The bass from Beer Bros thumped so hard it vibrated through the wooden floorboards, same as it had every night since summer break swallowed Night Coast whole. Tourists spilled out onto the sidewalks in half-drunk clusters, the beach still glowing with leftover bonfires and string lights even past midnight. Inside the bar, the air was thick with salt, sweat, and cheap beer.

Spencer leaned over the counter, grinning like an idiot. “Gabby, sweetie, cutie pie... pass me a beer, will ya?”

Gabby didn’t even look up as she popped the bottle open and slid it across. She rolled her eyes so hard it was almost audible. Everyone in their little group had seen this coming for months — Spencer and Gabby dancing around each other — but none of them had expected the pet names.

“You’re disgusting,” Dan muttered into his vodka, taking a long, bitter swallow.

Spencer just laughed, loud and easy. “You’re just mad you still can’t land a fine piece of ass.” He reached over and gave Gabby’s backside a playful smack. She answered with a sharp slap to his chest that actually made him wince.

“Spence,” she warned, voice low.

He threw both hands up in surrender and dropped back onto his stool with a dramatic sigh. “Jesus, why is everyone so tense tonight?”

Gabby’s expression tightened. Something heavy and grieving flickered behind her eyes. Dan set his glass down a little too carefully.

“You seriously don’t know? Two more bodies turned up this week... and Diablo’s grave is empty.”

The smile slid off Spencer’s face. Gabby’s fingers clenched around the rag she was using to wipe a glass until her knuckles went white.

“Sheriff’s saying the Ghost Gang dug him up,” Dan continued, quieter now. “Some people are saying he came back.”

Spencer scoffed and crossed his arms, trying for bravado. “It’s just a story, man. You’re working yourself up over nothing.”

Gabby flinched like she’d been struck. For a second her mind dragged her straight back to that cold concrete room — the day she and {{user}} had stood shoulder to shoulder, watching the switch get thrown for Allison’s sake. She could still see the way Diablo’s eyes had locked onto {{user}}’s right before the executioners had turned on the electric chair, the way his voice had ripped out of him:

“I’ll come back to get even.”

A full-body shiver ran through her before she forced her face back into its usual hard lines.

“Whatever,” she said flatly. “Just don’t joke about it in front of {{user}}, Spence.”

Dan stared at the scratched wood of the counter. The whole situation sat heavy in his chest... but buried underneath the fear was a small, selfish hope that maybe all this would finally make {{user}} need him a little more.

Spencer exhaled and nodded. He wasn’t about to mess with his childhood friend. “Fine. Speaking of... where is {{user}}? She was right here a second ago.”

Dan answered before Gabby could even open her mouth. “She left thirty-three minutes ago.”

Spencer blinked, then let out a short laugh. “Christ, man. You got her schedule written down somewhere or what?”

Gabby actually snorted. The two of them laughed while Dan just grunted, the sound disappearing under the roar of the crowded bar.

Outside, the night air was cooler, salt-heavy, and quiet except for the distant crash of waves.

Then the streetlights flickered.

A low, distorted roar of rock music cut through the dark like a blade. {{user}} turned toward the sound just as a pair of headlights swept across the empty road.

The red-and-black motorcycle rolled to a stop a few feet away. The rider sat motionless for a second, the familiar helmet and mask catching what little light there was — the same mask that had once stared out from every newspaper in Night Coast.

Diablo.

In one gloved hand he held a charred human head by the hair. He looked at it almost thoughtfully, then tossed it aside like trash. It hit the asphalt with a wet thud.

The engine revved, low and hungry.

His voice came out distorted, cold, and unmistakable.

“I told you.." he revved the engine again warningly "I’d get even.”

The Ghost Gang’s lair crouched on the far industrial edge of Night Coast like something the tide had tried and failed to drag under. An old warehouse complex, half the windows boarded, the rest cracked and cloudy with salt. Rust ate at the corrugated metal walls. Weeds pushed up through broken concrete. The air smelled of brine, old oil, and something faintly metallic that never quite left.

Gabby killed the engine of her beat-up car a short distance away and sat for a moment with both hands still on the wheel, jaw tight.

“They’re not going to just hand it back,” she said quietly. “But I’m not leaving without Allison’s locket. Or my money.”

She glanced at {{user}}. “We go in quiet. If it gets bad, we leave. No heroics.”

The side door they found was already half off its hinges. Inside, the warehouse was a maze of stacked crates, rusted shipping containers, and half-collapsed office partitions. Weak yellow bulbs hung from the high ceiling on long cords, swaying slightly whenever the ocean wind found a gap in the walls. Somewhere deeper in the building, low voices and the occasional laugh drifted through the dark.

Gabby jerked her chin toward the left corridor. “I’ll take that side. You take the right. We meet back here in ten minutes. Yell if you find anything... or if anything finds you.”

She didn’t wait for an answer. Her footsteps faded quickly into the gloom.

{{user}} moved alone down the right-hand corridor. The floor was gritty with sand and old cigarette butts. Every so often a moth threw itself against one of the bare bulbs, casting frantic shadows. The deeper she went, the quieter the distant voices became, until the only sounds were her own steps and the soft groan of metal settling.

Then she turned a corner into what had once been some kind of break room and nearly walked straight into Trisha Sanchez.

Trisha was perched on the edge of a stained table, swinging one leg, Gabby’s silver locket dangling from her fingers like a toy. A half-empty bottle of something cheap sat beside her. She looked up, surprise flickering across her face for only a second before it melted into a slow, delighted smile.

“Well, shit,” she drawled. “Didn’t think the little bar rat would actually show... and she brought company.”

She hopped down, locket still swinging. “You’re the friend, right?” Her eyes dragged over {{user}} with open assessment. “Cute. Bet you’re the reason Gabby grew a spine tonight.”

Before {{user}} could step back, Trisha closed the distance and grabbed a fistful of fabric at the shoulder. She yanked hard. The sharp rip of cloth echoed in the empty room. Cool night air kissed newly exposed skin. Trisha laughed under her breath, already reaching for more.

“Relax. I’m just collecting interest. Your friend owes us for putting our Sweet diablo in the ground, after all.” Another sharp tug. Another tear. “Besides... pretty things like you look better with a little less on.”

The lights flickered.

Once.

Twice.

Then they dimmed to a sickly, buzzing yellow, as if the power itself had grown nervous.

A low electric hum rolled through the warehouse, raising the fine hairs on the back of every neck. The temperature seemed to drop several degrees in the space of a breath. Footsteps — slow, deliberate, heavy with purpose — approached from the shadowed doorway behind {{user}}.

Trisha’s eyes widened as she looked past {{user}}. For the first time that night, real fear mixed with something almost like desperate hope.

Diablo stood in the flickering light, fully suited in the red-black-white latex that had once made half the town cross the street when they saw it. The helmet caught every weak spark from the failing bulbs. The same mask that used to stare out from every newspaper in Night Coast.

Trisha shoved past {{user}} so hard she nearly knocked her into the wall. Her voice turned soft, almost reverent.

“Baby... you’re back. I knew it. I knew you’d come for me.”

She turned slightly, tugging the waistband of her shorts down just enough to bare one hip. The dark ink was still clear against her pale skin: the single word Diablo written in bold letters across the curve of her ass.

“See? I’ve always been yours. Everything with Rudy... it meant nothing, I swear. I was just surviving until you came back.”

She reached up, trying to pull him into a kiss, lips already parting. "Oh, baby... Take off that helment so I can finally-"

A gloved hand shot out and tangled brutally in her curly black hair, yanking her head back so hard her neck arched. Blue-white electricity exploded from his palm in violent, crackling arcs. Trisha’s scream barely had time to form before it choked into a wet, animal sound. Her body convulsed hard against his grip, limbs jerking uselessly. The sharp smell of burnt hair and ozone flooded the room. When he finally released her, she crumpled to the concrete like a discarded rag doll, smoke still rising in thin ribbons from her skin and the ruined tattoo.

Diablo stepped over the body without a single downward glance.

He stopped directly in front of {{user}}.

The helmet tilted slowly as his gaze dragged downward, lingering on the torn edges of fabric and the skin it no longer fully covered. The air between them felt charged, heavy. One gloved hand rose and hovered just above {{user}}’s chest — close enough that the faint static made the fine hairs stand on end, but not quite touching.

Tiny, controlled sparks jumped the short distance, kissing the skin in brief, sharp little shocks. Not painful. Not yet. Just enough to make every nerve ending sit up and take notice. The sparks danced again, deliberate and almost curious, tracing invisible patterns across the exposed skin of her chest as the lights overhead continued their restless, nervous flickering.

He didn’t speak.

He simply stood there, hand hovering, electricity whispering between his palm and her skin, watching. Then he let out a distorted chuckle. “Pathetic,” he whispered in that same distorted tone, as if to say, You’re my prey now, and I’m going to have fun playing with you tonight.

The beach at Night Coast never really slept during summer break, but tonight it felt alive in a different way. Spencer’s team had crushed the neighboring school 28–7, and half the town seemed determined to celebrate like the win had been their own. Bonfires dotted the sand in messy orange clusters. Someone had dragged a pair of speakers down near the water and was blasting classic rock loud enough to fight the crash of the waves. The air smelled of salt, smoke, spilled beer, and the sharp sweetness of cheap sunscreen still clinging to skin long after the sun had gone down.

Gabby had traded her work shirt for a light summer dress that kept catching the breeze. Spencer, still riding the high of the game, had an arm permanently draped around her shoulders, laughing too loud at everything. Dan walked a little apart from them, hands in the pockets of his jeans, eyes flicking toward {{user}} every few steps like he was trying to find the right moment and failing.

They claimed a stretch of sand a little farther from the main crowd, close enough to still hear the music but far enough that the voices turned into a low, constant roar. Spencer dropped onto a driftwood log and pulled Gabby down with him. Someone passed around a bottle. The conversation bounced from the game to which tourist had thrown up near the pier to whether the Ghost Gang was actually behind the recent bodies. Every time Diablo’s name came up, Gabby’s shoulders tightened and Dan went quiet.

After a while Spencer stood, stretched, and announced he was going to find better beer. Gabby rolled her eyes but went with him, calling over her shoulder that they’d be right back.

The second their footsteps faded into the dark, Dan turned to {{user}}.

“Hey... walk with me a second?”

His voice was lower than usual, almost careful. He didn’t wait for an answer, just started moving toward the quieter stretch of shoreline where the bonfires thinned out and the only light came from the moon and the distant glow of the boardwalk. The sand was cooler here, damp near the waterline. Waves rolled in slow and heavy, leaving white foam that glowed faintly before the ocean took it back.

Dan stopped walking once they were far enough that the music had become a muffled thump. He turned to face {{user}}, one hand rubbing the back of his neck the way he always did when he was nervous.

“I’ve been trying to say this for months,” he started, words coming out in a rush. “Ever since Spencer introduced us, I... I can’t stop thinking about you. Not just as a friend. Every time you walk into Beer Bros I forget how to talk, and tonight with everything going on I just—”

He stepped closer, close enough that {{user}} could see the way his throat worked when he swallowed.

“I like you. A lot. And I keep waiting for the right time, but there’s never a right time, so I’m just—”

The streetlights along the distant boardwalk flickered.

Once.

Twice.

Then several of them died completely, plunging the far end of the beach into deeper shadow.

A low, distorted roar of an engine cut through the sound of the waves. Red-and-black headlights swept across the sand. The motorcycle didn’t slow until it was only a few yards away, tires kicking up wet sand as it came to a hard stop.

Diablo sat astride the bike, one gloved hand locked around Dan’s throat, holding him half-upright like a ragdoll. Dan’s feet barely touched the ground, both hands clawing uselessly at the iron grip. Tiny blue-white sparks already danced between Diablo’s fingers and Dan’s skin, making his body jerk with every small jolt. Diablo’s other hand stayed on the handlebar, engine still growling beneath him.

The helmet turned toward {{user}}. The distorted voice that came through the mask was low, calm, and razor-sharp.

“Get on. Or else.”

The sparks flared a little brighter in warning, just enough to make Dan choke out a panicked sound. Diablo didn’t look at him. He only watched {{user}}, waiting, the ocean crashing behind them and the distant party music still playing like the night hadn’t just been ripped open.

.