“You are LARPers.” I choked out, a little too excited by the looks on their faces. “Or at least the actors they hired, right?” I asked, as they stared at me with confused expressions.

There was an exchange of wary glances between them and whispered conversations. No matter how much I strained, I couldn’t hear it, and even if I had, I doubted I would understand whatever made-up language they were speaking.

“Listen, I am not a participant; you don’t need to keep up the act. I just want to get home. Do any of you have a phone I can borrow?”

Nothing, just more confused stares. Then the red-haired man approached, but he didn’t speak to me; instead, he turned to the father and son, who were reunited, and ignored me completely as he spoke to them.

They are really taking their roles seriously. And it pissed me off. Didn’t they notice the state I was in?

A prickling, stinging sensation tore my attention from them and to my right hand instead. Blood was pooling at my feet. I pulled my hand close to inspect the damage. Luckily, it wasn’t too deep to require stitches, but it would take several days of healing as long as I kept it clean.

I didn’t consider myself to be a vindictive person by nature. But every cut, scrape, bruise that I was acquiring because of this hazing ritual, conjured vivid and delightful macabre images of how I would get my revenge.

My fantasy was interrupted as the young girl approached and shyly extended her arms toward me. In her hands was a handkerchief, it was light brown with tiny white blossoms. When I didn’t take it right away, she pointed to my right hand, the blood now trailing down my fingers toward my elbow, as I still held it up to my face.

“Thanks, do you have any antiseptic? I don’t want to get an infection.”

She just stared at me for a few beats before turning and walking over to the father and son still embracing.

Annoying, but impressive acting chops. I mused as I quickly went to work on cleaning my hand and stopping the bleeding.

This one is going to hurt if not treated.

The redhead approached me, again. He looked like he was going to talk to me this time. He had a harsh attractiveness that was difficult to ignore. He was a head taller than most in his company, and his broad-shouldered silhouette cut an imposing figure against the orange glow of the setting sun. The features of his face were chiseled, exuding a rugged manliness that sent a surprising flutter through my stomach.

“Can you help me get home?” I asked him, my voice coming out barely more than a whisper. I cleared my throat; this was no time to get flustered. He’s just some actor, I reminded myself. “Or show me to someone who can help?”

His smile was warm, contagious, making me feel an unanticipated flutter in the pit of my stomach despite everything. This wasn’t the time or place for such sensations.

“Why aren’t you saying anything?” I asked, frustration lacing my voice as he continued to just stare and smile.

“Nalūshi, evo,” he finally said.

What the hell?

He was so good at playing the part that I would have applauded the commitment to staying in character if I wasn’t so pissed off.

He then turned and murmured something in that language I didn’t understand to one of the other men. The man nodded and strode over to us. With a sigh of relief, I prepared myself to explain again when something stiff and rough coiled around my wrists.

“What is this? What are you doing!” I protested, struggling against the abrasive rope.