Page 7 of Masked Mayhem

My blood boils at his words. My fists clench tightly at my sides, teetering on the edge of violence as I fantasize about punching him in the fucking face. King’s laughter breaks the tension, soon joined by D’s, as they turn their attention to Crow and me.

“Hear that, Havoc? Looks like you’ve got some competition for your girl,” King jokes.

“There’s no fucking competition. Crow and I have her in the bag,” I retort, narrowing my eyes at Red, jealousy coursing through me like molten lava.

D shifts his focus to the quieter one out of the two, “And what about you, Mr. Silent? What’s your story? Why are you here?”

13 shrugs, shaking his head slowly before replying. “I just wanted to have some fun. I have no fucking idea what this extra shit is,” he admits, his voice deeper than I expected, the uninitiated tone revealing his naivety.

Something about both of them sends a ripple of discomfort through me, though I can’t pinpoint why. I steal a glance at Crow, who mirrors my suspicion, and we share a silent understanding—something isn't right with them; something's up. But what?

“You’ve come to the right place for fun, buddy,” D tells him with a forceful pat on the back, pushing him toward the stairs. “Down you go now, both of you,” he commands, a shift in his tone and demeanor from playful to serious.

Reluctantly, Red and 13 begin their descent, with King and D following suit, sealing the door with a key they always keep hidden on them. Crow and I step deeper into the basement, drawn by the intoxicating scent of marijuana and the faint strains of low music wafting from the lounge. It feels like a rave, but this is no fucking party; it’s the reality of Masked Mayhem, a huge difference from Club Mayhem.

Inside, the atmosphere is charged—members sprawled on couches, absorbed in TV or video games, or playing cards for bets. In a separate room, masked men sit on uncomfortable folding chairs in rows in utter silence, meticulously counting money—first by hand, then sliding bills through counting machines with clinical efficiency. Once sorted into particular increments, they’re wrapped in paper bands and stacked for someone to transport to the vault. Only three members know the vault’s code: King, D, and Tann, an old friend from the guys' warehouse days.

But this space isn’t about fun or games; it’s a hub for planning heists and armed robberies, where fights dictate hierarchy, and the fiercest are hailed as the strongest. We race bikes through the state’s most perilous streets, sifting out the weak from the strong. If you’re here, you’ve earned your fucking spot, yet it can vanish in an instant if you falter.

The concrete beneath my feet bears the scars of past violence—bloodstains marking its history. The air hangs heavy with the scent of something sinister, while tally marks etched into the walls in dried blood track victories and defeats in a grotesque display. This is no refuge for the faint-hearted; survival in Mayhem demands strength, and weakness is met with ruthless elimination.

As we step further into the chaos, I can feel the palpable energy that fuels this underground world. It draws me in, ignites that familiar rush in my veins, but it’s also tainted by the grim reality of what lies beyond the glitz of the club above. I’m momentarily distracted by the sight of familiar masks, but it’s Red’s lingering presence in my thoughts that jangles my fucking nerves.

“Hey, Havoc. You in there?” Crow’s voice pulls me back to the present.

He nudges me with his shoulder, eyebrow raised, drawing my attention to a table where a few of our top boys are gathered, laughing and banding a fresh batch of cash around like it’s nothing.

“Yeah, I'm fine, Crow.” I nod, attempting to shake off the itchiness I feel in my chest.

We head over to the group, all the while keeping a close eye on Red and 13 as they slowly integrate into their surroundings, trying their best to mask their confusion and apprehension.

“What’s the deal with the new guys?” one of our soldiers, Slick, asks, sinking back into the comfy embrace of a leather couch, flicking his cigarette carelessly into the corner. His confidence runs thick, igniting a sense of trust amongst all of us.

“Something’s off about them,” I reply, glancing back as Red and 13 engage with the guys playing spades. “Red’s too sure of himself around Whitney, and the other one just seems… lost.”

“Jealous or paranoid?” Crow smirks, and I shove him back, irritation boiling over. He laughs, but there's a seriousness behind his gaze, too.

“Both,” I admit, biting back my anger. I can’t help but think of how easy it would be for them to slip into our lives.

Crow, who had been joking until now, leans forward, his voice gruff yet deliberate. “We can’t let them get too comfortable. We can’t let anyone in who might threaten what we have with Whitney.”

“You’re right.” The tension in my neck tightens. There’s no way I’ll risk someone else cornering her when she’s already been through hell. “We’ve got to keep our eyes on them,” I say, the words hardening my resolve.

“Agreed,” Crow nods, and he looks around the dimly lit lounge where men exchange stories of the wildest heists and the closest calls, every tale a thread binding us closer to violence, loyalty, and blood.

As I turn back to watch Red too closely, King and D come striding toward us, their silhouettes framed in the flickering light, the aura of menace surrounding them thickening the air.

“Gather around, fuckers!” King calls, and the group starts to come together, instinctively signaling that something’s brewing. “We’ve got plans for the coming weeks, and we need all hands on deck. But first? I want to introduce our newest recruits.”

The atmosphere shifts as Red and 13 suddenly stand taller at the center of attention. I can feel all eyes on them as King continues. “Now, I don’t do this often—welcoming new faces into our family. But we need bodies, and these two are eager to prove their worth.”

Eager? That’s one fucking word for it.I can see the tension in Crow's shoulders mirroring my own as I prepare to step forward over the rising noise of skepticism from my crew.

“What’s to say you won’t run at the first sign of trouble?” I challenge, my tone laced with disdain. “You know nothing about our world, and that’s pretty fucking dangerous.”

“Maybe, but danger has its thrill,” Red shoots back, unwavering even under my scrutiny. I can respect that—a bit—but it doesn’t mean he’s fit for what we do. My gut twists. “I’m not just here for the fun,” he adds, hesitant yet not backing down. “I have something to fucking prove, I promise.”

And there it is—the fucking glint in his eyes that tells me he might actually have the audacity to take risks, though I can’t help but wonder about his motivation; my history tells me that arrogance can easily lead to ruin. Just as I’m about to retort, D chimes in, an amused smile playing on his lips.

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