Chapter 3 The Final One Part Two

MARNI

Because the Sins hunt and defile virgins for sport. They’ve made it their mission in life (or at least their high school lives) to destroy every virgin in our senior class. They call it a pact. Everyone else calls it what it is.

And it gets worse. Because the hunt and capture simply isn’t enough. Not for vile boys such as the Sins. They take a token from every virgin they deflower. They call it the “cherry archive.” It's an online database available to the whole school where they name and shame every virgin by uploading pictures of their used, bloody condoms after popping cherries.

Yes. The assholes actually take the time to snap photos of the blood a ruptured hymen leaves behind after defiling a virgin. And they share them around, too. Like some sort of twisted trophy. And they always label the Sin responsible for the popped cherry like a badge of honor.

I didn’t believe it when I heard about the website in Freshman year. I thought the rumor was made up—or at the least exaggerated—because there was no way in hell someone could be that disturbed, right? Wrong. It was true. Lexi and I visited the site and were disgusted by what we discovered. According to the “Cherry Archive,” Damon Hunt has the most notches on his belt. His name appears next to more discarded condoms than any other Sin. Kingston comes in a close second, And Jethro and Spencer round out the end of the list, along with past Sins who have since moved on.

You would think the risk of depravity like that would deter virgins away from them. But it doesn’t. I think it does the opposite. The girls in my school want to be named by them. They strive to make their gross, degrading list. To be one of the “chosen ones.” A stain for the whole world to see.

The Sins have worked their way through almost every girl in our grade, and it’s not exactly a secret. The whole school knows what they do. Other schools know. The faculty knows. Some parents at home. It’s the kind of reputation that spreads fast and sticks.

There are rules, of course. Even the Sins have standards, their own fucked up moral code. They don’t go after girls in long-term relationships. They don’t touch underclassmen. No matter how many throw themselves at their feet, begging for attention. Everyone else? Fair game. And once you catch their eye, that’s it. Nothing and no one can save you. Teachers don’t step in. The principal looks the other way.

They choose.

They mark.

They take.

And they shame.

Not by force—because they don’t have to. That’s the worst part of it all. Girls line up for them. Trip over themselves for a chance. Because the Sins aren’t just popular. They’re untouchable. Built different. Better than all the rest. Hotter than the flames of hell.

And they know it.

Girls worship them. Chase them. Offer themselves up like it’s some twisted honor to be selected. Around here, being chosen by a Sin is treated like a rite of passage—a sick, sacred milestone that means you’ve finally made it.

I don’t get it. There are more important things in life than being someone’s conquest. But around here, that makes me the strange one.

Because once you’re marked, you don’t get a say anymore. You’re done when they decide you are. Not before. Fight back? You get punished. Quietly. Loudly. However they feel like that day. But it usually happens in a room full of voyeurs to watch as you’re humiliated. Debased. Tell someone? It only makes them angry. Hide? It’s so much worse when they find you. Because they will find you. They always do.

In four years, they’ve taken sixty-five girls. Sixty-five. And that number would be higher if some girls hadn’t already been claimed before high school even started. Middle school relationships that somehow earned them immunity. “Untouchable,” according to the Sins.

Now senior year is nearly over and they’ve taken just about everyone.

Almost.

A few virgins are still left.

Two others.

And me.

Because I did something no one else managed to do. I stayed invisible. For four years, I kept my head down, avoided attention, and moved through this school like a ghost. I learned their patterns. Their habits. Where they sat. Where they went. And I stayed far, far away.

Not that it was always easy.

I’ve had classes with them. It’s impossible not to. Freshman year, I was even paired with Jethro Winters for science. He spent most of the time messing around, barely paying attention, while I did all the work to keep us from failing.

He never noticed me. None of them did. At least… not that I know of. I made sure of it.

Every class, I took the same seat. Second row, by the window. Close enough to blend in, far enough to avoid the back where they always sat. A buffer of bodies between me and them. No eye contact. No reason to look twice.

And outside of class, I was even more careful.

I stopped using my locker the second I realized it was right outside the gym—you know, their territory and home away from home. I skipped the cafeteria and left campus every lunch. I just happened to be “sick” on picture day every year, so I’d never end up in a yearbook.

No clubs. No sports. No social media. Nothing that could put me on their radar.

And somehow… it worked.