CHAPTER 7: MASKED MAN
Anon's instincts flared as the masked stranger stepped into view. Every muscle in his body tensed, his focus narrowing sharply on the man. The figure, who Anon assumed was male, cut an imposing silhouette with his black gas mask obscuring his face, a utilitarian green coat hanging loosely over his frame, and a bulky, military-grade backpack strapped to his shoulders.
His hands were empty—or at least appeared to be—but that meant little. There could easily be a weapon concealed under his coat or tucked inside that bag. In this death game, trust was a luxury Anon couldn't afford.
Anon's glare hardened, his dark eyes blazing with suspicion. "What do you want?"
He bent down, snatched up his baseball bat, and gripped it firmly in both hands. The subtle shift in his stance conveyed a readiness to strike at the slightest provocation.
"Whoa, whoa! Take it easy," the man said, his voice muffled but calm as he raised his hands in a show of surrender. "I mean no harm."
Anon's scowl deepened, his grip on the bat tightening. "You think I'm stupid? State your intentions. Now."
The weight of his demand, paired with the glint of raw determination in his eyes, left little room for debate.
"All right, all right!" the stranger replied quickly, his hands still raised. "I was just drawn here by the fire."
He gestured toward the blazing remnants of the molotov Brea had thrown earlier. Its flames still licked hungrily at the pavement, casting flickering light into the dim surroundings.
Anon shot a quick glance at the fire before snapping his gaze back to the stranger.
"And?"
"I wanted to see what was going on. That's it," the man replied, his tone bordering on nonchalance, though there was a calculated edge to his words.
Anon narrowed his eyes, his bat lowering just a fraction. "So you saw a fire and decided to check it out?"
"Exactly," the man affirmed. "I figured I wasn't the only one who noticed it. Then I saw you two and thought, why not approach and ask?"
"Hmm…"
Anon's grip on the bat slackened slightly, but his guard remained firmly in place. His mind raced, piecing together the implications. 'Dammit… I didn't think about the fire drawing attention. And if he noticed it, who's to say others didn't, too?'
His gaze flicked to Brea, who seemed to be at a loss and stayed rigid in her spot, then back to the stranger. 'We might need to get out of here—fast.'
Not wanting to attract more trouble, Anon turned to Brea, his expression sharp and urgent. "Brea, get up. We need to leave—now. That fire's bound to draw more players, and we don't want to be here when they show up."
He grabbed the crate of molotovs with both hands, along with his baseball bat, and started walking without waiting for her response.
"Hey, wait a second!" the masked man called out.
Anon froze mid-step, then slowly turned back, his glare like daggers. "What now?"
The masked man remained unflinching, his calm demeanor a stark contrast to Anon's barely restrained hostility. "Can I join you guys? I think it'd be smart for us to team up. We'd stand a better chance together."
Anon's jaw tightened as a dry, incredulous laugh escaped him. "Hah?! And what makes you think I'd let some random guy we just met tag along? Only a fool teams up with complete strangers in this death game."
"I get it," the man replied smoothly, his hands held up in a placating gesture. "It's suspicious, I know. But hear me out. Let me prove my worth. If you still don't want me around after that, I'll back off. Simple."
"How about no," Anon shot back coldly, turning on his heel and striding away.
His focus shifted back to their immediate goal: return to the convenience store, grab the remaining essentials, then head to the next circle or safe zone. He didn't have the patience for idle chatter, and the stranger's persistent requests were grating on his nerves. If the man dared to follow, Anon was fully prepared to fight him off. There was no room for hesitation or signs of weakness—especially not now.
"Please, just give me a chance!"
Anon didn't bother turning around. His voice dropped an octave, his words a sharp, final warning. "Enough. If you follow us, I'll kill you. Come on, Brea."
"Y-Yes," Brea stammered, hurriedly wiping her tear-streaked face. She shuffled to Anon's side, her gaze fixed on the ground, and silently trailed after him.
"I have vital information!" the masked man called out, his voice cutting through the tense silence.
Anon's steps didn't halt, but there was now a noticeable hesitation in his pace. Maybe a faint crack in his resolve?
"You might already suspect this," the masked man began, his tone measured, "but most players have also formed groups. The difference is, their groups are a lot larger than yours. We're talking five or six people at the minimum."
Anon's steps faltered, then stopped altogether. The confirmation sent a jolt through his mind, solidifying the uneasy suspicion he'd harbored. He had anticipated that players would band together, much like he and Brea had. But the thought of facing groups that size—well-organized and heavily armed, no doubt—was a grim reality he hadn't fully prepared for. Winning against five or more enemies simultaneously? Practically impossible.
His expression was unreadable as he turned back to the masked man, his tone flat and emotionless. "...Fine. I'll give you a chance. Let's hear what you have to say."
The masked man straightened slightly, relief evident in his posture. "Thank you! That's all I'm asking for."
"Yeah, yeah. Get over here already."
Thus, the trio set off toward the convenience store, but Anon kept his guard high. Noticing the masked man walking behind them, his frown deepened. He stopped abruptly, his voice sharp as a blade.
"Hey! Walk in front of us. I don't trust you behind our backs. No arguments."
The man raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. "Alright, got it. Just tell me where I'm going."
"I was going to," Anon muttered.
He watched the masked man closely from the rear, his dark eyes never leaving the stranger's movements. If the man tried anything suspicious, even a twitch out of line, Anon wouldn't hesitate to strike. Minutes passed in tense silence until they finally arrived back at the convenience store.
"Stop."
Once inside, Anon wasted no time. He set the crate of molotovs down and turned to the masked man, his voice commanding. "Now. Tell us. What do you have that'll convince us you're worth letting into this team?"
"Straight to the point, huh?"
"Quit stalling and show us," Anon growled, his tone dropping to a warning growl.
"Alright, alright," the masked man replied, raising his hands in mock surrender. His voice carried a faint undercurrent of sarcasm. "Is it okay if I take a few things out of my backpack? Do I have your permission, sir?"
Anon's frown deepened, a flicker of irritation flashing across his face. There was something about the way the man said sir—was it mocking? Or just his tone? He couldn't tell. Regardless, he pushed the thought aside with a sharp nod.
"Do it. Slowly."
"Aye aye, sir," the man replied, his voice laced with subtle amusement.
One by one, the masked man pulled items from his backpack, placing them carefully on the floor. Each motion deliberate and exaggerated, as though to make a show of compliance.
"If you let me join your team," he said, gesturing to the growing pile, "here's the loot I can offer."