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I don’t know why it’s his name I think of when I see him. Maybe it’s the mask, or the knife in his hand, but it’s truly the first thing that comes to mind.

“ Wait ,” I breathe, hands tight on my steering wheel as if some instinctual part of me is considering running him over. Which, admittedly, he might deserve.

“Wait,” I say again, scrambling out of the car with my phone. The night air is chilly, and I shiver through the thick, soft fabric of my hoodie almost reflexively, mouth already open to say…something.

But Val doesn’t wait. He gives a soft, almost regretful sigh, reaching a hand out to me for a few seconds before holding his palm up, as if he’s the one telling me to wait. Then he takes off, following the person who ran across the beam of my headlights only seconds ago.

For a second, not even, I hesitate. But then something in me clicks, and the hesitation fades away with my next small shiver in the cold air.

I’ve fucking waited long enough.

I’m not doing it anymore. I’m not giving him another chance to leave me behind then just not show back up. Not this time.

Refusing to consider the knife, the reason he’s wearing a mask, or the person quite literally running from him, I follow him with a few thoughts of where Kieran might be.

Somehow, I realize that calling out to him wouldn’t be the right choice. Instead, I’m reduced to following the sound of crashing footsteps and the occasional sight of him through the trees in the moonlight. I work to keep myself at a run; at least, as fast as I’m comfortable running through the sparse trees of the old, abandoned campground. An occasional root or downed branch threatens to trip me up, but thankfully Val isn’t exactly quiet.

Especially when he’s terrorizing someone.

But I don’t think about that part of this—that if he’s chasing someone with a knife, it’s probably not just for show. I doubt he’s doing this as a demonstration. At least, not a demonstration his victim is likely to walk away from.

I should be more afraid of that reality. Of him . I shouldn’t be running toward a man with a hunting knife clasped in one hand. Though I distantly think to myself, there are probably some knife safety lessons to be had when he’s running in the dark over uneven terrain.

Seems to me like this could end with him falling and stabbing himself if he’s not careful. Not that Val really seems to know what careful means.

In minutes, my breathing is coming in sharp, pained pants. My lungs protest the cold air, just as my thighs protest the cursed act of running. Especially when I’m not the one being chased. But finally, just when I’m pretty sure my legs are going to rebel and spontaneously break or I’m finally going to succumb to a patch of gravel on the ground and bite it, I can see Val slowing down.

When his laugh cracks through the air, high and jubilant, I can’t help but give a small shiver at the sound. I’ve heard it before, directed at me, and the flash of the memory makes me stumble to a stop with my phone clenched in my hand. Carefully, I double check that its light isn’t on, and while I’m not sure if Val knows I’m here, I’d prefer if he didn’t know I managed to follow him all this way.

Distantly, the sound of water lapping at the shore draws my attention, and part of me wishes I could see more of this place than just the trees and old campsites with their broken down camp grills covered in about forty years’ worth of rust. If I breathe in hard enough, I think I can smell the old, long forgotten campfires contained by the holy metal rings on the gravel, but I’m sure that’s just my imagination.

This place hasn’t seen campers in a decade, I’m sure.

Still following his striding movements, I shift from the open path Val followed to the thicker trees separating the campsites. I duck behind a larger oak tree, hands on the rough bark as my fingers dig into it, leaning some of my weight against it as I try to breathe evenly and quiet my heart rate so I can hear his words instead of just the murmur of them.

“Poor thing. Poor you .” It’s amazing how condescending Val sounds when he’s like this. Part of me wonders if when he puts the mask on, he really is someone else.

If he really is Ravage instead of Valentin.

In the same vein, I wonder if Kieran is similar. If there’s a completely different persona—the Harrow side of him—when he wears the ram mask with its upside down cross painted in red.

As if summoned by my thoughts, footsteps crunching on the gravel across the campsite herald the other masked killer, though he’s not holding a blade like Val. Still, his mask seems eerie, almost otherworldly, in the glow from the moonlight as he circles the man crumpled to the ground like an exhausted rabbit.

Unlike the man they made me kill, this one isn’t here because he’s tied down. He’s too exhausted to run, and I swear I can see the tremble of his muscles from here.

Run , the small, smart part of my brain whispers. Run away. You know what they’re going to do. The thought has my thighs tensing, and my fingers clenching the bark harder as if I’m a rabbit preparing to spring away from the threat of a predator’s teeth.

But I don’t run.

If I run now, I can’t face them.

If I run now, then there’s no point for me to be here. They’ll never change, I remind myself. Not for me, not for anyone.

If I can’t handle what they do in the dark, then I can’t face them in the light of day.

As Harrow prowls the perimeter of gravel in the old campsite, I crouch and lean against the tree, not wanting to be so visible that they can easily catch sight of me.

I’m glad of the foresight seconds later when Val turns, his mask tilting as he slowly scans the trees for what I’m sure is me.

“What are you looking for?” I’m close enough to hear Harrow’s words as he obscures my view of Ravage, but when he keeps moving, I see Ravage’s shoulders rise and fall in a shrug that accompanies his huff.

“You won’t believe me when I tell you. Hell, I’m not sure I believe me. But…” He rounds on the man lying on the ground with his eyes on the two of them. As if he’s waiting for a chance that definitely won’t come. “Work first. Play after.”

The fact he considers whatever is happening here just another day at the office, judging by his tone, should bother me more than it does. But I don’t move, and the rush of fear and unease in my chest goes away just as quickly as it had appeared.

They’ve really fucked me up.

But that’s why I’m here.

Quietly, I shift until my knees are pressed to the ground, wincing at the stiffness in my legs and the press of gravel against my skin. My eyes are glued to Ravage, and the way he swoops in to grab the man’s chin when he starts to threaten, and a snarl comes from his throat that does nothing but interest me more.

Embarrassingly, it sends a rush of heat between my thighs as the violence trickles down my spine.

Was I always like this? Deep down? With my mind half on them and half on my sudden existential crisis, I don’t hear the exact words from the man on the ground. But I don’t really care; I’m a little more interested in my new moral conundrum.

What if I’ve always been like this, and it just took the two of them to drag it out of me? I’ve watched true crime documentaries all my life, sure, but not because I get off on the murder or the violence. And certainly not the droning of ‘experts’ or investigators who puff out their chests or talk in voices that obviously weren’t made for television.

So why now?

It also makes me wonder if I could’ve gone the rest of my life without discovering my little problem. If I’d just gone to the correct haunt that night, I might’ve been able to live a happy, normal, boring life. The kind I’ve been living for the last two decades and change.

The man screams as Ravage pounces. I hear the masked men laugh and my eyes jerk upward, gaze affixed on him as he cuts and tears and rips at the man with the blade flashing in his hand.

Or at least, it flashes until the knife is covered in dark, obscuring blood. Finally, I can’t tell where his hand ends and the knife begins, and in some ways it seems like my lover is tearing at the man under him with his bare hands.

The thought is hotter than it should be.

But I’ve already decided I’m fucked up enough that no amount of therapy, meds, or a lobotomy will fix me.

Eventually, the man is still and silent on the ground, perfectly laid out in a band of moonlight that shines down on both him and Ravage crouched over him. The latter pants, shoulders heaving, and I belatedly wonder how much of his workout routine is geared toward ripping someone to shreds.

I’m too busy staring at him, however, to notice my own shift forward, or the way the moonlight reaches for me as if with insidious intent. Like it’s playing a trick on me while I’m too distracted to notice. At the same time, Harrow turns, just enough, and I’m too slow to shrink back behind my hiding place.

For a few tense moments he looks in my direction while I remain still and the moonlight gradually fades behind a cloud once more. I expect him to say something. To do something. But he just turns back to Ravage and the corpse on the ground, his strides easy and long as he closes the distance between them to reach out and rake his hand through Ravage’s hair.

“So much for restraint.” I hear him chuckle. “One might think you were putting on a show.” His voice is loud enough to carry, and I lean my weight against the tree, my cheek following to press against the bark. It certainly isn’t comfortable, but I’m tired enough from my aggressively long drive and run through the woods to not really care. As interested as I am, I would like to sleep sometime in the next few hours.

Maybe even before I confront the two of them, though that would require me getting out of here and away from the campground before they’ve seen me.

Ravage, at least, knows I’m here already. Meaning I can’t get that far away without interruption, I’m sure.

“Maybe there’s someone here worth putting on a show for.” The soft purr comes from Ravage as he stands up, and in a surprisingly affectionate gesture, he nuzzles his mask against Harrow’s throat like a cat. It feels strangely intimate, and I can’t help but drop my eyes.

Maybe I shouldn’t watch this, if it’s going to become something…else. It feels rude, and definitely voyeuristic, especially as Ravage presses his body to Harrow’s and lets out a needy, excited sound that Harrow meets with a soft growl from behind his mask.

They really are different people like this.

Ravage says something that I miss, though I blink up at them to see he’s stepping back with the knife back in his hand.

“No.” Harrow seems amused, but adamant, and before Ravage can step around him he reaches out to grip the front of his jacket. “You did most of it last time. I know you like the chase, but you’ve already had yours tonight.”

“I won it fair and square,” Ravage snaps in reply. “Besides, it was during my chase, so it’s mine .”

I have no idea what in the world they’re talking about, but I feel uneasy all the same. I shift to the balls of my feet, completely off my heels, and notice the building ache in my back from being hunched over for so long.

“ This is yours.” Harrow shoves him back and gestures to the mess of body parts behind him. “So take responsibility. And hurry up. I won’t wait for you.”

God, I wish I had some context for this conversation.

“Don’t go too far without me,” Rav finally grumbles, shoulders slumping in defeat. “Don’t do something you’ll regret.”

“Don’t worry, darling boy.” Harrow chuckles and turns just as the moonlight makes another appearance to illuminate him in the campsite. When I look up, his mask is pointed in my direction, and I feel his eyes on mine as the moonlight shines on me as well.

I’m busted.

I am so fucking busted, so I slowly straighten with a wince for my poor, abused knees.

“I want to have my fun for as long as I can.” It dawns on me, finally, that I’m an idiot.

They’ve known I was here for at least five minutes.

My muscles tense, and my body screams at me to move , to escape , to do something other than stand here, and all of my resolve to confront them starts to waver in the face of actually doing what I came here for.

But I’m stuck completely still. I’m frozen to the spot and unable to speak while I hold my staring match with Harrow, like moving will break some kind of spell between us.

At least, until he moves, and my body acts on its own to bolt like the scared little prey they make me feel like.

I can’t help it.

I run.