"What the…?" The middle-aged mechanic was taken aback by the response.
"It seems like the boss really needs to talk with us," a redheaded woman said, her eyes shifting toward the man at the mic beside her.
She was like a porcelain vase—clear skin, long hair tied into a ponytail, an hourglass figure—her presence a sharp contrast to the environment around her.
"Yeah, but who's the new guy on the mic upstairs? Why's he talking for C.C.?" the pot-bellied man asked, finger off the transmission button, glancing toward the desk lady seated in front of a monitor cluttered with rough drafts of car designs and logos.
She blew a bubble of gum, fingers formatting her computer as the last of the recording data uploaded into a hard drive.
"I don't know~" she said seductively, pulling out the drive and stretching her arms.
Her tank top rode up just enough to flirt with indecency.
"Oh, I better get going," she purred, standing from her station. "I'll be heading home. Tell Mr. Mic the cameras in the woods weren't my idea." She chuckled under her breath.
Then she looked at the man's finger, lazily hovering over the transmitter. "Pfft, never mind. He's probably heard it himself. Well, I better take off."
She fixed her jacket, strutting with effortless elegance even in sneakers.
Her eyes flicked to one of the new cameras she'd installed—linked directly to the boss's computer—and she blew it a kiss before heading toward one of the cars outside the garage.
"Hey, Missy!" the middle-aged man called. "Where do you think you're going? Didn't you hear we need to be—hey, hey!" he yelled.
Missy ignored him. She opened the door and bent toward the glove compartment, her shorts stretching tight as she arched forward.
"You go on without me. I'll be there in a second," she replied, rummaging through her purse for white foundation.
Dolling herself up, she powdered her skin until she looked paler than a ghost.
Then she turned back to the glove box and pulled out a small, thin laptop—about 1.3 inches thick.
Bulking herself up a bit as she sat down, she plugged in the USB while applying her foundation. She hummed softly, lost in her own world.
Seeing that her files would take a minute to load, she rummaged through her purse again, fishing out a stick of black-purple lipstick.
"What's wrong with that girl?" the middle-aged man muttered, shaking his head before walking back into the building.
How long has it been since I felt this excited? Missy Stormhill thought, her arms trembling with that familiar emotion.
It all started with that small blur on the CCTV footage.
If I wasn't half-monitoring the newly installed surveillance, I might have missed this new rush. I'd been busy setting up the camera systems, doodling new wrap styles for my truck and motorbike—
Why?
What other fun is there while waiting for all your cameras to boot up after a messy storm, hoping they'd fix themselves and save me the trouble of checking them personally?
Plus, it helped pass the boredom as I absentmindedly went through the day's motions.
Other than that, I was logging finished cars ready for pickup, working on a few engines, tires, and brakes, then setting up new vehicle delivery routes for buyers while checking the radio and news for police roadblocks.
The cops had been acting up recently—cracking down on organized crime, car theft, and distribution under the new New York Constables Act.
They called it "cleaning up the city," but it just pissed off commissioners, constables, or pig higher up the chain, all demanding more state funding while terrorizing the poor gangs just trying to make a living.
To think it all started with a rich boy playing officer to "make a difference."
Hmph.
Who knew how much damage a billionaire joining the police force with daddy's money could do? I heard he was investing in new taser technology and police equipment.
That was big news—electric-resistant gloves to pair with electrified batons, bulletproof vests made from advanced layered composites, and other tech that got swept away the moment it leaked.
But hey, at least he was gunning for the big leagues, like the Russians and Italians, with those heavy-duty wall-piercing rounds and tear gases he planned on deploying.
Otherwise, our small operations wouldn't have lasted this long.
That pressure let smaller gangs nibble at the two Mafia groups, selling in their territories or supplying them with eyes and ears on the ground. We had one such connection—a large gang named Twisted Metal. They were street racers ordering custom parts and upgrades.
Loyal customers who needed routine maintenance, especially after city authorities shut down all their local repair shops, leaving them with only one destination in a city far away.
And if I was lucky—and given the green light—I'd get to escort those cars to the customers.
That was the only fun I wrote about.
I'd drive fast through the streets in pimped-out motorwheels, deliver them, then catch a bus home. But I loved the thrill of delivering new rides and racing with no one to stop me.
So much so that, outside of work, I'd race my motorbike through the city.
That was my rush.
But recently, with the spike in gang activity, I'd limited my joyrides.
I couldn't risk going out during the new turf war brewing between the Red Flags and Oil-Hand—not and expect a bat to miss cracking my skull the moment they recognized the flag emblem painted proudly on my jacket.
I might be an adrenaline junkie, but I still valued my life too much to throw it away.
I sighed.
My life felt restricted on all sides—by the super-cop in New York, his envious competitors, and local gang wars.
The world was starting to look more and more like the comics I read growing up. All that was missing was the super-cop getting a secret identity and a rogue's gallery of villains showing up.
I smiled. That'd never happen, right?
I thought, sketching machine guns onto drawings of both my truck and bike, scrawling a mask onto a self-portrait.
It was just as I started scribbling over the mask—too embarrassing—that I finally glanced back at my monitor, about to exit the cameras and start logging.
Then I saw it.
A man panicking through the woods.
My eyebrow rose as I reached for the notes icon beneath the desktop slider—when a blur followed behind the man. It blinked out of existence before I could make it out, but it was there. I saw it with my own two eyes.
A man half-shattered, with another human layer beneath where the pieces fell away.
Impossible.
My eyes locked onto Camera Thirteen, following the man running through the woods. Even if I couldn't believe what I'd seen, the footage didn't lie.
Then I saw it again.
The two-faced figure gave chase with supernatural prowess, disappearing and reappearing from branch to branch. It eventually cornered the man it chased—skin white, limbs elongated, teeth bared, irises opening all over its body.
It talked like a man, offering the man below its pistol.
This should have horrified me.
A monster was twisting into reality as I sat there—with a horrific figure that'd make anything bleed on sight.
A demon incarnate from the pits of hell. Again, it should have horrified me.
But it didn't…
I gasped and leaned back from the monitor, but it wasn't fear that made me retreat.
It was excitement.
My mind didn't freeze. My blood didn't turn cold. I didn't hold my breath.
I felt joy—and it only grew as I watched.
The demonic jester hadn't noticed the cameras yet. Maybe it was too hungry to care.
It ate the guard's head whole, then discarded it, savoring its one-bite meal and the misty substance it inhaled from the wound.
Its body shifted again, becoming less monstrous—more human—as it hummed and dissolved into black mist.
My heart sank.
I quickly checked the outdoor cameras but found nothing—until I realized it had chased one of the warehouse guards. That meant it had come close.
Very close.
I switched to the base cameras, starting with the hidden wall units positioned from the forest rather than the walls themselves.
And sure enough, there it was.
It took on the form of its kill in every aspect, then lured another guard into the woods before killing him too. The jester continued its spree—right in front of me.
I could've informed someone.
But I didn't.
For the first time in ages, I was too entertained.
That entertainment peaked when it found my camera.
Hidden in a fake bird's nest, it looked straight at it—and laughed. Shifting back into a jester, it bowed.
Sinister. Sweet.
Like the closing act of a show.
What came next was brutal.
It didn't waste time—killing enforcers and guards in one sweep before heading toward the boss's room. Probably thinking it had been caught on camera and still had time to erase everything… or that the boss had already fled.
But it didn't know.
I was the only one with access to the cameras. The only one I'd set up for the boss was the garage feed.
In a way, I was responsible for its successful infiltration—but holding that over its head wouldn't be the smartest move.
I thought about what to do next.
It was in the building now. It wouldn't be long before it came for me.
So what should I do—run?
I could take my truck, flee as far as possible, forget this place, start over…
The thought left me hollow.
Was that really it? Running away?
I looked back at the cameras, plugged in a USB, and uploaded all the recorded footage. Then what? He'd find out I had it, track me down, and I'd end up six feet under.
I sighed, glanced at my sketch, and smiled.
"If this were a comic book," I thought, watching the feed, "wouldn't you be considered the final villain? So shouldn't I go to the hero for help—to thwart your evil plans?"
"No. That'd be boring."
"Joining you sounds way more fun."
I spoke softly, remembering the thrill I'd felt just watching him. "I want to see how much more joy you can bring me."
The speakers crackled, calling me and two others up to the boss's room.
Hmm. Looks like you've dealt with them already.
I ignored the mechanic who tried to talk to me, waiting for the transfer to finish. Then I deleted everything on the computer.
If I wanted to join his circus, I had one chance to impress.
I stood up and walked to my car.
I knew just the way to make a great first impression.