Page 9 of Masked Mayhem

“Fuck!” Red exclaims, running a hand through his sweaty brown hair, the reality crashing down on him. “But we could—”

“Fucking shut it!” King interrupts, snipping the air. “You have seconds to fucking decide, or this draws out longer than it needs to. And trust me, nobody here will lose a moment’s fucking sleep if you let this opportunity vanish.”

The murmurs in the room swell, buzzes of anticipation saturating the space. Red flashes an uncertain glance at 13—doubt makes him shaky even as he considers his next move.

“You know what happens if we walk out,” Red finally says, his voice steady but his hands aren’t. Johnny is watching expectantly, his wide eyes pleading with uncertainty.

“Shut that shit,” I hiss, catching Johnny’s gaze. “You might not want to dive in just yet. Killing won’t prove anything—the world is littered with remains; you don’t need to add to it. You want worth? You show strength and guts without the need for blood.”

But my words are of little comfort against the encroaching darkness in the scene, where every second is a weight on the scale of life and death. Red’s expression remains fierce, yet he hesitates. His body language shifts, but I can see within him a vibrant coil of rebellion battling with his growing cognizance of the stakes.

“Fuck, Red…” 13 stutters, “Let’s just get out of here.”

In a shocking and swift motion, Red spins around, placing himself squarely in front of Johnny, all readiness and adrenaline. “We’ll fight him. But we won’t kill him. You want proof? We’ll put that to the fucking test.”

And when he says that, the energy in the basement shifts again; it feels like a thunderstorm brewing overhead, dark and ominous. D laughs, an edge of admiration mixed with annoyance lacing his voice.

“Bold move. Ignorance or bravery? You seem so dead set on not killing this motherfucker, which begs the question, are you guys fucking cops? Guess we’ll find out.”

“I would suggest you win then,” King mutters, his usual cool demeanor vanishing as he unlocks the chains around Johnny's ankles and wrists. A tinge of curiosity creeps over his face. “But I too find it strange you’d protect a fucking worm like him.”

But before anyone can intervene further, Red spins back toward Johnny, whose expression morphs from dread to bewilderment. “Don’t worry, we’ll go easy on you."

At that moment, the anxious tumult in the crowd escalates; pistons firing, whispers collide as they gauge the fiery resolve in Red’s eyes. I can feel my mask pulling tight at the edges as I assess Red—not entirely sure where this newfound courage of his stems from, but I know well enough it’s a gamble we’d all rather not take. As Red grows more confident, 13, still caught off guard, slowly steps beside him.

“Let’s go then. No weakness. Stand or fall—either way, we’ll prove ourselves.” He finds his own strength shadowing Red’s resolve.

The moment hangs heavy, and for just a second, I feel the rush of something creeping over me—interest, excitement, or a dire sense of doom. D watches closely, silent and calculating, drawing out anticipation.

Johnny tries to make sense of what is unfolding around him, still shackled to a fate that has somehow pivoted dramatically with Red and 13’s defiance. And as they take their positions, fists raised but saturated in uncertainty, a storm brews not just within the walls of Masked Mayhem but deep in their hearts and souls, laying the groundwork for what may well be a descent into an abyss that none will return from unscathed.

Blood or proof, death or survival—it seems, in the end, that everyone has a choice to make.

four

Kill or Be Killed

Hawk (“Crow)

Bad Temper: sKitz Kraven

Thehauntingechoesofbones cracking, teeth shattering, and the whispers of the masked crowd swirl around me like a sinister melody. Observing the lopsided clash between Red, 13, and a drunk Johnny feels less like a contest and more like a fucking setup for failure. Johnny may land a few solid punches on both Red and 13, unsteadying them momentarily, but it’s a mere flicker of fight against the odds.

Next to me, Raze nervously gnaws at his nails, his cuticles worn down from anxiety or perhaps a cocktail of both. Casting my gaze around the room, I spot King and D, their heads huddled together in quiet conversation while their focus stays relentless on the brawl. They share the same suspicions about the new guys that we do, and I can’t help but wonder what schemes they’re concocting to uncover whether these motherfuckers are really cops.

With each punch, agonized screams pierce the air as Johnny stumbles backward, struggling to hold himself upright. Despite his drunken state, he’s proving much more resilient than we ever anticipated. Red throws jab after jab at his ribs while 13 pummels Johnny’s face; the poor guy seems lost, unsure of what part of his body to defend. Then, as a brutal punch connects with Johnny's nose, sending blood splattering against the wall, King steps forward, piercing the chaos with a loud whistle that instantly stops the fight.

“I’ve enjoyed what I’ve witnessed so far,” he begins, a cruel smirk curling at the corners of his lips as he holds his mask in his hand.

He circles the three men as they catch their breath, mopping sweat and blood from their eyes, trembling on the brink of continuing. The atmosphere is buzzing with a chilling undercurrent of something sinister. Something is fucking off. If I know King and D, they're fucking dead-set on having the guys kill Johnny tonight. This was never just a test of strength; it was a trial of loyalty—a demonstration of obedience without a hint of dissent. If Red and 13 think they’ve saved Johnny's life with their deal, they're fucking mistaken. All they've accomplished is delaying the inevitable. King and D never intended for Johnny to leave this place alive, and we all knew it—everyone except the suspicious new guys.

“Now, kill him,” D commands, his voice icy, devoid of any emotion as his gaze cuts through the thick tension.

Red and 13 stare in shock, their jaws dropping as panic washes over them faster than I expected. It’s disheartening to realize I anticipated their dread. But this is their game. They’re fucking twisted and ruthless, fiercely uncompromising. Initiation is non-negotiable: when they dictate your actions, you fucking comply, or risk consequences that could turn lethal. I can’t shake the feeling that they’re watching the new guys more for signs of undercover law enforcement than for issues of loyalty to Masked Mayhem.

“I fucking knew they’d have Johnny killed no matter what,” Raze breathes, his nails drawn to bloody stubs from his anxious chewing.

“We all fucking knew it, Raze. They just thought they could talk their way out of it,” I murmur back, my eyes fixed on Red and 13, waiting to see their response.

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