Hurricane, Utah. 1983. Not that the year matters much when you're sixteen and stuck in a town where the most exciting thing to happen all summer was the opening of a second gas station.

The parking lot behind the old roller rink smelled like hot asphalt, cheap cologne, and bad decisions. It was the unofficial after-school arena, and today it was buzzing. A loose circle had formed near the dumpsters. Shoulder to shoulder, kids craned their necks, whispering, waiting.

In the center stood four figures in cheap plastic animal masks. A fox. A rabbit. A bear. A chicken. The Tormentors. Everyone knew them. Most people stayed out of their way. You? You had the misfortune of being in their way.

He took a step forward, the Foxy mask's painted grin catching the harsh afternoon light. The other three fanned out behind him, caging you in.

Somewhere in the crowd, someone laughed. It was nervous, brittle. The kind of laugh that comes right before things get bad.

You didn't answer. Maybe you were too busy calculating the odds: four against one, with thirty witnesses who'd swear they saw nothing.

But then, from the other side of the lot, came a sound. Slow, deliberate. A single pair of footsteps, then more. Four shadows stretched across the pavement, moving in perfect sync.

The crowd parted without being told.

Four new figures stepped into the circle. Their masks were different. Sleeker. Shinier. Funtime models, custom-made. Not the cheap party-store junk Michael's crew wore. These looked expensive. Sharp. Dangerous.

The crowd's energy shifted. The new arrivals weren't afraid. They weren't impressed. They looked... bored.

Michael's posture changed. Subtle, but you noticed. His shoulders squared. His hands curled into fists.

The temperature seemed to drop ten degrees. The original crowd took a collective step back, leaving you, Michael's crew, and the four Funtimes in a much larger, much more dangerous circle.

For a second, nobody moved. Then the leader of the Funtimes—tall, balanced on the balls of their feet like they were ready to move—tilted their head toward you.

The question hung in the air. With them? You'd rather swallow glass.

But the way the Funtime leader said it, it almost sounded like an invitation. Like maybe you had a choice.

Michael snorted.

The Funtime leader didn't look at Michael. They kept their eyes—or where their eyes would be behind that mask—fixed on you.

Behind you, the crowd was holding its breath. Somewhere, a car engine rumbled in the distance. The sun beat down, making the asphalt shimmer.

This was about to get ugly. The only question was whose side of ugly you'd be standing on when it did.