𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲𝐬 𝐧𝐨 𝐠𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐬, 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐧𝐞𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐝𝐨𝐞𝐬 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞.
"Y-you want to kill me?"
"No, I want to ruin you."
Death Hood.
A cloaked serial killer that leaves behind blood trails, corpses with the same cause of death and nightma...
Disclaimer: Reminder, this is a work of pure fiction. The usual rules of law & procedures are adjusted to suit the plot of Masked.
Trigger Warning: Violence.
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
"Tell me, how did you spend your Christmas night, Harry."
The officer's bland dark brown eyes bore into my guarded green pair. Behind my eyes, I replayed when he strutted in a few minutes ago. His eyes fell on me as if it were an ordinary sight, sitting on the metal chair, the handcuffs trapped around my wrists chained to the metal table that was currently between us.
His commanding form, wrapped in his darkened skin tone and worn in a light grey suit with a white shirt revealed through the unbuttoned blazer, strolls into the room and asks the blunt question of whether or not I'd like a lawyer.
With my elbows propped on the table, I assured him that I didn't need one. He nods his head, running the back of a finger across his sharp and clean trimmed beard framing his mouth. His large build sinks into his leather chair with cushions of softness offered to him.
"Which Christmas night? I've had twenty-five of them though, I have to tell you, the first five are a little foggy," I answered his question. "Cut out the smart shot," he flatly tells me, only making my smile widen.
"Last year Christmas," he explains himself. "I spent it at home with my girlfriend, it was quite special," I gave in. "Can she verify that?" An eyebrow lifts, awaiting my response. "Yes, she can," I assured him.
"Hmm," he hums, tilting his head with curiosity, the knife edge of his jaw emphasising. "Then how come eyewitnesses are claiming you as the last person to see Lucy Hoax alive at an art museum on Christmas night?" Oh shit.
"I don't know..." My eyes glanced at the badge clipped to his lapels, revealing his name to be Nicolas Rez. "...Sir Rez, my girlfriend and I spent the entire day and night at my place, we were a little short on family," I stuck to my story.
His reaction remains guarded, not a single hum or even a nod given so it's hard to gauge him. His dark eyes lowered to the papers laid out in front of him and my eyes aren't good enough to see what's printed on it.
"You own a Halloween shop, isn't that right?" he questions. "Yes," my head nodded. "Do you do customised face masks for...anyone in particular, including yourself?" he wonders, eyes glancing at me again. "No, I don't," I answered confidently.
"Can you tell me what this means, Mister Styles?" His request comes with sharing one of the documents he possesses. He slides the sheet of paper across the metal table and my eyes break his gaze, lowering to the paper.
The document reveals the shipping address of a mask to Spooky Silhouettes' location. There's a digital version of the mask attached to the delivery bill and it's identical to Death Hood's mask. That, for sure is faked evidence seeing as I'd never be so fucking stupid to be so obvious about something like that.
