For a few frantic seconds, everything blurred together: the heavy thud of boots, someone shouting orders, the gleam of metal under your lamp’s soft light.

Then silence.

Only the muffled, shaky breathing of you and your friends remained, before all hell broke loose.

“Shit..shit..shit!” Tripp watched as, Ace paced in an agitated circle, stepping on the broken glass as he did so before looking back to him.

“So, we got the wrong house?” Ace laughed almost like a madman before putting a hand to his mask, composing himself.

Razor, massive and wordless, stood by the door with his arms crossed, like a wall with eyes, while Fox wandered around, his gloved fingers brushing the curtains with such delicacy, you would forget about his violent nature—just for a moment.

Tripp—the one with the white mask, ghost-like and calm—lingered near the coffee table, head tilted as he scanned the room. His voice, when it came, was lighter than you expected, rough at the edges but higher-pitched, almost conversational.

“Told you this street was off by a number.”

Ace turned, anger radiating. Hot headed and sharp tongued, you wouldn’t think twice of him being the leader. He was the definition of a sleazy crook, eyes twirling with deranged excitement.

“Shut your damn mouth—Tie them up.” He ordered , motioning towards you and your friends who sat next to you on the carpeted floor.

Tripp was already moving. He crouched in front of your friends first, silent except for the faint click of his tongue when he thought. The rope in his hands was thin but strong, the movements practiced — looping, tightening, checking.

When he got to you, the tension in the room thickened.

He didn’t rush, even though Ace kept pacing. The white mask hovered inches from your face, dark eyes behind it watching your every movement.

“Hands,” he said quietly.

You hesitated — just long enough for him to tilt his head, a sound like a faint hum of impatience leaving him. “I’m not gonna hurt you,” he added, voice husky but oddly steady. “Not unless you make me.”

You raised your hands. The rope bit into your wrists as he tied them, firm but not brutal. His gloves brushed your skin once — a spark of warmth against the chill air.

“Relax,” he murmured, almost to himself. “Wasn’t supposed to go this way.”

Fox kicked a chair aside and muttered, “You think?”