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Kill or Be Killed

Hawk (“Crow)

Bad Temper: sKitz Kraven

T he haunting echoes of bones 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.

“Well, you heard D. Kill him! What the hell are you two waiting for?” King barks, his impatience bubbling to the surface.

“I thought we had a deal?” Red retorts angrily, confusion and frustration lacing his voice.

“I let you fucking believe we had a deal, but our word always takes precedence. If you survive initiation, you’ll learn that quickly.” King circles them, attempting to intimidate them with his fierce expression.

“Kill him, or be killed. Those are your only fucking options,” D growls, chain-smoking to calm his frayed nerves. “You think we’d allow you to walk out alive after witnessing everything you've witnessed?”

“W-we won’t say anything to an—” 13 stutters in a panic.

“I don’t give a fuck. That's not how this shit works. You either kill Johnny, or—” D’s gaze sweeps across the room, a silent command to the others. “—or I’ll have Havoc and Crow kill you.”

Gasps ripple through the crowd, and my heart sinks into my stomach. Raze and I have been part of Masked Mayhem for a while now and have killed only once, and that was a simple bullet fired from a distance. I’ve never been forced to engage in a brutal fight to the death, and hell, I don’t want to start tonight.

“Oh hell yeah,” Raze mutters, a manic grin spreading across his face as he eyes Red. “I’ll happily put that motherfucker down if it means he leaves Whitney alone.”

I shake my head, aware that he’s not thinking straight. Then again, maybe he is—I can’t tell anymore. His fixation on Whitney has slipped down a dark path, bordering on obsession, but I can’t fault him either. I recognize the depth of his feelings for her and understand just how far he’d go to protect her.

“I’m growing fucking bored and impatient, boys,” D complains, his calm demeanor deceptively still, like a predator waiting to pounce.

“Same here. We’re going to tell you one more fucking time—kill him or be killed,” King adds, returning to his previous spot by D, leaning casually against the wall, a chilling nonchalance in his posture.

As 13 begins to object once more, Red suddenly lunges at Johnny, slamming him to the ground with a force that echoes in the silence. The sickening crack of skull against concrete reverberates in the air as Red rains down punches, blood spilling freely from Johnny’s shattered face. 13 shakes his head, mumbles something under his breath, and kneels, prying Red off Johnny to take control himself.

We watch, breathless, as 13 grips Johnny by the hair, placing him in an unconventional chokehold. In a swift, calculated motion, he breaks Johnny’s neck and discards his lifeless body to the floor—ending the fight, the initiation, and the torment of what has surely been one of their darkest nights yet, but far from the last they will face.

King and D erupt into applause, sadistic grins illuminating their faces as they step forward, grasping Red and 13’s bloodied hands and lifting them triumphantly into the air. The masked crowd erupts in cheers while Johnny lies dead on the ground—beaten, broken, and bloodied, just as they had envisioned.

“Before we formally welcome our new members, we need to ensure Johnny is truly dead,” King announces, handing Red a sharp knife. “Slit his throat to guarantee he stays down.”

Fury and resentment coiling within him, Red seizes the knife and kneels beside Johnny's head. Gripping his matted hair, he lifts Johnny’s head and lays the blade against his neck, making a clean, decisive cut almost from ear to ear before discarding the knife. He rises, his eyes darker than I’ve ever seen.

D approaches, pulling back their masks to unveil the faces of our newest recruits—each a surprise. Red, with wide eyes framed by long lashes, fails to meet our gaze. His curly brown hair is matted with blood and sweat, but his fade remains immaculate. His clenched jaw, partially hidden by a shadow of stubble, betrays both tension and restraint.

13 has no facial hair; his striking blue eyes shimmer with unshed tears as he surveys the room, his nearly white blonde hair catching the bright lights. Though they differ in appearance, both are muscular and inked, embodying the same fierce spirit. Nevertheless, 13 stands slightly shorter than Red, whose broader physique gives him a more imposing presence. Regardless of their differences, they're here to stay.

Watching their fight, it’s clear: these new guys don’t fuck around.

But neither do we.

As the chaotic cheers slowly die down and the weight of Johnny's lifeless body sinks into the grimy concrete, the reality of what just unfolded settles over the room like a heavy cloud of smoke. King and D bask in their sadistic glory, relishing the power they hold over their newest recruits—a power built on blood and obedience. I can't help but feel a wave of nausea rising in my throat as I observe the aftermath, the gruesome reminder of our loyalty to Masked Mayhem.

“Welcome to the family, boys,” King sneers, clapping each of them on the back with unnecessary force. “You’ve just completed your initiation. But remember, this is just the fucking beginning. There is no way out, other than death, that is.”

“We’ve set a high bar for you two,” D adds, lighting another cigarette, the embers glowing like their twisted ambitions. “Your loyalty will be tested again, and it won’t always be this... straightforward. We’ll keep you on your toes.”

Red and 13 exchange a glance, and I can see the flicker of uncertainty in their eyes. They might have proved themselves tonight, but any ounce of bravado they carried into this twisted initiation is now increasingly eroded by what they’ve just done. I can't shake my growing unease at the depths they may be required to sink to in the future.

With Johnny’s death, a chill settles among us—a kind of truce formed through the blood spilled on the floor. We’ve shared the night air thick with violence, and now the thrill of survival seeps into the new guys' veins, mingling with the fear that soon replaces it.

“What’s next?” I wonder aloud, unable to hold back anymore.

“Next, they’ll learn our ways. Our code,” D says, glancing at me with an approving nod. “And they’ll be trained for the real shit, the missions that make or break a member. We’ve got contacts on the streets, potential deals brewing that only people like us can handle. But understand this: trust is earned, and loyalty is demanded.”

“I won’t be your fucking pawn,” Red interjects, his cockiness returning as fire ignites his spirit. “Your life-or-death threats won’t fucking scare us.”

I can see a mix of admiration and fear in the way the crowd responds to Red’s boldness. D’s expression shifts from amusement to blankness as he sizes up the defiance. For the first time tonight, he appears slightly less composed.

“You think you have a fucking choice, kid?” D says, his voice a dangerous whisper that sends a shiver down my spine. “You’ve already made your bed. You’re part of this world now, and there’s no backing out. Just remember what you did to Johnny when you start feeling remorse.”

King laughs, stepping in. “You’ll find that remorse is a luxury we can’t afford. You must think. Assess. Act. If you hesitate, you won’t survive long. We work as a unit, or we fail as individuals. But tonight? Tonight was for you two. You’ve got the taste of blood in your mouth, and I expect you to fucking enjoy it.”

The crowd murmurs with excitement, each masked face looking on like wolves ready to pounce. But what do they see when they look at Red and 13—potential allies or future threats? Ignited bravery or foolishness that could expose us all?

“Now, get the fuck out of here and get some rest or some pussy, whatever your black hearts desire,” King drawls, his eyes glinting like daggers. “Tomorrow will be a busy night for you all."

As we step out into the dark streets, I can’t shake this aching feeling gnawing at my insides. This is the path we’ve chosen—the blood, the destruction—yet somehow, it feels like it’s just beginning. I glance back at Red and 13, now brothers-in-arms but forever marked by the savage tale we all share. And that’s when I realize that survival isn’t guaranteed.

The moment you begin to question is the moment you become weak. In this world, weakness can lead to death. A cycle continues: rebellion against a system that demands brutality. But I know one thing for certain: the line we walk now leads us deeper into a darkness that threatens to swallow us whole.

Instead of going home, Raze and I make a pit stop at Whitney's, standing on her balcony in the pitch black and watching her sleep for what seems to be hours. But it's only minutes we've been out here, and all I want to do is go inside and be with her. I fucking need her after the night we had. Looking at Raze, he feels the same way.

"Fuck it," he spits, putting his hood on with his mask brightly glowing blue. "I'm going in, and I'm getting what I want."

By "what I want," he means Whitney. He means fucking her. And he's too quick for me to stop him, so my ass follows him as he slips in through the sliding glass door, closing and locking it behind me.

He takes out his knife and drags the tip down the center of her chest, watching it rise and fall with her soft breaths and light murmurs. But as soon as she feels the tip poke into her smooth, delicate skin, her eyes fling open and she shoots up into a sitting position, my hand clamping over her mouth before she can scream.

"Shhh, Little Mischief, it's just us," I whisper in her ear, climbing in bed beside her, her body shivering against mine.

I slowly remove my hand as she nods, realizing who we are and that we're not Dustin, who she's deathly afraid of finding out where she is. She gives both of us a sheepish, lopsided look with anger in her eyes but a glimmer of intrigue that trumps everything else.

"What are you guys doing here?" She asks, her voice soft and hoarse; you can tell she's still tired.

"We needed to see you. We needed you," Raze admits, pulling out his black bandana from his pocket, folding it into a rectangle just wide enough to cover her eyes.

"Why do you still have your masks on? Will you take them off for me?" She looks at us, smiling, with so much hope in her eyes.

Raze and I shake our heads in unison, already knowing the answer. We can't show ourselves until we're ready—until she's ready—and now isn't that time. Instead, he holds up the blindfold and winks at her, making her roll her eyes.

"Put the fucking blindfold on, Little Mischief, and then we'll take our masks off."

As she tugs the blindfold over her eyes, a rush of muted vulnerability envelops her, making the air thick with unspoken tension. I watch as Raze leans closer, the flicker of excitement palpable between us. The shadows dance around us, intertwining with the rhythm of our heartbeats. Though we've just emerged from a night of violence, here in this intimate space with Whitney, everything feels raw and alive.

"Now what?" she whispers, her voice almost breathless, a mixture of anticipation and curiosity.

"Now, you just relax," I reply softly, propping myself up on one elbow while Raze shifts his weight, making sure she feels safe.

We’re all wired differently, but there’s a simmering chemistry pulsating in the small confines of the bed that binds us together, drawing us closer with each passing second. It also helps to have the past that we have, the bond that no one can break. It's just that Whitney doesn't know that we are the same guys from her past.

"Trust us," Raze adds, his tone gentle but firm—a reminder of the fine line we walk. "We’re not here to hurt you. We’d never do that."

"Okay," she responds hesitantly, her voice slightly shaky. "But you’re acting like I’m about to be part of some crazy, dangerous game or something."

I catch Raze’s eye, and we both chuckle, though it twinges with something deeper. The reality of our lives is far more complicated than a mere game, a truth she doesn’t yet grasp. Life with Masked Mayhem isn’t a choice; it’s a relentless grip that won’t loosen no matter how much we try. I want to shield her from it, but I understand that’s an impossible illusion.

"Just a little fun," I tease, trying to add levity to the thickening atmosphere.

Raze begins to trace soft lines on her arm with his fingers, eliciting a shiver. “Don’t worry, we’ll make this memorable.”

With her eyes still covered, she takes a deep breath. “Memorable how? What do you two have in mind?”

“Just a little exploration,” I whisper, leaning in closer so she can feel my presence rather than just hear my voice.

The warmth emanating from her skin contrasts sharply with the memories of violence in the basement, grounding me for the moment. With each spoken word, patience breeds confidence, and the frailty of the night fades away like smoke in the wind.

"Exploration sounds good," she says, and I can hear that hint of daring in her voice. "I’m ready."

And as if a signal was passed between Raze and me, we simultaneously reach for our masks. He pulls his off first, the subtle blue glow dimming into shadows, revealing a face marked by mischief and chaos but softened by affection for her.

Next, I lift my mask, feeling that familiar weight lift off my shoulders. The darkness in me has been a constant companion, but here with her, I feel something else—a flicker that grows with every heartbeat.

From the corner of my eye, I see Raze grinning. “We’re not just a couple of cold-blooded nightmares.” He leans in closer, teasingly whispering a little louder for her benefit, “We can be fun, too.”

Whitney turns to me, her eyes still covered by the blindfold “And you? Why the mask? What do you hide?”

“Not all that glitters is gold, Little Mischief. Sometimes, yanking off the mask opens more than just a face; it reveals the heart beneath.” I take my time as I say it, the raw truth echoing between us. “And I promise you, it’s as tangled as tonight’s events.”

She nods slowly, soaking in our words—the vulnerability, the honesty, and the risk that seeps through the room. The ambiance shifts around us as the weight of our circumstances envelops us. We are broken, complicated, but there’s a flicker of light threading through the darkness.

“Now,” Raze breaks the moment, his voice edged with playful challenge, “are you ready for us to explore what’s underneath this whole mask thing? Trust us, it could be the ride of your life.”

“Always,” she replies in a heartbeat, that glimmer of adventure sparking to life.

And as we take her hands, guiding her deeper into this unknown, an electric buzz thrums beneath our skin. The room charges with the thrill of our entwined destinies, each pulse an urging call to embrace the chaos—the chaos that is our life, intertwined with hope and uncertainty.

In the midst of that chaos, we found a brief sanctuary, yet the darkness of our world looms just beyond the threshold. We can't forget that masks might shield us from society's judgment, but they can’t erase the shadows that loom over us—a darkness that could eclipse this short moment of warmth.

But for now? Tonight, we break through the darkness together.