8. The Masked

Chapter eight

The Masked

THE POLICE BOLDLY brOUGHT LYRIC in for questioning, and it immediately kindled an intense anger within me. I found it difficult to restrain my impulses, resisting the urge to angrily storm into the police station and bash their heads in.

No one was allowed to touch Reina.

As I peered through the window of my fourth-floor apartment, her amber eyes flashed in my mind. They were vibrant gold but clouded with hopelessness and sorrow. I could feel the weight of her suffering inflicted upon her by those bastards. It stirred a fierce anger within me, knowing what she had endured from men who weren't me.

I tore my gaze from the window, making a beeline for my computer. I plopped onto the sofa and pressed the power button, eagerly waiting as my laptop buzzed to life.

It was time to see what questions the police were asking her. Even though she didn't have any knowledge of who was behind the murders, would she inform them of any details she noticed that night in the streets where Devin was last seen alive?

I knew the authorities had watched the video of me killing him. And those two will never be found. My training while in the military had extensively educated me on getting rid of bodies.

Lyric's face appeared on the monitor, illuminated by harsh fluorescent lights. Her hoodie was off, and tiny beads of sweat glistened on her forehead. The two detectives sat across from her, grilling her with questions as she nervously tapped her foot against the cold metal chair.

One detective suddenly appeared and slammed his palm on the metal table, making her jump in her seat.

I clenched my fists and tapped my foot rapidly with anger, wanting nothing more than to reach through the laptop and strangle him for frightening her.

"Do you really expect us to believe you have no connection to this incident? Your name was mentioned multiple times during the videos. Are you saying that you didn't hire a man to murder the individuals who allegedly assaulted you?"

She looked up at the detective, her amber eyes full of fear. "I don't know who attacked me. They had masks on," she mumbled, then bowed again.

"Has the killer reached out to you in any way?" He inquired, and her gaze was raised again.

A moment of stillness passed until she gave a negative answer by shaking her head. "No, I've never seen him before," she murmured.

That's my girl.

The detective shook his head as he stood rigidly in place. "You can go; however, don't leave town," he stated firmly, motioning for her to depart, and Lyric quickly left.

The moon hung low in the sky. Its pale crescent was barely visible through the murky veil of clouds across the night sky. A chill permeated the air, seeping into my bones and causing a shiver to run down my spine. The streetlamps flickered, casting yellow pools of light onto the damp pavement below, their long shadows stretching like spindly spiders. I positioned myself against the side of Michael's two-story house, blending into the darkness as I waited for my next move.

Michael's parents seemed oblivious to the danger that their son was in. They carried on with their pre-planned business trip, even though his friends were being slaughtered one by one. They had no idea that when they would return home, Michael would be another mark on my death list.

As soon as his sister's shadow disappeared down the front steps and out of the white gate of their fence, I made my way towards the back door.

I pushed open the creaky kitchen door and found Michael frantically rummaging through the fridge. As soon as he heard me humming, he jumped and spun around. His eyes widened at seeing my black hoodie, complete with a red mask and a butterfly knife twirling between my fingers. I leaned casually against the doorframe, enjoying the element of surprise.

"I said I'd see you soon." I advanced a step, and he recoiled.

He uttered a startled "fuck" as he backed away, eyeing the entrance nervously. "What are you doing here?"

"I wouldn't do that," I said, inching forward. "You won't make it," I warned.

Michael's breathing was shallow and quick. "Why are you doing this?" He asked.

"Doing what?" I played dumb as my knife continued to spin between my fingers.

"Killing my friends." As he spoke, his eyes darted over his shoulder to avoid tripping over the small ottoman behind him.

With a flick of my wrist, I deftly closed my trusty knife and surveyed the impressive razor-sharp cutlery lined up precisely against the glossy tiled backsplash. Each blade gleamed in the overhead light, ready to strike at a moment's notice. I carefully lifted the heaviest one from its designated spot, relishing in the satisfying weight of it in my hand. Its dull thud echoed in the silent room, making my heart race with excitement as I aimed it casually in Michael's direction, a playful glint in my eye.

"You mean you don't know by now?" I asked. "That's odd. I swear I had clarified it on the videos of the other two fuck heads I killed."

He shook his head. "You're just crazy, is my guess."

I chuckled lightly and said, "C'mon now, Michael. You saw the video on how that turned out for Devin when he hurt my feelings," I reminded him.

With a burst of adrenaline, Michael sprinted for the door, his eyes wide and wild with panic. But in one fluid motion, I lunged forward, my body moving with lightning speed. My fingers closed around his neck like a vice, and I yanked him back with all my strength, slamming the door shut behind us. His feet scraped against the floor as he desperately tried to break free, but my grip was unyielding. With ferocious determination, I dragged him towards the kitchen table, his body thrashing and twisting in my grasp. And with one final step, I lifted him and slammed him down onto the wooden surface with a resounding thud. The air was forced out of his lungs as he landed hard on the table, his eyes wide in shock as he struggled to catch his breath.

I stuck the large knife into the table beside his head. He flinched, understanding my message loud and clear that I meant business if he attempted to escape again. "Now, I'm going to ask one question and one question only. Was it worth it?"

He squinted his small green eyes up at me in confusion as if he didn't know what I was talking about. His lips twitched as he tried to stifle a smirk - a telltale sign that he understood the question but was trying to pretend otherwise.

Anger flowed through my body; his attempt to feign ignorance wouldn't work.

My fingers wrapped around his Bieber-looking hair, and I shoved his head on the table. His eyes crossed from the force, his breathing was labored, and sweat beaded on his forehead. "You know exactly what I'm referring to," I said coldly. "If you don't answer me, I won't hesitate to slit your throat right now and save myself the trouble."

Even after banging his head on the table, Michael replied with a smug chortle, "She wanted it; she practically begged for my cock. That slut was drunk off her ass, but she knew what would happen when she went to that party." His tone was excessively casual considering the topic, only angering me further.

Reaching inside my hoodie, I grabbed the zip ties and began to secure his wrists to the kitchen table, with his shoulders even with the edge and his head hanging off the side, as he fought against me.

Of course, he stood no chance. Starting at sixteen, my years of covert operations in the military gave me an edge that he would never understand. I could take him down with ease, even with my hands tied behind my back.

Once Michael was strapped securely to the table, I refocused and took out my phone, propping it up on a cookie far on the countertop and facing him. After ensuring it was in the proper position, I tapped the live button on my screen.

Returning to Michael, I said, "Look, Mikey, our friends are here."

"Don't fucking call me that." Panic washed over him as he frantically scanned the kitchen, searching for a way out of this situation.

I crossed my arms and pouted with mock seriousness. "Aw, come on now. I thought we were tighter than two coats of paint." My lower lip jutted out as if to amplify the effect. "What'd I say about hurting a guy's feelings?" The corners of my mouth twitched with suppressed laughter, even though he couldn't see it.

My focus was now on my phone, and I bent down to read the comments. "Hey Mikey, Carol1967 wants to know if you're going to meet your maker tonight," I teased. "Think you can answer her question?" I glanced at him over my shoulder.

Michael released a terrified cry in a high-pitched voice when I read the following comment. "Oh shit, StanGraves333 said chop his head off," I laughed. "These people are into this a little too much," I continued, laughing as I looked into the camera. "Stan, you got it."

Michael's head shot up. "Hold on," he mumbled. "There's money in the safe. You can take it all," he offered desperately.

My eyes narrowed as I glared at him, my gaze full of venom and loathing. "Money?" I sneered, my voice dripping with disdain. "You believe that money can make up for the destruction of my Reina? Do you think you can buy your way out of this?" With a surge of fury, I lunged towards him and seized his hand in a vise-like grip. He let out a blood-curdling scream as I brought the gleaming blade down on his wrists, slicing through flesh and bone. The horrid sound of tearing tendons and splintering bones echoed through the room as his severed limb thudded to the ground, blood spilling out in a crimson pool at my feet.

I laughed devilishly. "At least you only lost your hand. Stan wants a head. I needed to give him something to satisfy his bloodlust." I slowly directed my gaze toward the camera. Torture first, Stan, then you will get your happy ending." Then I glanced downward at Michael, tears streaming down his face from the pain he was in.

"P-please, man." He wept.

"Isn't it ironic that you beg with the same cries she did, yet no one listened to her?"

My growl rumbled low and threatening, my anger radiating from every pore of my skin. I stalked around the table, the tip of my large blade glinting in the light. With a swift and precise strike, I sliced through his other hand, rendering him helpless. The metallic smell of blood and sweat filled the air as he howled in pain. My eyes burned with a mix of fury and satisfaction. "No one's listening, Mikey !"

His desperate shouts echoed off the kitchen walls as I stooped down, grabbed his dismembered hand, and slapped him with it a few times. "What the hell, man? Stop hitting yourself." I couldn't help but laugh as the back of his severed hand met his face yet again.

But I had enough of the small talk and was ready to discuss why I was there. He was bleeding profusely, and I didn't have the means to bring him back if I wanted to hear his confession.

I stepped around him, my red mask glowing in the darkness. "Now," I said tonelessly, "let's return to my question." He remained silent, his eyes wide with fear. "Was. It. Worth. it?" I repeated slowly so his pea-sized brain could understand.

He inhaled deeply, and his lips curled in a smirk, an act that infuriated me immensely. "Her vagina wasn't as snug as I imagined it would be for a first-timer…" Before I could stop myself, I slammed my fist into the side of his head. Blood spurted from his mouth across the kitchen wall.

I uttered a deep, menacing growl. "That wasn't very nice," I said through gritted teeth. "I will make you pay for what you did to her - by your blood - until you confess and speak her name, "I vowed.

Michael raised his gaze. "Go to hell," he grumbled just before my fist met the side of his skull again.

"I've already been. Why don't you join me?" I chuckled and went to the kitchen drawers, searching for implements to play doctor with. I took a corkscrew, a pizza slicer, and a meat mallet. "There are so many fun toys to choose from." I chortled menacingly as I faced Michael again. "It's decision time," I said ominously as I caressed each tool, trying to get a feel for which one I would use first.

Michael visibly gulped as he stared at me, fear on his face. "What are you doing with those?" His voice was squeaky, like a dog toy getting stepped on.

I stepped over to him once again. "Oh, you mean these old things?" I laughed under my mask. "They're just to torture you with," I declared before slamming the meat tenderizer down repeatedly onto his measly dick, turning it into ground sausage.

His shrieks were so loud that I was sure the neighbors had to hear them. Perhaps they weren't fond of him either and would disregard his cries, thinking the silver spoon boy here wasn't getting his way and was throwing a tantrum with mommy and daddy.

His breathing was shallow after taking the beating to his boyhood, but I still hadn't gotten what I needed from him, so the torment must continue. I picked up the corkscrew and moved it towards Michael's face, hovering it above his eye. "It's time for you to tell me what I want to hear," I said in a low voice. "Say her name!" I sneered.

Tremors wracked Michael's body as he clenched his teeth, trying to hold back the scream clawing its way up his throat. His voice shook as he managed to gasp out a few words, his lower half consumed by agonizing pain. "L-Lyric." Tears ran freely down his cheeks as he accepted what awaited him after uttering her name.

Rage dripping from my every word, I questioned, "What did you do to Lyric?"

He cried, having resigned himself to defeat, and mumbled quietly, "I raped her."

I was disappointed that I didn't get to use the corkscrew or pizza cutter. "You gave up so quickly," I said sadly. "Oh well, there's always your next friend." I sang a cheerful tune as I pulled open the drawer and retrieved the butcher knife. When I approached Michael, the silver from the blade flashed across his face as it hit the light peeking in through the window. Michael's eyes widened in panic as I raised the massive knife above my head. With one swift, powerful arc of the blade, I severed his neck. Michael's head rolled away, and I kicked it across the kitchen floor with a loud thud. It hit the china cabinet and shattered the glass into thousands of jagged pieces scattered like shrapnel across the tiled room.

Drawing my butterfly knife from the depths of my hoodie, I press the blade against Michael's chest and carve her name on it.

Satisfied, I walked over to my phone and crouched for everyone to see. "Stan, his head was for you, buddy," I said as I tucked the corkscrew away and grabbed my phone, giving my audience a final warning. "Right now, anyone involved in Lyric's assault is on my list. But if any of you ever touch her, torment her, or even so much as negatively mention her name, I promise I'll add your names, too. That goes for both Detective Davis and Detective Cartwright. You lay a finger on mi Reina again, and I'll have your heads," I threatened before ending the livestream.

As I strolled out of Michael's house, the familiar time still hummed through my lips. The ropes binding his lifeless body to the dining table had held firm. The room was filled with the scent of blood and freshly cut flesh, a fitting reminder that death could come at any moment. My lack of remorse or fear of being caught only solidified my message: no one was safe from me.