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The Initiation

Raze (“Havoc”)

Last One Standing: MAYDAY, Tech N9ne

W atching Whitney grind all night on Red sent my blood fucking boiling, and I know Hawk felt the same way. Yet, she remains completely unaware of our true identities—that we're the same boys she grew up with back in California, the ones who took her virginity under the stars after a night of drinking Mike's Hard Lemonade by a bonfire in freshman year. She doesn’t even know we left Cali for Boston when she did or that we’ve been stalking her since she started dating that motherfucker, Dustin, the one who nearly fucking killed her.

We only stalk her because we care, though.

Letting Whitney slip from our grasp was never an option. The moment Hawk and I reunited with her in that group home, we made a pact: she would always belong to us, whether she realized it or not. Although she’s oblivious now, that won’t last; we’re ready for whatever comes our way, including her trying to fight or run—we're prepared; we refuse to let her walk out of our lives.

For the moment, we remain hidden behind the vibrant, glowing masks that have become as much a part of us as our identities. One day we'll show her who we are unless she figures it out before we can. But for now, the safest thing is to hide behind our masks and protect her from a distance, like we've been doing for years now.

“There she goes,” Crow snarls, his arms crossed tightly over his chest, his gaze fixed on Whitney as she walks out of the club with Red and Boston.

When the doors close behind them, we follow, calling out to Red. He turns, and the girls pause, waving at us with their masks removed, smiles lighting up their faces.

Fuck, Whitney looks as stunning as ever, her dark curls cascading over her bare shoulder, dancing in the breeze. The light catches her green eyes, stirring something deep within me—I have to get Red away from her, no matter what it fucking takes.

“Red, we need you back inside,” I say, concocting a hasty excuse I'm still trying to figure out as I go.

He’s been frequenting the club for some time, but I don’t know much about him or his story. However, I know King and D are always on the lookout for new faces for our after-hours work for Masked Mayhem—the dark and gritty nightlife that goes on after the club closes—and for a fleeting moment, I consider bringing him into the fold. Suddenly, another guy I've seen at the club wearing a purple mask approaches, known as “13.”

“We were going to walk the girls home,” Red says, gesturing toward 13, who locks his suspicious gaze on mine.

“Both of you can join us. Trust me, the girls can handle themselves,” I reply, chuckling and tossing a wink their way. “Isn’t that right, ladies?” I ask, nodding as Whitney and Boston reveal their guns, entirely prepared for the walk home on their own.

“You guys go have fun. We’ll be just fine,” Whitney asserts, tucking her gun back into her bag and linking arms with Boston.

They stroll away, leaving me, Crow, Red, and 13 standing awkwardly—tension filling the air. I can’t shake the feeling that I might’ve just misguidedly welcomed them into the shadowy world of Masked Mayhem without fully knowing a goddamn thing about them, and all I can think about is how I hope I didn't just fuck myself by doing it.

As we re-enter the club, the last of the dancers file out, and the doors slam shut behind us. The cleaning crew begins their unending job of tidying up after another wild night, just as the basement door swings open to reveal King, mask on, ready for the chaos to unfold.

“What the fuck is this?” He demands, his finger pointing at Red and 13, his scrutiny unmasked.

“You said we needed more bodies,” Crow retorts, the vivid green X's on his mask flashing like a strobe light, intensifying my headache.

I elbow him sharply, and he shoots me an irritated look from behind his mask, his piercing blue eyes locking onto mine. “Turn that shit off. It’s fucking with my head,” I snap, still simmering from the sight of Red with Whitney all night.

“Calm down, Havoc,” Crow reassures me, switching the setting on his mask to a steady glow.

As we near King, he motions for us to descend the stairs but stops Red and 13, cautious of their entry into his underground world that he’s worked tirelessly to protect. I linger at the bottom, my curiosity piqued, waiting to see how this plays out. With King and D, unpredictability reigns; being affiliated with them is a huge fucking risk, but the thrill most definitely outweighs the dangers.

“What’s your story, Red?” King inquires, and out of nowhere, D emerges at the top of the stairs, his presence imposing behind his mask, eyes fixed on the newcomers.

“I don’t have much of a story. I started coming to your club, fell for one of your dancers, and now I can’t stay away,” Red says, deliberately turning his gaze to me, a smirk beneath his mask at the mention of Whitney.

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.

“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 the real Masked Mayhem. You want to be part of this life? You best be ready to put everything on 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.

“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.