Midnight settled over the city like a suffocating blanket. The streetlights flickered weakly before dying out entirely, leaving entire blocks swallowed by darkness. Snow drifted lazily through the air, each flake catching what little light remained before vanishing into the cold ground below. For a brief moment, everything felt still.
Then a truck tore through the silence.
Its heavy engine rumbled down the deserted road, tires crunching over thin layers of frost as it pushed deeper into the sleeping district. Inside the cab, two men sat hunched in their coats, breath fogging faintly in the cold air.
"Damn it," the driver muttered, rubbing his hands together. "Of all nights, we get stuck running delivery in this freezing hell."
The man beside him let out a dry laugh, though there was tension beneath it. "You haven't heard? Some lunatic showed up in this area out of nowhere. Guys have been dropping left and right. Whole crews wiped out. Nobody even knows what hit them."
The driver snorted, though his grip on the wheel tightened slightly. "Yeah? Then let's hope the bastard takes the night off."
Boom. Boom. Boom.
The sudden pounding from the back of the truck made both men flinch. The driver shot a glance toward the rear, irritation quickly replacing the momentary fear.
"Hey!" he shouted, slamming his palm against the side panel. "Keep it down back there! You're cargo, not passengers."
The noise stopped immediately.
A grin spread across his face, crude and knowing. "We'll switch shifts later," he said under his breath. "I'll go check on them personally. Might help me warm up."
"Yeah? Go warm up your own damn face," the other man shot back, rolling his eyes.
…
The truck rolled through rusted gates and into a dark factory compound, its headlights cutting across cracked concrete and abandoned machinery. Figures emerged from the shadows as the vehicle came to a halt—thick-shouldered men with hardened expressions, their presence filling the empty space with quiet menace.
One of them stepped forward, yellow hair catching the faint glow from a distant lamp. His gaze swept over the cab as the passenger door opened.
"Any trouble on the way?" he asked.
"Nothing," the man replied quickly.
Two workers moved toward the rear of the truck and pulled open the doors.
The moment they looked inside, their bodies froze.
Their hands trembled. Their faces drained of color.
The reaction didn't go unnoticed. The surrounding men exchanged uneasy glances as Huang Mao's expression darkened. He pushed forward, forcing his way past them to look inside.
What he saw made his face twist with fury.
"What the hell is this?"
The two drivers rushed over, confusion written all over their faces. Before they could even get close, Huang Mao exploded into motion.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
His fists slammed into them without hesitation, sending both men crashing to the ground. He didn't stop there—he kept swinging, each hit fueled by raw anger.
"What the hell are you doing?" one of them shouted through the pain.
"What am I doing?" Huang Mao snarled. "You think you can screw this up and drag us down with you? Do you even know who this shipment belongs to? This is Mask Club property!"
His shout echoed through the factory as he motioned for the others to join in. Boots and fists followed, the two men quickly reduced to battered wrecks under the assault.
Fifteen minutes later, they were dragged to their knees outside the truck, faces swollen, blood smeared across their skin. Behind them, the cargo compartment stood empty.
The silence was suffocating.
Clap. Clap. Clap.
Slow, deliberate applause broke through the tension.
Every head turned.
A figure stepped forward from the shadows, his presence instantly commanding attention. A red-and-white clown mask covered his face, its painted smile grotesque under the dim light. Behind him, more figures emerged—each wearing a different mask, each radiating quiet violence.
Huang Mao stiffened.
The two kneeling men broke immediately, their voices shaking as they begged. "Boss, please! It wasn't us! We did everything you told us!"
The man in the clown mask didn't answer. He stepped closer, placing a hand lightly on Huang Mao's shoulder before looking past him at the two trembling figures.
"Please… spare us…"
Their foreheads slammed against the ground repeatedly, skin splitting, blood seeping out as desperation took over.
The clown mask tilted slightly.
Then, without warning—
A blade flashed.
Huang Mao's body jerked violently. His hands flew to his throat as blood erupted between his fingers, hot and unstoppable. His eyes widened in disbelief as he turned toward the man who had just been standing beside him.
"A—"
Air bubbled uselessly through his torn throat. No words came.
He staggered once.
Then collapsed.
Screams followed immediately. The masked figures surged forward, their weapons rising and falling in brutal arcs. Steel met flesh, and the factory floor was painted red within seconds.
The two kneeling men froze, terror locking their bodies in place. They didn't dare move. They didn't dare breathe.
As Huang Mao's life faded, a massive figure wearing a bear mask wiped his bloodied blade against his clothes, movements slow and deliberate. Another man—this one wearing a snake-faced mask—began walking toward the survivors.
They broke.
Scrambling backward, they clawed at the ground, desperate to escape.
Then—
A dull sound cut through the chaos.
Something moved.
They barely caught it—a flicker, a shadow crossing their vision in an instant.
Their eyes snapped upward.
A man in a black trench coat stood behind the snake-masked attacker, one hand gripping his throat.
Thump.
The body dropped.
Silence fell like a hammer.
"Judge…?" one of the kneeling men whispered, his voice trembling.
The clown-masked leader took a step back, his attention locked entirely on the newcomer.
"So it's you," he said slowly. "The one who's been interfering."
The man in black didn't answer immediately. His gaze swept across the blood-soaked floor, taking in the carnage with cold clarity.
"So you're the ones kidnapping and torturing girls," he said at last, his voice calm, almost bored. "Mask Club… what kind of joke is that?"
"Die!"
The bear-masked man roared, charging forward with his blade raised high.
The difference in size was obvious.
The difference in outcome was absolute.
A fist moved.
Faster than the eye could follow.
Crack.
The blade stopped mid-swing. The man's body froze, then collapsed, his neck twisted at an unnatural angle.
Gunfire erupted.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
The remaining masked men drew their weapons, firing wildly. Bullets tore through the air, but none of them found their target.
The man in black didn't move—at least, not in a way they could see.
Afterimages flickered around him, his figure shifting left and right with impossible speed. Every shot missed, each bullet slicing through empty space.
Their fear spiked instantly.
Then he moved.
He cut through them like a storm.
"Fuck—!"
"Kill him!"
The shouting didn't last long.
Five minutes later, silence returned.
Bodies littered the ground.
At the center of it all, the man in black stood with one hand wrapped around the clown-masked leader's throat, holding him effortlessly off the ground.
The man didn't struggle.
He just stared.
Calm.
Unafraid.
The mask was ripped away.
For the first time, his face was revealed.
It wasn't a face anymore.
His skin was gone, replaced by a mass of reddish-brown flesh, as if it had been burned away entirely. Tumor-like growths clung to the exposed tissue, pulsing faintly.
"You'll die…" he rasped. "Judge… you don't understand…"
Crack.
The body went limp.
It hit the ground without ceremony.
The man in black turned.
A gun was pointed at him.
"Don't move!"
George stood there, breathing hard, his eyes locked onto the figure in front of him. For a split second, he saw them—those eyes beneath the mask.
Red.
Then—
He was gone.
A blur streaked past him.
Behind him, a shout rang out as an officer was thrown to the ground, his body hitting the concrete with a sickening thud. Another officer fumbled for his weapon, panic setting in.
George moved instantly, grabbing his arm before he could fire.
"Inspector—!"
"Do you want to die?" George snapped, his voice low and sharp.
The man froze.
George's gaze shifted slowly toward the two bodies nearby.
They hadn't even realized when it happened.
Blood seeped from every opening in their faces—eyes, nose, mouth, ears.
George crouched down, his expression tightening as he reached out and gripped one of them by the hair, lifting slightly.
The damage was internal.
The skull—crushed.
"Jesus…"
Beside him, the younger officer gagged, turning away as nausea hit him hard. Even George felt his stomach twist, though he forced himself to keep looking.
This wasn't normal.
This wasn't human.
He stood slowly, his eyes drifting upward toward the sky. Snow continued to fall, silent and indifferent, covering the blood with a thin white layer.
"What kind of monster…"
....
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