A sudden chill scrapes the back of my neck, followed by scorching hot heat as a deep, rumbling voice whispers in my ear, “Why aren’t you running?”
My senses saturate in a rush of overwhelming external stimuli and my brain is unable to keep up with the overload. I lose balance and fall on my arse, hitting the ground with an impact that reverberates in my bones.
I stare up, my eyes clashing with the yellow-stitch mask that’s marred with splashes of dark red.
Blood.
It’s everywhere—clinging to his mask, staining his dark shirt, forming rivulets on his neck, covering the tattoos on the backs of his hands like gloves, and sticking to strands of his jet-black hair that falls in waves to his shoulder blades.
Nausea floods my mouth and shoots straight to my fucked-up brain.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick tick tick tick—
“You didn’t answer the question.” Yellow Mask’s gruff tone ripples down my throat and drowns the nausea, only to substitute it with dread.
Harsh and poignant.
What’s worse is that I can’t breathe.
The wanker is crouching close. So close that my nostrils fill with the metallic stench of blood and the smell of cigarettes, alcohol, and a hint of mint and bergamot.
The overwhelming mixture flows and floods my senses like a chaotic swirl of colors that blend and throttle each pigment until they settle on unassuming gray.
Faultless. Timeless. Empty.
Yellow Mask, who can only be Nikolai, pokes my forehead with a bloody finger. And although he’s only touching the mask and not my skin, my stomach cramps, choking out rampant nausea that’s ready to lurch forward and leave me heaving.
“Oy. You listening?” He’s only using a forefinger, yet so much power emanates off the single action that I crack under the pressure.
I’ve never been good with direct confrontations and prefer not to engage in them. Besides, if what I’ve heard of his infamous reputation is true, I could never take on Nikolai Sokolov, even if I were reincarnated a few times in the spirit of a warrior.
He’s notorious for his savage behavior, unhinged tendencies, and penchant for breathing violence instead of oxygen. The evidence is splattered in red all over his person.
Definitely the last person I’d want to get in a disagreement with.
He clucks his tongue, the sound exceptionally loud despite the constant announcements of eliminated numbers.
I don’t hear mine, eighty-nine, but Nikolai doesn’t have a weapon like the rest, so maybe he has to do it himself.
Meaning, if I escape, I can resume my hiding game and look for my brother. I swear I’m going to be so cross with him about this mess—
Nikolai circles his forefinger against my forehead, but then he seems to wipe something. His movements come to a halt and his body remains so completely still, I cease to breathe.
The hostility and thirst for blood that emanated off him subside. Or more like, they lessen in intensity, no longer tightening his outrageously ludicrous muscles and bulging biceps.
Although he’s crouching, his height and broadness are unmistakable. At six-foot-three, I’m not short by any stretch of the imagination, but Nikolai has an inch or two on me, and he’s ridiculously pumped with more muscles than anyone needs.
But then again, he seems like the archetype of a sadist who gets off on inflicting pain.
However, that doesn’t seem to be the case right now.
The flood of violence that he exuded in threatening waves a few seconds ago has been replaced by something a lot more morbid.
Amusement.
No, curiosity?
Interest?
His finger falls from the mask, but before I can release a breath, he suddenly wraps his hand around my nape, near the hairs I constantly assault.
Maybe it’s because that area is particularly battered and sensitive, but the moment his rough skin touches mine, a flood of what I assume is nausea threatens to spill from my gut.
Only, it’s not nausea.
It’s—
Nikolai barks out laughter that echoes around us in a swell of burgundy and hot red-orange. “There you are. I’ve been looking everywhere for you, eighty-nine.”
2
BRANDON
“You know who I am?”
I have no clue how the words tumble out of my mouth—in a sickeningly unsteady voice, I might add.
Tick.
A crack appears in my outer walls and extends to the ground beneath me.
Tick.
The black hole widens, and muddy black ink swallows my feet until I can’t feel them.
Tick—
“Hmm. Should I?” The rumbling gruff of Nikolai’s voice sounds sinister, reinforced by the splashes of blood on his neon mask.