Page 57 of Unmasking Mayhem


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I nod, appreciating her presence even in its uncertainty. The truth is, I fucking need her—her strength to guide me through what might be a night of pure hell. We’ve often leaned on one another in dark times, and as we step outside into the cold, snowy air, I take comfort from our bond.

The streets are ominously quiet, the kind of silence that whispers premonitions of impending disaster. I glance over my shoulder, catching Boston's eyes fixed on me with a hint of worry etched across her pretty features. Despite everything we’re facing, there’s warmth in the way she walks beside me, ensuring our footsteps sync as we make the snowy trek to the club, the streetlights guiding our way. As we walk, the air seems to thicken with unsaid words, and I find myself replaying the events of the last few nights in my mind—King’s twisted smiles and Dustin's threats echoing in my ears like a dark symphony uninvited. I squeeze my keys tighter, feeling them dig into my palm, a small comfort against the anxiety that runs rampant in my veins.

“Hey,” Boston says, breaking the silence, “if things get too tense tonight… just call me, okay?” Her voice is steady, but I can hear the undercurrent of fear beneath her words.

“I will,” I promise, though I know it’s more likely that I’ll face whatever happens on my own. I’ve always been a fighter, after all, even when the odds are stacked against me. “I can handle it.”

“You know I don’t doubt your strength, right? I just… I worry about you.” Her sincerity tugs at my heart.

“I know. I worry about you too,” I admit, glancing sideways at her.

In this dance of friendship and survival, we are each other’s anchors, but the seas we’re navigating are fucking treacherous and unforgiving. As we turn the corner, the glow of the neon club lights flickers in the distance, pulsating to the beat of the music that spills onto the street. A wave of unease washes over me—this was supposed to be my sanctuary, a place to escape, to lose myself in the music and the crowd. Now, it feels like a trap laid out for me by twisted fate.

Boston gives my shoulder a reassuring squeeze as we approach the entrance, her presence grounding me. “Remember, stick together and don’t let anyone isolate you, okay? King or D…”

I nod, but a fear grips me; what if I don't have a choice?

“Let’s get this over with,” I mutter, pushing the door open.

The heavy bass of the music slams into me, the usual vibrant atmosphere now feeling suffocating. The club is alive, people laughing and dancing, dancers swinging around poles with their masks on, but I feel as if I’m immersed in another world, completely disconnected from the love swirling around me. I scan the crowd, my heart racing as my gaze lands on a familiar figure—King, leaning against the bar with his signature smirk etched across his face, his eyes scanning the room like a hawk. He catches my gaze, and a thrill of fear jolts through me, twisting like a knife. I can’t read his expression, but as he locks onto me, I feel exposed, almost naked under the weight of his scrutiny.

“Whitney,” he calls out, raising a hand in greeting, his voice smooth and confident, as if nothing had ever happened between us.

I can’t let him see how unsettled I am; the last thing I want is to feed into his twisted game. “Hey!” I manage, forcing a smile that I hope looks convincing.

Boston shifts closer to me, her protective instinct flaring, but I take a breath, reminding myself that I need to face this head-on, not as a victim but as a survivor.

“Want a drink?” King offers, his demeanor deceptively friendly. I glance at the glass in his hand, suddenly wary of the possibilities it could hold as not-so-happy memories come rushing back to me.

“No, thanks,” I reply, trying to keep my voice steady. “I’m good.”

He raises an eyebrow, as if my refusal is unexpected. “Drink the fucking drink, Whitney. We’ve got some new faces tonight. You should mingle."

"Okay,” I say, unable to hide my discomfort.

There’s a hint of something dark in King’s voice, something that reminds me of nights I’d rather forget. As he moves away, I exhale slowly, quickly dumping my drink in the trash beside me, grateful to have some distance.

“That was…intense,” I whisper to Boston.

“Intense is an understatement,” she mutters as she glances around. “What was he talking about with new faces? Do you think it’s another threat?”

“I don’t know, but I’m not about to let my guard down.” I take a deep breath, scanning the faces in the crowd. Familiar ones, but ones that also feel unsettlingly foreign now. Once friends, now potential dangers.

As we step further into the club, the music thrumming beneath our feet like a war drum, I realize I’m about to face not just the ghosts of my past, but the living nightmares I once thought I could escape. And as two figures approach from the corner of my eye, I know that tonight is going to demand every ounce of strength I have left. I can only hope that when the storm breaks, I won’t be washed away.

D and 13 come walking up just as Boston and I head to the dressing room before getting on stage, but neither one of us turns around. Boston is allowed to go in, but I'm viciously yanked backward, stuck in D's grasp, and immediately fearbegins to wash over me. 13 can't even look at me, and suddenly I know what's happening. It's my punishment because I told Boston what happened. I broke King's rule, and now I have to pay.

"Please don't make me go down there," I plead frantically as I'm dragged towards the basement where Masked Mayhem is in full swing.

I glance around for Raze or Hawk, but they're nowhere to be found. My pleas fall on deaf ears as I'm dragged down the stairs against my will, being shoved through the crowd of men who have been like a family to me. I finally see Raze and Hawk, and Red stands beside them, all confused until 13 and I are shoved to the ground in the middle of everyone.

It's happening.

In the neon-lit basement of the club, the air hangs heavy with tension as the sound of pulsating music echoes from the floors above. The walls are covered in graffiti done in blood, a testament to the darkness that thrives in this place in the dead of the night. A circle forms around the makeshift stage where King, with a cruel smirk, stands over me after placing a gun into my hands. The audience, a mix of masked figures—some eager, some simply curious—watch in shock with bated breath. King doesn’t need to say much for the crowd to understand the stakes. He's a figure of ruthless authority, his silhouette framed by the grotesque glow of neon lights.

My heart racing, I stand trembling in front of 13, sweat trickling down my brow, my heart pounding as I face my friend, who's now tied to a chair, wide-eyed and terrified. He had infiltrated the club as an undercover cop, and I found out but never told, so this is my punishment. I can see the steely resolve in his eyes, despite the fear lurking just beneath the surface. King’s voice slices through the murmur, sharp and commanding.

"You think this is a fucking game, Whitney? You either pull that trigger on him, or I fucking promise you—you're the one who's going to end up dead. Do it." King’s menacing gaze reminds me that there's no way out, and the screams of my own impending doom echo in my mind.