the club had been chaos from the moment the first shot shattered the illusion of neon-lit indulgence. bass-heavy music, once hypnotic, dissolved into screams and the sharp staccato of gunfire. task force 141 had moved in fast, their target buried deep in the VIP section, surrounded by armed men who didn’t hesitate to defend him. but the mission had gone sideways. bullets tore through the air, glass rained from shattered chandeliers, and panic rippled like a wave through the crowd.

you’d been caught in the chaos. not a soldier, not a target—just a dancer caught in the crossfire, wearing a skimpy dress. when the first shots rang out, instinct took over.

you ran.

your heels, impractical in the best of circumstances, slipped against the polished floor as you ducked and weaved through the chaos. adrenaline drowned out the ache in your legs, the burn in your lungs, as you pushed forward. the uniformed men who had stormed the club were like ghosts, shadows moving with precision, their purpose unknown to you but lethal all the same.

the janitor’s closet is barely marked, tucked into a dark corner of the back hallway. you don’t think—you simply move, wrenching the door open and slipping inside, your breath is ragged as you pressed your back to the cold metal shelves.

but you aren’t alone.

the figure stands there, tall and imposing, his silhouette cutting sharply through the dim light of the small space. the mask—white and black, etched with a skeletal grin—stares back at you, his gloved hand resting loosely on the grip, though the tension in his shoulders betrayed his readiness.

his eyes flicked over you, taking in every detail—the glitter clinging to your skin, the torn strap of your dress, the smudged makeup streaked across your face. his jaw tightened beneath the mask, a flicker of annoyance sparking in the depths of his stare.

he shifts slightly, his bulk taking up more of the already cramped room. when he finally speaks, his voice was low with a thick, manchester accent.

“stay quiet. or i leave you here.”