Page 8 of Masked Mayhem

“Good, because trust me, boys, it’s not just a walk in the fucking park when you’re with us. You’ll need grit and brains to fucking survive. And if you've got a conscience, this isn't the fucking place for you.”

Before I can object, Crow does, seemingly unfazed by my earlier warning. “Yeah, and if you fuck up, well…” He pretends to slice his throat, and a few in the crowd laugh.

“What an initiation,” 13 mutters, a hint of trepidation crossing his face.

King ignores the remark, gesturing for silence once more. “That wasn't your initiation. That's coming. What we’re about to show the two of you is therealMasked Mayhem. You want to be part of this life? You best be ready to puteverythingon the fucking line.”

The anticipation electrifies the room. I feel the first pulse of adrenaline racing through me, instinctively catching a glimpse of both sides: the tight bond and the impending doom that led so many to abandon the battlefield.

“Tonight’s going to be your trial, but you’ll need to prove yourselves in ways you won’t understand until you’re deep in it—if you make it that far,” King declares, his voice steady like steel, cutting through the chatter.

I glance at Crow. “Seriously, are we about to let these two enter the depths alongside us? Just like that?”

He meets my gaze, his eyes serious. “Sometimes, we don’t have a choice. You know how it works. Besides, we’ll be watching them closely.”

I nod but remain wary as the group disperses into the deep, dark whirlpool that is Masked Mayhem. Following behind, I can’t fucking shake my unease. In a world built on chaos and darkness, one slip may lead to our ruin—and if anything fucking happens to Whitney, I know I’ll never forgive myself. No matter what I need to do, I have to keep her safe, but I can’t do it alone anymore. I’ve got to keep my eye on these new guys—after all, the stakes have never been higher, and the games have only just started.

Out of nowhere, D, with his mask on top of his head, comes pushing through the crowd, dragging a hooded figure behind him, obviously knocked out, his ankles and wrists chained tightly so there's no room for escape. D drops the chains, leaving the man at the feet of Red and 13, backing up to stand beside King, a nasty smirk dancing along his lips.

"You two want in?" He asks them, casually pulling out a cigarette and lighting it as the rest of us stand here and watch in anticipation.

The man on the ground begins to twitch slowly, and with a couple sharp kicks right to his ribs from King, he awakens, screaming in pain masked with fear. I feel sick. Not because I know what's about to happen, but because I know who is under the hood. As much of an annoyance this motherfucker is, I still don't think he deserves whatever King and D have in store for him. But I keep my mouth shut, knowing better than to question their decisions because I've seen firsthand what happens to those who dare to defy them... and it's not pretty.

D crouches down, kneeling at the man's head, grinning with his cigarette hanging from the corner of his lips. King stands behind him, backing him up but remaining silent. Glancing around the room, the other masked members watch in shock as the cloth is violently ripped off the man's head and his face is revealed. Johnny looks like shit. His eye is already swollen, and his lip is split and bloody; fear is etched into his face.

"If you boys want in," D begins, standing up and dropping the cloth. "Kill him. No weapons, just your fists and feet. Let us see how well you can fight."

Gasps can be heard around the room, which shouldn't be surprising, but the guys have never had an initiation that was as severe as this one and involved someone we all know. Johnny, of course, fights like fucking hell to get out of his restraints, but it's no use; he isn't getting out of them no matter how hard he tries.

"You want us to kill him?" Red asks, his voice noticeably cracking, and for a brief moment I feel bad for him.

"Did I fucking stutter?" D snaps, anger radiating off of him. "He's been causing nothing but fucking problems in the club and getting handsy with the girls. It's fucking unacceptable."

"Either kill him or fucking leave and don't ever step foot in my fucking club again," King growls, leaving out the fact that if they decline, they'll never leave this fucking basement alive.

We all watch to see what they're going to do, holding our breath in a collective gasp. Red and 13 stare at each other, looking like they're having a conversation with their eyes, and it gets under my fucking skin for some reason. But I don't dwell on it. Instead, I focus on Johnny, what I have left of a heart breaking from what's about to happen. Because if they don't end up killing him, someone here will. No matter what, tonight Johnny dies; it just all depends at whose hands.

The tension in the room grows thick, a silent standoff electrifying the air as Red and 13 grapple with what they’ve walked into. My stomach knots with apprehension, masking my need to intervene. Despite everything I know about Johnny, part of me wants to shout at them, to pound into them the sheer magnitude of their choice.

“Do it, and fucking get it over with,” I mutter under my breath, though I know the words are futile.

The decision rests entirely on them now. As threatening as King and D are, they know how far we’ve always drawn the line and kept our morals intact. Killing Johnny feels like stepping off an edge into a void. Sure, he’s annoying, but he doesn’t deserve this—what they’re asking is an act of violence that can’t just be erased.

“Come on. We didn’t sign up for fucking murder,” 13 finally croaks, his voice low, straining against the gravity of the situation.

I can see the sweat forming around his eyes, how he shifts his weight from one foot to the other, clearly torn. Part of me can sense his desperation; maybe he thought he could dip his toe into this world without becoming fully immersed in its darkness. But Red stands firm. I can see the fire igniting in his eyes, and it fills me with a strange mix of apprehension and haunting admiration.

“You want us to fucking prove ourselves? Then what’s the deal with just killing him? What about this fight?” He gestures wildly toward Johnny, who’s practically wheezing with panic. I’m sure he thinks this is his saving fucking grace.

“He deserves worse,” Red continues, growing bolder as he pushes back against the impending doom. A murmur spreads through the crowd, intrigue flickering amongst the members watching our bleak ceremony unfold. “We can fight him. Prove ourselves without taking his life.”

“We’re not here to fucking play games! This isn’t a fucking charity,” D barks, his anger palpable as he shares a knowing glance with King, who remains ominously quiet behind him.

“Think about it, Red! Look at the guy!” 13 balks. “He’s a fucking mess already! You really want to beat a dog while it’s down?”

My heart races as I wrestle with my own frustrations. They may not understand yet, but they need to realize something—this isn’t a simple test; it’s a rite of passage into our brutal world, one that will sear their souls and imprint a darkness they can never wash away. In a way, however, I admire Red’s determination. He’s grasping for a fight when the impulse to shock is in the air, and the question of morality looms large.

But as D raises a brow, I can see he’s growing impatient. “The longer you stand there debating ethics, the deeper you’re digging your grave,” he mockingly urges, alternating between the new guys and Johnny.

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