowdy over break. With no class to serve as a distraction, their antics could take full priority. The Athenian Manor, a few miles north of Cambridge, has been abandoned for years. The depleted and cold building was a recurring spot for the lavish and exclusive events the club threw. Past and present members filled the halls along with highly paid guests.
When the fire started, it couldn’t be stopped.
Rich mommies and daddies could cover up the fire. No one need worry about the press catching word of wealthy young adults burning an abandoned manor to the ground. No one got hurt. As far as anyone knew, the lightning storm was to blame.
Then the body was found. A young woman, unidentifiable, was burned and buried in the wreckage. The papers ran headlines about the mystery woman; the girl the club knew only as P a n d o r a. Adult entertainment. They paid her well, not that she’d be able to spend it now.
The club swore they’d never tell. Pandora would forever be the Jane Doe who died in the fire. Their blood oath was sacred. The same words they speak at initiation were repeated. At any cost, our house will be protected.
Theodore Belrose’s cold and dead body sent a message to the club that would reverberate for generations. Needle marks decorated his arms and his skin was that of porcelain when he was found. They would be lying if they said they were surprised.
“Teddy’s loose lips will get him into trouble one day.” A phrase aptly used by most. There were those among them that would do anything to ensure his mouth stayed shut. The Riot Club may have been notorious for drugs and debauchery, but no one wanted arson and murder as part of their reputation.
AURUM VITIIS - COMING SOON
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