Mason
Watching King work usually makes me a bit ill. The way he seems to find a rhythm in destruction, precision in pain—it's more than most people can stomach. But tonight, as I stand in the dim light of the garage, I see something else.
It's not just brutality. It's art, if you can call it that. Every shallow slice he carves into Phillips' chest, every muffled scream and whimper, feels deliberate, like King's sketching a portrait of suffering.
And as fucked-up as it may be, I can't look away.
Gray leans against the wall, swirling the whiskey in his glass. "Fuck," he mutters, pinning me with a knowing look. "Wouldn't want to be on the receiving end of that."
I clench my jaw beneath my mask, staying silent. Maybe a few months ago, I would've been afraid of a fate like this, but being with Alyssa has forged a bond between us that's stronger than ever.
However, with the way Gray punched Isaac in the face and crushed Phillips' balls like it was nothing, I think it's better he doesn't know any of that. At least for a little while longer.
"Why don't you get in here?" King's voice cuts through my thoughts. He doesn't even look up, just angles his blade with a smooth, practiced arc over Phillips' chest. Another shallow line. Another howl of pain. Then he looks at me, his grin unmistakable even beneath his mask. His eyes gleam with something wild.
A challenge.
For a moment, I hesitate. King thrives in this. He's in his element, feeding off the chaos and fear like a fire feeds on air. Me? I'm more comfortable watching from the sidelines, helping when necessary but never stepping into the center of it.
But then I glance at the police chief dangling on the wall.
His swollen face is streaked with tears and blood as he trembles uncontrollably, struggling to stay awake. As I look at him, all I can think about is Alyssa.
How much longer she suffered because of this man.
If he hadn't taken Isaac's bribe, if he'd done his fucking job, she might've gotten away sooner. Maybe she wouldn't have ended up with us, but she would've been free.
Safe.
My hands move on their own accord. I grab a bag of rock salt from the shelf, its weight grounding me as I slice it open. The grains spill out in a messy pile, glittering like shards of broken glass.
King steps back slightly, giving me space while watching me closely. I can practically still see the grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.
Phillips flinches when I approach. He lifts his head weakly, his bloodshot eyes locking onto mine for a brief, desperate second before I rub the salt into the fresh cuts on his chest.
The scream that tears from his throat echoes through the concrete walls of the garage.
It should bother me. It should make me stop.
But it doesn't.
Gray's voice comes from somewhere behind me, cautious and curious. "Damn, what's gotten into you?"
King answers before I can, his tone light and amused. "The same thing that's gotten into the rest of us. Sit back and enjoy the show, prez."
I don't acknowledge them. My focus is fixed on Phillips, on the way he writhes and sobs, trying and failing to twist away from the pain. I grab his jaw, forcing his head up, my fingers digging into his skin through the glove.
"This?" I growl, my voice low and steady. "This is nothing compared to what she's been through. But you wouldn't know anything about that, would you? Because the money mattered more than doing your fucking job."
I shove another handful of salt into the wounds, grinding it in with more force. His scream breaks, turning into a choking sob, and I feel something shift inside me.
Satisfaction.
Pure, unfiltered satisfaction.
"Bet you're regretting that right about now," I sneer, leaning closer.
The satisfaction burns hot and bright, but it's fleeting. Because no matter how much I want to pretend this is true justice for Alyssa's suffering, I know it's not enough. Phillips isn't the real monster we need to hunt and kill. He's just a placeholder for the rage we're all carrying.
If it were Isaac hanging here, I doubt King would've stepped back. He wouldn't have let anyone touch him until he was already dead.
The bag of salt drops from my hands with a dull thud. The grains scatter on the ground. Phillips' sobs are quieter now, his chest heaving with shallow, uneven breaths. My hands tremble—not with fear, or regret, but from the adrenaline. The fury.
Gray's eyes are on me when I turn around. Even with the mask, I can feel his scrutiny, the questions swirling behind his steady gaze.
"Where the fuck did all of that come from?" he asks finally, a note of surprise in his voice.
"For Alyssa," I say simply. Because what else is there to say?
From the moment King decided to hunt him, I knew. Every late-night ride, every time he slipped out of bed after Alyssa fell asleep to brood in his office or disappear for hours—it was all leading to this.
He knew I was following him. Of course, he did. King's always aware of his surroundings. But he never called me out on it, just let me tag along in silence. He understood. I was watching his back, just like he'd watch mine if I was doing the same thing.
Yesterday, I finally confronted him and told him we should inform Gray. King agreed, and to my surprise, Gray didn't even hesitate. He wanted in.
So tonight, while Gary Phillips was driving drunk home from the strip club, King made his move. He ran the fucker off the road in one of our disposable cars.
Phillips got off one shot, grazing King's arm, but being struck by a train wouldn't have stopped him at that point. King punched through the window, knocked him out cold, and dragged him out of the car like it was nothing.
To be honest, it was really fucking impressive.
King claps me on the shoulder, his grip solid and grounding. "Not bad, Mace," he says, approval thick in his voice. "But I think it's time we wrapped this up. I'm starting to feel fucking drained."
I huff a quiet laugh. "Maybe it's because you got shot and then tortured this piece of shit for four hours straight."
He smirks. "Yeah, that might be why."
"Yeah, it's time I went to bed too," Gray says with a heavy sigh. "Christine needs her nightly breeding."
I glance at him, frowning. "Still no progress?"
"We'll find out next week," Gray replies, rubbing the back of his neck. "But that won't stop her trying to drain me dry every chance she gets in the meantime."
King chuckles, shaking his head. "Good luck with that."
Gray throws a mock salute and turns towards the door leading back into the house, and we follow close behind.
"No," Phillips calls out weakly. "You monsters can't just leave me here."
Gray chuckles darkly, not bothering to turn around. "Watch us."
As we step into the house, Gray flicks the garage light off, plunging Phillips into darkness. His pitiful cries fade behind the sound of the door shutting, swallowed by the silence of the night.