No fire.

That was the first thing he noticed.

No screaming, no chains, no pits or hooks or sulfurous heat rising from below. No red-skinned creatures with pitchforks, no sadistic theater. Instead there was wood—warm, honey-colored planks that caught the afternoon light and held it gently. The ceiling rose high above them, supported by beams worn smooth from time and use. Tall windows faced a stand of trees, their leaves moving slowly in a breeze that felt, improbably, pleasant.

He stood very still, waiting for the trick to reveal itself.

It didn’t.

Around him, others were arriving in the same stunned quiet, their faces registering disbelief in slightly different ways. Some laughed. A few exhaled sharply, like swimmers breaking the surface. Someone clapped once, then stopped, embarrassed, as if applause might summon something worse.

“Well,” he said, breaking the silence with a grin, “this is… better than advertised.”

A ripple of laughter moved through the room. Not relief exactly, but something adjacent to it. Gratitude, maybe. Or luck. The sense of having slipped through a crack in the system.

He looked around, already assessing. The crowd was mixed—men and women, young and old, some nervous, some curious, some clearly out of place. Ordinary people, mostly. Not the monsters he’d been led to expect. Certainly not the kind he’d imagined would be his company.

Someone near him whispered, “I thought it would hurt.”

“Yeah,” he said easily. “Me too.”

They were herded—not roughly, just directed—toward a long table near the back of the hall. Clipboards. Pencils. A sign-in sheet. The familiarity of it all struck him as faintly ridiculous.

Check-in, he thought. Of course.

He signed his name with a flourish, noticing that no one reacted. No recognition. No whispers. No sudden attention. The woman behind the table didn’t even look up.

Next to the clipboards was another board, neatly divided into columns. At the top, written in block letters:

WORK PRACTICE

Beneath it, a list of tasks:

• Kitchen

• Dining Hall

• Grounds

• Laundry

• Meditation Hall Setup

• Bathrooms

Most of the lines were already filled in.

People clustered around the board, scanning it, murmuring. Someone pointed. Someone sighed. Someone shrugged and took what was left.

He stepped forward, confident, and reached for a pencil.

Everything was taken.

Everything except one.

Bathrooms.

He stared at it, then laughed—a short, incredulous sound.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he said.

A few people glanced over. One man—a thin, earnest-looking fellow—offered a sympathetic shrug. “I guess you’re last.”

“I don’t do bathrooms,” he said, not angrily, just stating a fact. “I mean, I can, obviously. I’ve done very well. But this seems—” He gestured vaguely. “Misplaced.”

The woman from the table finally looked up. Her eyes were clear, uninterested.

“Everything else is full,” she said. “You can switch later if something opens up.”

He opened his mouth to argue, then closed it. No leverage here. No audience. No angle.

“Fine,” he said, signing his name next to Bathrooms with exaggerated care. “Temporary.”

No one responded.

That should have bothered him more than it did.

Dinner followed shortly after. Simple. Unremarkable. Soup, bread, something warm that tasted faintly of vegetables and restraint. They ate at long tables, still talking, though more softly now, as if everyone sensed the walls were already listening.

He noticed how quickly people categorized one another. The nervous woman who asked too many questions. The serene man who looked like he’d done this before. The couple who barely spoke. The young guy who seemed energized, like this was a challenge he’d trained for.

And then there was him.

He felt good. Light. Fortunate.

When the bell rang, they returned to the hall. Cushions waited in neat rows, patient and indifferent.

A man walked to the front. No robes. No dramatic entrance. Jeans, a plain shirt, sleeves rolled up.

“Welcome,” the man said. “You’ve arrived. Congratulations.”

A few smiles flickered.

“This is a silent retreat. Once we’re done here, no talking. No notes. No gestures. You’ll eat in silence. Work in silence. Walk in silence. Sit in silence.”

He paused.

“If you have questions, ask them now. Later you’ll think of better ones. Too bad.”

A soft chuckle moved through the room.

“Interviews are scheduled. Everyone attends. If you miss one, someone will come looking for you. Not to discipline you. To make sure you’re still here. And you will struggle. That’s normal.”

The man’s gaze moved slowly across the room—not searching, not judging. Seeing.

“No one is keeping you here,” he said. “If you want to leave, you can leave.”

That got his attention.

“But don’t confuse leaving the hall with leaving the problem,” the man added. “They’re not the same thing.”

The room was quiet now.

“This isn’t punishment,” the man said. “And it’s not a reward. It’s just a place where there’s nowhere to hide.”

He shifted his weight slightly.

“One more thing. Whatever you’re carrying in here—your stories, your excuses, your grievances—try not to dump them on the floor. They stink.”

A few people laughed. He did not.

“That’s it,” the man said. “Take a breath. This is the last time you’ll hear my voice for a while.”

The bell rang.

They sat for twenty minutes. It was dull, mildly uncomfortable, nothing more.

When the bell rang again, silence began.

He sat there, oddly pleased. Safe. Relieved. Almost cheerful.

This, he thought, I can handle.

The cauldrons, after all, had been much worse in his imagination.