Nathan

Nathan was sprawled across his worn couch at home, mindlessly scrolling through his phone when the sharp ring of an incoming call cut through the silence of his apartment. He glanced at the screen—unknown number. His jaw clenched as he let it ring out, that familiar sense of dread and anticipation coiling in his gut. A few seconds later, the voicemail notification popped up. His heart rate picked up. He knew exactly who it was.

With slightly trembling fingers, he pressed play on the voicemail, the automated voice giving way to that unnervingly cheerful, fake-friendly tone:

"Hi Nathan, this uh....'Bob' from Jimmy's Tools & Repairs. I was calling to inform you that your TV has been fixed and is ready for pickup. Just come by at south 8th street—please hurry."

The message ended with a click that seemed to echo in the quiet room. Nathan sat there for a moment, staring at nothing, his crystalline blue eyes distant. Then he exhaled sharply through his nose and muttered under his breath, "Fuck... here we go again." Despite the curse, there was something else in his voice—a dark anticipation, maybe even excitement.

He pushed himself up from the couch, his long golden-to-pink ombré hair falling over his shoulders as he moved with practiced efficiency. No hesitation now. He grabbed his black duffle bag from the closet and methodically loaded it: his fire axe—still bearing faint rust-colored stains from last time that he'd never quite scrubbed out completely—his Franchi SPAS-12 shotgun, and two boxes of shells that rattled ominously as he shoved them in. He zipped the bag shut, the sound final and resolute.

Nathan grabbed his white and dusty rose rabbit mask, running his thumb over the painted eyelashes before tucking it into the bag. He slung it over his shoulder, the weight familiar and almost comforting now, then headed out to his car. The drive to south 8th street felt both endless and too short, his mind a swirl of adrenaline and that sick thrill he'd come to associate with these "pickups."

When he arrived, the street was exactly as expected—desolate, lined with crumbling buildings that Miami's boom had left behind. The "abandoned" house stood among them, its windows dark and boards covering what used to be a front door. But Nathan could tell. He always could. The subtle signs were there: fresh tire tracks in the dirt, a faint glow from a back window, the barely perceptible hum of voices speaking in harsh Russian consonants.

He parked a block away, pulled on his rabbit mask—the familiar weight settling over his features like a second skin—and grabbed his weapons. His breathing deepened as he approached, fire axe gripped in one hand, shotgun in the other. He didn't bother with stealth at the entrance. Subtlety wasn't the point.

Nathan kicked in the side door with his combat boot, the wood splintering with a satisfying crack. The first Russian mobster barely had time to turn, cigarette still dangling from his lips, before Nathan raised the SPAS-12 and squeezed the trigger. The blast was deafening in the enclosed space. The man's head exploded in a spray of crimson that painted the wall behind him, Nathan felt that familiar rush—sick, wrong, but undeniably intoxicating.

He advanced into the house, his sadistic grin hidden beneath the rabbit mask, ready to clear room by room. But then something stopped him cold.

Gunfire—but not directed at him. It came from the opposite side of the building, rapid and professional. Russians screaming, their voices cutting off mid-cry. The distinctive boom of a different shotgun. Splintering wood. Breaking glass. And then... silence. Heavy, ringing silence that made Nathan's skin prickle with alertness.

He moved cautiously now, his earlier bloodlust tempered by confusion and wariness. Who the fuck else was here? Another Vigilante? he never had someone at the same location. Never.

Nathan rounded a corner into what used to be a living room, now littered with overturned furniture and three more dead Russians in spreading pools of blood. And there, standing in the center of the carnage, was a figure he didn't recognize.

You were wearing a chicken mask that covered your head entirely, the kind with a grotesque beak and painted feathers. A letterman jacket—vintage, covered in patches—obscured any identifying features of your build. You held your weapon with the ease of someone who'd done this before. Many times.

Nathan felt his grip tighten on his axe, that sadistic excitement flooding back, mixing with territorial anger. His voice came out lower than usual, almost unrecognizable—deep and dripping with barely contained violence:

"Who the hell are you Cuz!?"

Neither of you moved. Neither of you recognized the person beneath the other's mask. The air between you crackled with tension—two predators meeting unexpectedly in the same hunting ground, unsure whether to fight or acknowledge a kindred spirit.

Nathan's heart pounded beneath his cropped hoodie, his piercing catching the dim light as his chest heaved with adrenaline. Despite the standoff, despite the danger, there was something else rising in him—curiosity, and that sick, eager anticipation of violence that he'd learned to embrace since the masks had entered his life.

The abandoned house reeked of stale cigarette smoke, cheap vodka, and something metallic—blood, lots of it. You stood there in your signature chicken mask, its grotesque painted beak and garish feathers catching the flickering light from the single bare bulb overhead. Your vintage letterman jacket, covered in patches collected over countless violent nights, hung heavy on your shoulders as adrenaline still coursed through your veins from the Russians you'd just taken down.

You'd been so focused on your mission, so consumed by the automated voice's instructions, that you hadn't expected anyone else to be here. But then this rabbit-masked figure had burst in from the opposite side, clearly on the same hunt. Initially, you'd assumed they were just another obstacle—maybe a Russian lookout you'd missed, or some random psycho getting in your way.

The figure moved with surprising agility despite their smaller frame, swinging a fire axe with deadly intent. They launched themselves at you with aggressive, almost reckless attacks. You reacted on pure instinct and training, pulling out your trusty golf club—your favorite close-quarters weapon—and easily maneuvered around their strikes. Your movements were fluid, practiced, the result of months of these midnight massacres.

You deflected another wild swing of their axe, then saw your opening. With brutal efficiency, you smacked the club hard across their knees with a sickening crack, immediately following up with a vicious swing to their face. The rabbit mask absorbed some of the impact, but not enough—they crumpled to the blood-stained floor with a pained grunt, their axe clattering away across the room.

Your heart pounded in your chest as you raised your boot, positioning it over their face, preparing to deliver the final stomp that would end this interference. Your breathing was heavy inside the confining chicken mask, fogging up slightly. But then something caught your eye—something that made your entire body freeze mid-motion.

Through the gap where their mask had shifted from the impact, you saw it: golden blonde hair, unmistakable even in the dim light, gradually transitioning into bright purplish-pink at the ends of the strands. That ombré was unique, impossible to mistake. Your blood ran cold despite the heat of combat.

No. It couldn't be.

With trembling hands, you lowered your foot and instead grabbed the end of your golf club. Hesitantly, almost fearfully, you used it to carefully lift the edge of the white and dusty rose rabbit mask. The painted eyelashes and bunny ears shifted as the mask tilted back, revealing the face beneath.

Your heart didn't just sink—it plummeted into a dark abyss of horror and disbelief.

It was Nathan. YOUR Nathan. Your best friend, the guy you'd known since high school, the one person who actually got you. His crystalline blue eyes stared up at you, wide with his own recognition now, blood trickling from his nose where you'd struck him. His long hair was splayed out around his head like a halo, and you could see his piercing glinting beneath his cropped hoodie as his chest heaved with labored breaths.

Your shocked, horrified expression was hidden behind your chicken mask, but your body language betrayed everything—the way you'd frozen completely, the tremor in your hands, the slight backward step you took as if physically recoiling from the reality before you.

But Nathan, being Nathan, decided this was the perfect moment to be his bratty, defiant self. Despite being on the ground, beaten and bleeding, despite having this person about to kill him, he managed to inject that signature cockiness into his voice. It came out slightly breathless and pained, but the attitude was unmistakable:

"What? Want me to beg? To cry? Well guess what! I'm too much of an Alpha Sigma to die, so go ahead, kill me—or are you too much of a beta to do it?!"

His words hung in the air, that gen-z slang somehow making this nightmare scenario even more surreal. The taunt was classic Nathan—deflecting vulnerability with aggression, masking fear with bravado, even now.

The golf club slipped from your numb fingers, hitting the floor with a hollow thud that echoed through the death-filled room. Your hands moved to your mask almost automatically, fingers finding the edge. In one smooth motion, you pulled the chicken mask off your head, letting Nathan see your face for the first time tonight—letting him see the shock, the horror, the anguish written across your features.

The mask dangled from your hand as you both stared at each other, two best friends who'd been unknowingly hunting the same prey, following the same mysterious instructions, living the same secret violent double life. The weight of this revelation settled between you like a physical thing, heavy and suffocating.

Neither of you spoke. What could possibly be said?

You brought Nathan to your home after the disastrous encounter, your mind still reeling from discovering your best friend had been living the same violent double life. The drive back had been suffocatingly silent, both processing the impossible reality. Nathan couldn't walk straight after you'd hit him in the knees with your golf club, his legs wobbling beneath him, so you'd half-carried him inside while he hissed in pain through gritted teeth.

Now he rested on your bed, his long golden-to-pink ombré hair splayed messily across your pillows. His cropped hoodie was stained with dirt and blood—some his, some not. The belly button piercing he was always proud of caught the light from your bedside lamp, the rose gold bar glinting as his chest rose and fell with each breath.

"You're a fuckin' dick, you know that?" Nathan said annoyed, rubbing his bruised cheek softly with slender fingers. The area was already turning a nasty purple-blue color, spreading across his delicate features. Surprisingly he didn't lose any teeth—you'd both gotten lucky there, though "lucky" felt like a grotesque word for tonight.

He winced as he adjusted position, his injured knees protesting the movement. Pain flickered across his crystalline blue eyes—those eyes that had looked at you with friendship for years, now clouded with hurt both physical and emotional.

"So what are we going to do now? Are we going to do this separately, or are we going to do this together?" he asked, his voice dropping an octave and losing that defensive bratty quality. He looked up at you with a surprising amount of maturity, his usual walls momentarily lowered. His fingers unconsciously played with a strand of his ombré hair while he waited for your answer, and you realized whatever you decided would fundamentally change both your lives forever.

It's been a couple of months since that night, but you and Nathan had become both partners in crime and an actual couple. You both kept each other safe as you killed any and all Russian mobsters that you came across, moving through Miami like twin angels of death, your masks becoming symbols of terror to the mob.

But today was different—you both sensed it the moment those automated calls came through. Today was a big day, and you both knew it when you got a call to a hotel. It loomed before you like a fortress, heavily guarded by what seemed like an army of Russian mobsters in white suits. This was their headquarters—the final mission.

Nathan stood beside you in the shadows across the street, his long golden-to-pink ombré hair catching the neon lights. His crystalline blue eyes studied the building with unusual seriousness beneath his typical bratty demeanor.

He turned to look at you, his expression uncharacteristically vulnerable. "You think it's the last time we do this?" Nathan asked quietly. The question hung heavy between you—it could mean freedom or death.

You shrugged, unable to articulate the anxiety in your chest. But then Nathan gently held your hand, his slender fingers intertwining with yours, and you could feel the slight tremor betraying his hidden fear.

"Well, I don't care if we get imprisoned for life or die here," Nathan said, his voice taking on that breathy quality when he was being genuinely vulnerable. "I just want to let you know I love you more than anything, on god, fr fr."

After killing the army of Russian Mobsters, their bodies littering the blood-soaked floors of the mansion, you and Nathan made your way to the top floor. Your boots left crimson footprints on the expensive marble stairs as you ascended, weapons still warm from the carnage below. The air grew thicker with tension as you reached the penthouse level, where the father of the mafia—a grizzled, scarred man in an expensive suit—stood flanked by his final line of defense: two sleek, deadly panthers that prowled restlessly on either side of him, their yellow eyes gleaming with predatory intelligence, along with a tall, athletic blonde bodyguard woman who gripped a tactical knife with practiced ease.

They were light work compared to what you'd already faced. Nathan moved first with fluid grace, his fire axe singing through the air as he engaged the two panthers. The first lunged at him with claws extended, but he sidestepped and brought the axe down in a brutal arc that ended the beast instantly. The second panther barely had time to react before Nathan spun, his long ombré hair whipping around him like a battle standard, and buried the axe deep into its skull with a sickening crunch.

Meanwhile, you focused on the blonde woman. She came at you fast—trained, professional—her knife flashing in a series of practiced strikes meant to incapacitate. But you'd been doing this too long. You deflected her blade with your weapon, stepped inside her guard, and ended her with ruthless efficiency. She collapsed in a heap, her blood pooling on the pristine white carpet.

The father, seeing his protection decimated in mere seconds, panicked. He pulled an SMG from beneath his jacket and opened fire, the deafening staccato of automatic gunfire filling the opulent room. You dove behind a large ornate pillar, bullets chipping away at the marble as you pressed your back against it, catching your breath. The acrid smell of gunpowder filled your nostrils.

Nathan, however, seized the moment with the cunning that made him so dangerous. While the father focused his fire on your position, Nathan smoothly pulled the knife from the blonde womans corpse,took careful aim despite the chaos, and hurled it with deadly precision. The blade spun through the air in a silver arc before embedding itself directly into the father's forehead with a wet thunk. The man's eyes went wide with shock, the SMG clattering from his hands as he stumbled backward and collapsed, dead before he hit the floor.

But you both knew instinctively that you weren't done. There was an energy in the air, a presence that suggested one more piece remained on this blood-soaked chessboard. Nathan moved toward an adjacent door you hadn't noticed before—heavy oak with intricate Russian carvings—and kicked it open with his combat boot. The door swung wide to reveal a dimly lit room that reeked of cigars and old money.

There, in the center of the room beneath a single hanging lamp, sat an old man in an ornate wheelchair. He had to be in his eighties at least, with a face like weathered leather and cold, calculating eyes that had seen decades of violence and corruption. This was the grandfather—the original architect of the Russian mafia empire you'd been systematically destroying.

"Ahh, so it was you two who were making all that ruckus," he said, his voice raspy but remarkably calm, almost amused. There was no fear in his tone, only a kind of resigned acceptance mixed with dark amusement. "I should have known it would end like this. Two angels of death come to collect what's owed."

You both stepped into the room, weapons raised—your gun and Nathan's shotgun—both aimed directly at the old man's head. Your fingers tensed on the triggers, ready to finish what you'd started, to finally end the Russian mafia's reign of terror over Miami once and for all.

But the grandfather simply smiled—a cold, bitter smile that held no warmth—and slowly, deliberately, reached into his robe. For a moment you thought he might have a weapon hidden there, but what he pulled out was a small, snub-nosed revolver. Ancient, but well-maintained.

He didn't point it at either of you.

Instead, with movements that spoke of absolute finality, he pressed the barrel against his own temple, his weathered finger curling around the trigger.

"I'm not giving you the pleasure of killing me," he stated with quiet dignity and defiance, his eyes meeting yours and then Nathan's. "This empire was mine to build. It will be mine to end."

The gunshot was deafening in the enclosed space. His head snapped to the side, blood and brain matter splattering across the expensive wallpaper behind him. His body slumped in the wheelchair, the revolver falling from his lifeless fingers to clatter on the hardwood floor. The silence that followed was absolute, broken only by your ragged breathing.

The entire Russian mafia—decades of criminal empire—had been destroyed in a single night.

Nathan stood there for a long moment, staring at the scene, before slowly reaching up and pulling off his white and dusty rose rabbit mask. His golden-to-pink ombré hair tumbled free, slightly damp with sweat, framing his face as he turned to look at you. His crystalline blue eyes were bright with adrenaline and something else—relief, triumph, maybe even joy. A genuine smile spread across his features, the kind of smile you rarely saw from him.

"We did it," he breathed, his voice filled with wonder and disbelief. "It's all over now. We can finally go home. No more mysterious phone calls, no more masks, no more killing. It's... it's actually over."

But before you could process his words, before you could respond or even lower your weapon, Nathan closed the distance between you in two quick steps. His slender hands reached up and gently but firmly pulled your chicken mask off, lifting it away from your face and letting it drop to the floor with a hollow thud.

For the first time all night, you stood face to face, truly seeing each other—no masks, no barriers, just two people who'd been through hell together and survived.

And then Nathan kissed you.

His lips pressed against yours with sudden urgency, soft yet demanding, his hands sliding up to cup your face. It was intense, passionate—filled with all the adrenaline, fear, relief, and unspoken feelings that had been building between you through countless violent nights. His body pressed close to yours, his piercing pressing against your chest through his cropped hoodie, and for a moment the world narrowed to just this—just him, just this kiss in a room full of death and blood.

When he finally pulled back slightly, his face flushed and his breath coming in short gasps, his blue eyes searched yours with a mixture of vulnerability and defiant hope that was so quintessentially Nathan.

It's been an entire year since you and Nathan took down the Russian Mafia in that blood-soaked hotel in Miami. The weight of that night still lingered in your dreams sometimes—the smell of gunpowder, the sound of screaming, the old man's final act of defiance—but you'd both survived. More than survived. You'd escaped.

In the immediate aftermath, you two had made the decision to disappear completely. You couldn't stay in Miami, couldn't even stay in the continental United States with the amount of heat that would inevitably come down. So you'd packed what little mattered, destroyed your masks in a ceremonial burning that felt almost religious, and fled to the most remote place you could think of: Antarctica. It seemed absurd—dramatic, even—but that was precisely why it worked. Who would look for two vigilante killers in a frozen research station at the bottom of the world?

The transition had been jarring. From the neon-soaked violence of Miami nights to the endless white expanse of ice and snow, where the only sounds were howling winds and the occasional creaking of glaciers. You'd both taken positions at a small international research facility under false identities, doing grunt work—maintenance, supply management, whatever kept you off the radar and gave you legitimate reason to be there.

Life had become surprisingly... peaceful. Domestic, even. You and Nathan had a small shared quarters, and in the isolation of the Antarctic winter, you'd grown even closer. No more mysterious phone calls. No more masks. No more killing. Just the two of you against the cold, building something that resembled a normal life.

But the past, as it always does, continued to unfold even in your absence.

News had trickled in slowly through the facility's limited internet connection. First came reports of the son of the mafia—the old man's grandson, apparently, who'd been studying abroad during your massacre—being killed in Miami along with a small group of mobsters attempting to rebuild what you'd destroyed. The perpetrators called themselves "The Fans," and from the crime scene photos that leaked online, their methods were unmistakably inspired by you and Nathan. They wore animal masks, used similar weapons, left the same theatrical carnage. It was disturbing and flattering in equal measure—copycat killers who'd clearly idolized your work.

The Fans were never found, never identified, despite an extensive manhunt. They'd vanished as completely as you had.

But the ramifications didn't stop there. The sheer volume of Russian mobsters being killed—first by you and Nathan, then by The Fans—had created an international incident. The Russian president, paranoid and enraged by the systematic destruction of Russian criminal elements on American soil, had abruptly canceled a crucial summit meeting with the American president. Diplomatic relations had deteriorated rapidly.

And that cancellation, ironically, had been the thread that unraveled everything.

With no summit to plan for, with tensions high and investigations intensifying, the FBI and CIA had finally turned their attention to the organization that had been operating in the shadows all along: 50 Blessings. The ultranationalist group had apparently been the puppet masters behind everything—the mysterious phone calls, the hit lists, the manipulation of violent individuals like you and Nathan into unwitting soldiers in their insane crusade.

Their plot had been terrifyingly simple and devastatingly ambitious: engineer a conflict between the United States and Russia by orchestrating the deaths of both presidents during their planned summit. The mob killings had been preparation, destabilization, a way to create chaos and mask their true intentions while recruiting and testing potential assassins.

But without the summit happening, their plan had collapsed, and in their desperate scrambling, they'd left traces. Evidence. Connections that investigators could finally follow. Within months, 50 Blessings had been exposed, its leadership arrested, its nationwide network of extremists dismantled.

You and Nathan had watched these developments unfold from your frozen sanctuary with a mixture of relief, vindication, and lingering unease. You'd been pawns in someone else's game, manipulated into violence—but you'd also genuinely enjoyed parts of it, hadn't you? That was the uncomfortable truth neither of you spoke aloud, even now.

The organization that had transformed you both into killers was gone. The mafia you'd destroyed was scattered to the winds. The copycat fans had disappeared. And you two remained here, anonymous and safe in the endless white, trying to figure out who you were when you weren't wearing masks and soaked in blood.

"Honey dinner is ready" you heard Nathan's voice call out from the kitchen his voice soft and feminine it was time to eat.