Reaper's MC: Crowned By Death

02:17 A.M. — UNKNOWN LOCATION

The first thing she noticed was the cold.

Not the kind that came from winter air or damp walls, but the kind that settled deep in her bones, made worse by the metal chair pressed against her skin. Her wrists were bound behind her back with zip ties.

Her ankles were taped to the chair legs. Thick strips of silver duct tape wrapped too many times, pinching skin, cutting circulation. Another band crossed her thighs. 

A single bulb swung overhead, slow and hypnotic, throwing the room into alternating slices of light and shadow. It made the figures around her seem unreal, as if they were stepping in and out of existence.

Masks. All of them.

Plastic skulls. Black cloth with stitched smiles. A blank white face with eyeholes cut too wide. One looked like cracked porcelain, its painted mouth frozen in a grin. She didn’t recognize any of them.

Her pulse hammered in her throat. She swallowed and tasted metal, sharp and familiar. Fear.

“Stop shaking,” a voice said.

Low. Calm. Almost bored.

She forced herself still, but the tremor in her hands refused to obey. A muffled laugh followed, someone circling behind her chair, boots crunching over grit. Something brushed her hair, fingers or fabric, she couldn’t tell, and she flinched hard enough that the chair scraped backward, the sound echoing off the walls.

The hand tightened in her hair, pulling just enough to make her eyes burn.

“Don’t do that,” the calm voice warned. “You’ll make this worse.”

Her breath hitched. She tried to steady it. Failed.

The grip released abruptly. Her head snapped forward.

“Please,” she said before she could stop herself.

The room went still, like it was listening.

“Please,” the calm voice repeated, faintly amused. “That’s a good start.”

She stared at the floor between her boots. Concrete stained with old oil, dark smears she refused to identify.

A figure stepped into the light. Skull mask. Hollow eyes too close to hers.

“You know why you’re here,” the skull mask said.

“I—” Her throat tightened. “No.”

A hand struck the back of the chair, sharp, loud. She jumped.

“Don’t lie,” the skull mask snapped. “We don’t have patience for lies.”

“I don’t know who you are,” she said, voice wavering despite her effort. “I don’t know what you want.”

The calm one sighed. “You do. You’re just hoping we’ll say it first.”

Metal scraped against concrete. A folding chair dragged forward. The calm one sat opposite her, elbows resting on his knees. His mask was plain, black cloth, no markings, just holes for eyes and mouth.

That mask scared her the most.

“No theatrics,” he said softly. “No screaming. No games. You answer, you walk out. You don’t answer…” He shrugged. “We find someone else who will.”

Her mouth went dry.

“Someone else,” she echoed.

A different masked figure snorted. “She thinks she’s important.”

She pulled against the zip ties again, panic overriding logic. They bit deeper. Her eyes burned.

“What do you want?” she whispered.

“Information,” the calm one said. “Simple.”

The skull mask leaned closer. “Names.”

Her stomach dropped.

“I don’t—”

The skull mask slammed a hand onto her shoulder, pinning her to the chair. She gasped, ribs protesting beneath the tape.

“Try again,” he said. “Don’t waste our time.”

Her breathing turned shallow. She counted. One. Two. Three. It didn’t help.

The calm one tilted his head. “Tell me about the clubhouse.”

She stared at him, confusion slicing through fear. “What?”

“The place,” he said patiently. “The bar. The lot. The back rooms. Who’s there. When.”

Her lips parted. Nothing came out.

“You can start small,” he continued, voice sharpening just a touch. “Something harmless. To prove you understand what happens if you don’t.”

“I—I don’t know schedules,” she said.

He exhaled slowly. “You don’t know schedules.”

“No.” The lie tasted thin.

The skull mask laughed. “She’s cute.”

“Look at me,” the calm one said.

Her eyes dragged up, unwilling. She met the dark holes of his mask.

“You know schedules,” he said. “You know who comes and goes. Who watches doors and who doesn’t. You know when it gets quiet—and why.”

Her throat worked. “Even if I did… why would I tell you?”

He nodded, as if pleased. “There it is.”

He glanced aside. “Show her.”

A masked figure stepped forward holding a phone. The screen lit up.

A porch. A railing. A door she knew so well her vision tunneled.

Air caught painfully in her chest.

“No,” she breathed.

“Don’t,” the calm one said quietly. “Don’t make me explain this like you’re slow.”

“You can’t—”

“Can’t what?” the skull mask asked brightly. “Go to a house? Wait outside? Locks don’t matter.”

She shook her head hard enough to make her scalp ache. “Leave them out of this.”

“They were never out of it,” the calm one said. “They’re the reason you’re still breathing.”

The phone lowered.

The room felt smaller. The swinging bulb made the walls seem closer, closing in.

“Who’s protected?” the calm one asked.

Her mouth opened. Nothing. Her jaw trembled.

“Answer,” the skull mask pressed.

She squeezed her eyes shut. A tear slipped free, and she hated herself for it.

“I don’t want anyone hurt,” she whispered.

“Then talk.”

“They have men,” she said finally, voice barely audible. “On the edges. Watching. Not always visible.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know names,” she lied again, desperation making her reckless.

“You’re doing it again,” the skull mask said, pleased.

The chair jolted as someone kicked one of the legs. She cried out, heart racing so fast it blurred.

“Enough,” the calm one snapped.

The room froze.

He stood and approached slowly, certainty in every step. He crouched until his mask was level with her face.

“You’re not stupid,” he said softly. “Stop acting like it. Names. One.”

She shook her head.

“One,” he repeated, colder.

The bulb flickered. His mask vanished into shadow, then reappeared.

“Usually… him,” she said shakily. “The one everyone listens to.”

“And when he’s not there?”

Her mind raced. Too much damned them. Too little damned her.

“There are gaps,” she admitted. “Sometimes people assume someone else is watching.”

“Routes,” the calm one said.

“I don’t—”

Something slapped the chair arm beside her, sharp and loud. She screamed.

“Stop!” she sobbed. “Please—I’ll talk.”

“Good.”

“There’s a back way,” she said, shaking. “Service road. Trucks use it. No cameras for part of it.”

“Times.”

“Late. After the bar closes. Before sunrise.”

Silence. Then—

“You want to go home.”

“Yes,” she whispered. “I want to go home.”

“Untie her,” the skull mask said.

Panic surged. “Wait—”

“If you run, we find you,” the calm one said. “If you lie, we know. If you warn anyone, we know.”

Hands snapped the zip ties. Blood rushed painfully back into her wrists. Tape peeled away in slow, burning pulls.

They hauled her upright. Her knees barely held.

At the door, the calm one spoke again.

“This isn’t over.”

Her throat tightened.

“I know.”

Cold night air hit her face as the door opened.

And the only thought echoing through her mind was the one she couldn’t stop—

What have I just done?