The Mask Burns Last

Content Warning: This story contains fictional depictions of arson, murder, psychological manipulation and moderate violence. Reader discretion is advised.

Johnson’s Tavern bled neon into the rain, coral light pooling softly across fractured asphalt. Beneath the flickering sign stood a figure in a crimson coat, rain tapping rhythmically off latex skin until he quietly smoothed an errant seam beneath his jawline. Tonight’s mask was meticulously ordinary—thinning hair, conference-room complexion—the kind of face a waiter forgets before the tip hits the table.

Inside, the tavern exhaled stale whisky vapor and jukebox static. Monday's dread hid beneath Friday’s laughter; perfect camouflage. Moving unseen through the cluttered conversations, the man uncapped vials with practiced ease. Clear liquid whispered down table legs, spread silently across battered floorboards soaked with years of spilled secrets. Nobody looked down. Their eyes lingered instead on a muted TV boxing match—soundless punches landing in ghostly rhythm.

He slid onto a barstool, polite smile carefully neutral. “Whisky, neat.”

Ron—the bartender whose overdue child support swallowed every Christmas bonus—offered a weary grin. "You and me both, friend. City's squeezing the good stuff." As Ron poured, the stranger subtly tapped twice on the scratched bar top. Nodding knowingly, Ron added a discreet splash from a hidden steel flask.

Budget cuts, the stranger thought bitterly. A city's purse strings loosen quickly when fear makes the pitch.

He raised the glass, swirling thoughtfully. Tainted whisky coated his tongue like gasoline—sharp, thrilling, dangerous. He placed the glass back unfinished. Ron slid a handwritten bill forward. “Last call in ten, pal.”

A faint, regretful smile crossed the man's lips as he reached into his coat pocket. A silver lighter snapped open. A tiny flame danced to life. Before Ron could fully widen his eyes, the man exhaled sharply, breathing fire in a blinding arc—devouring Ron’s final scream in a searing wave of heat.

Liquid fire raced eagerly across invisible trails, erupting in silent, beautiful destruction. Within seconds, the tavern became a predator; orange teeth consumed curtains, barstools, patrons frozen mid-shock. The stranger stood calmly, edges of his coat catching fire, pain registering distantly—almost curious. He paused briefly at the threshold, watching rain hiss softly upon his smoldering footprints like a drumroll heralding war.

"Masks first," he murmured softly into the storm, "then revelation."

Dawn sagged, weary and grey, over Johnson’s charred bones. Only one object survived untouched: a single whisky glass, impossibly pristine, balanced atop the blackened bar. Detective Darren Maxwell—twenty-three, badge still gleaming fresh—stared at this paradox while the forensics team buzzed around him. Smoke still stung his eyes, but unease twisted deeper.

"Recognize that smell, Rookie?"

Darren turned to see Chief Austin Rhodes, broad-shouldered and steady despite faint yellowed bruises beneath his neatly trimmed beard. Rhodes's gaze was ice-blue and unreadable, yet a subtle, weary strain threaded his practiced calm.

Darren inhaled again, sharper now. "Kerosene...mixed with alcohol?"

Rhodes nodded approvingly, paternal warmth briefly softening his expression. "Third blaze this month. Same ghost, new face. Calls himself the Blazewalker."

Darren’s gaze returned uneasily to the untouched whisky glass. "Ghosts don’t leave souvenirs."

"No," Rhodes agreed, tone thick with unspoken weight. "But monsters love trophies. And trophies talk." He placed a reassuring hand on Darren’s shoulder—grip steady, fatherly, and iron-firm. "Oak Hill Cemetery tonight. Our ghost loves symbols. Stay sharp."

As Rhodes strode confidently away into gathering mist, Darren felt something colder than rain take root inside him—the unsettling certainty that the whisky glass wasn't the only pristine thing left untouched amid yesterday’s flames.

“Weird what fire doesn’t touch, huh?”

Darren turned. Near the bar’s edge, kneeling among charred wood and soot-stained tile, stood Carmen Ito, city fire investigator. She wore a thick ponytail beneath her hood, ash-speckled gloves flicking across a digital scanner. Her expression was tight with focus, but not surprise.

“Didn’t hear you come in,” Darren said.

“You and Rhodes looked busy,” she replied casually, brushing past him toward the bar. Her voice was light, but her eyes flicked to the whisky glass. “This guy’s precise. Most firebugs are messy. But this? It’s curated. Like he wants us to see what survives.”

“Like a message?”

“More like punctuation.” She stood, glancing back once more. “Every blaze ends with something deliberate. It’s not chaos. It’s choreography.”

Darren frowned. “Meaning?”

She shrugged. “Someone’s shaping a narrative. I just haven’t figured out who the audience is yet.”

A beat passed. Then she added, more softly, “You trust your team?”

Darren blinked. “What?”

Carmen adjusted her hood. “Just thinking aloud. This guy’s methodical. He’s not playing alone. Doesn’t feel like it.”

Then she stepped over a charred beam, already halfway to the exit. “I’ll send my full report before nightfall. You heading to Oak Hill?”

“Yeah.”

“Then keep your matches dry.”

48 hours after the tavern blaze, Darren Maxwell hadn’t slept. The precinct’s evidence lab thrummed with a quiet sterility, humming machines casting pale light across looping security footage. Darren sat hunched in front of the screen, eyes gritty and burning, coffee cold beside his notebook. Every time the subway rumbled beneath the foundation, the mug trembled—ripples echoing the unrest in his chest.

He replayed the footage of the Blazewalker leaving Johnson’s Tavern. The man stepped into the rain, coat hem smoldering, steam whispering around his feet. Darren paused, zoomed, and leaned in. The left leg gave slightly inward—barely noticeable, but consistent. He jotted the note: Left knee—recurring injury?

Around the note sprawled mask sketches and clipped headlines—crime spikes, budget cuts, flame-choked crime scenes. At the center of the chaos was one word, circled over and over in black ink: WHY?

“You obsess too much, kid. You drown.”

The voice jolted him. Chief Austin Rhodes stood framed in the doorway, collar loosened, tie drooping like a noose. A fresh bruise bloomed under his beard—this time on the opposite cheek from yesterday. Darren stared a second too long.

“Rough interview?” he asked.

“City hall,” Rhodes replied, tossing a file onto the desk. Loose pages scattered like brittle leaves. “They want reassurance, or they gut our funding. They don’t want order—they want the illusion of control. Fear sells better.”

Darren looked again at the bruise. Moved. Shifted. Subtle. Like everything else about Rhodes lately.

Austin followed his gaze to the monitor. “Spot anything?”

Darren nodded slowly. “That limp. I’ve seen it before—hospital fire footage, six weeks ago.”

“Shared training background, maybe,” Rhodes offered, just a touch too quickly. He flipped the folder open to a schematic labeled ‘Oak Hill Cemetery – Main Mausoleum’.

“We’ve got chatter. He’s planning another scene. Theatrics. Symbolism. Ashes to ashes.” His tone softened. “We go in quiet. Just you and me.”

Oak Hill Cemetery – 1:07 AM

The fog moved like breath over a grave. Marble angels wept green tears in silence as Darren crouched low behind one, radio off, pistol drawn. The only sound was his own pulse, roaring in his ears. Then—faint, deliberate—a hiss. Not flame. Gas.

He crept toward the mausoleum, rounding the edge in time to see a figure hunched by an old service hatch, rubber hose threaded to a corroded gas line. Gone was the red coat. The man wore greasy coveralls; a groundskeeper patch stitched to his chest. But the limp was there. Unmistakable.

Darren charged, slamming into him. They toppled onto cold stone, fists flying, limbs tangled. His hand locked onto the mask, latex slick with sweat. He tore it free—and froze.

Another mask lay beneath. Blank. Eyeless. Featureless white.

“Names are coffins,” the figure rasped through the synthetic voice filter. “Why would I climb into one?”

Darren reared back to strike again—but the man’s forehead cracked into his own. Light exploded behind Darren’s eyes. His mouth filled with copper. In the blur, the killer twisted the gas valve wide open. A blast of cold vapor rushed into the air.

The blowtorch arced through the night, slow and certain. A pale flame leapt into the darkness. It met the gas and bloomed—soft blue light roaring down the crypt’s throat like a summoned demon.

Darren dove sideways, rolled onto damp grass as fire chased air. When he looked up, the mausoleum was a smoldering wreck. The Blazewalker was gone. Only laughter remained—soft, drifting, like smoke across stone.

Precinct Locker Room – 5:40 AM

The stink of bleach fought the burn of cold water. Darren stood at the sink, scrubbing cemetery grime from trembling fingers. His reflection in the cracked mirror stared back—eyes bloodshot, skin singed at the ear where blue fire had kissed him.

A locker slammed behind him.

Austin stood nearby, hair wet, shirt half-buttoned. Fresh bruises. New position. The shadows beneath his skin kept shifting—like masks made of flesh.

“You look like hell,” Austin muttered, tossing him a towel.

“Almost got there,” Darren said, voice low. “He used gas this time. No fire. He’s evolving.”

He hesitated. “When I tore the mask off... there was another one underneath. White. Blank. Like there’s nothing left of the person beneath.”

Rhodes paused for a moment too long. Something flickered behind his eyes—regret? Fatigue? It vanished quickly. “Adaptation. That’s what real fear does. It changes shape.”

He bent to tie his boot, and Darren saw it—clutched in Austin’s hand, half-hidden. A torn fragment of latex, still damp with cemetery soil. The same kind Darren had pulled from the Blazewalker’s jaw.

Austin rose smoothly, slipped the evidence into an envelope without a word.

“The city board wants a debrief in two hours,” he said. “Get some caffeine. Clear your head.”

“Yes, sir,” Darren murmured, heart hammering.

When the door clicked shut, he gripped the sink until his knuckles went white. The mirror didn’t lie anymore.

The question wasn’t who the monster was. It was how long he’d worn the uniform.

Because now, Darren understood: masks didn’t just hide evil.

Sometimes, they were the only thing holding it together.

22:18 PM — Violent Crimes Archive

Fluorescents buzzed like angry wasps above Darren Maxwell’s desk, casting sharp lines across forgotten case files and sleepless eyes. He wasn’t chasing leads anymore. He was hunting a single object—the pristine whisky glass from Johnson’s Tavern, the only thing left untouched by fire.

The lab report finally arrived with a soft chime. Darren opened it with trembling fingers. A partial thumbprint. Not in any criminal registry. He tried the precinct's personnel database. The screen blinked. One match returned: Rhodes, Austin J.

The chill that crept through him felt colder than the grave.

“You’ll set yourself on fire at this rate, kid.”

Darren’s spine snapped rigid. Chief Rhodes stood in the doorway, freshly shaved, tie neat, the bruises now concealed under perfect foundation. His tone dripped paternal concern—warm, easy, rehearsed.

Darren closed the laptop in one motion. “I was pulling security footage from Maple & 7th. Sam’s barbershop faces Johnson’s. Thought I’d check the DVR in person.”

Austin gave a tight smile, a little too smooth. “Take a cruiser. And Darren—call me the second you find something.”

“I will,” Darren lied, slipping the report into his inner coat pocket.

23:41 PM — Maple & 7th Barbers

The red-and-white barber pole spun silently, bleeding color across empty pavement. Inside, the scent of talc and old leather clung to the air. Sam swept the floor with slow strokes, the kind that came from long years and no rush.

“Late one, Officer Maxwell,” he said with a tired smile. “City keeps trimming hours. I clean after dark now.”

“Still got the DVR under the counter?” Darren asked, trying to sound casual.

“Same spot,” Sam nodded.

Darren crouched and opened the tray. Empty. The thumb drive had already been removed.

A metallic click echoed behind him. He turned. Sam was no longer holding a broom—but a gleaming straight razor. And in his other hand dangled something worse: a torn strip of latex. The exact one Darren had ripped from the Blazewalker’s mask at Oak Hill.

“You dropped this,” Sam said softly.

Darren’s hand crept toward his holster. “Where did you get that?”

“From its rightful owner,” came the reply—lower now, familiar. As Darren watched in frozen horror, Sam’s hand slid under his chin. The flesh puckered, lifted. Latex peeled away in smooth, practiced motions. In seconds, Austin Rhodes stood in his place, pale blue eyes meeting Darren’s with the calm of inevitability.

Darren backed toward the mirror wall. “Why?”

Austin folded the razor with a crisp snap. “Because cities fund fear. Not justice. Not peace. But nightmares? Nightmares get a line item.”

“You murdered innocent people… for funding?” Darren’s voice cracked.

“I manufactured necessity,” Austin said coolly. “You were my counterweight; honest and young. The city trusts clean hands. I gave them fire… you’d hand them the hose.”

The smell of aerosol hung thick in the air—hair spray, cleaning chemicals. One spark, and the shop would go up like kindling. Darren drew his pistol low, keeping it out of Austin’s line of sight.

“It ends tonight, Chief.”

Austin’s eyes glinted. He thumbed a tiny lighter, spinning the wheel once. Chik-chik. A whisper of fire.

“Masks first,” he said. “Then revelation.”

Darren fired.

Glass shattered behind Austin, the blast sending him reeling. The lighter clattered beneath a barber chair. Its spark kissed the flammable haze. The explosion bloomed fast and low, sucking the oxygen from the room in a single, fiery exhale. Mirrors cracked, razors clattered, the floor groaned beneath searing heat.

Darren dove behind the cashier’s counter, shoulder blistering as flame licked past. Smoke coiled thick and fast. The sprinklers stayed silent—disabled.

Choking, Darren crawled through the haze. His hand closed around something small—the missing thumb drive, slipped from Austin’s coat in the chaos.

Evidence.

He looked up just in time to see the back door swing open. Through smoke-burned lungs, he shouted, “You always said motive was the heart of any case! So what broke you?”

Austin paused, silhouette framed by flickering fire.

“A city that loves heroes,” he said, voice low and bitter, “but only pays for funerals.”

Then he vanished into the night.

00:12 AM — Alley behind Maple & 7th

Rain fell in slanted sheets. Darren stumbled into the open air, coughing, soaked in sweat and soot, thumb drive clenched tight in his fist. Ahead, Austin moved quickly—still limping, that same signature left knee hitch giving him away.

Sirens approached from every direction. Austin turned once, his face lit by the red-blue pulse of cruiser lights. Without breaking stride, he lifted another mask—a paramedic’s face this time—and slipped it on like sacrament.

Darren raised his gun but didn’t fire. There was no clean shot. The alley had bloomed with startled faces, awoken by the blast. Austin vanished into them, absorbed like smoke into fog.

Evidence Room, Sunrise

The sun leaked through dusty blinds, warming metal shelves and tired bones. Darren sat bandaged and scorched, watching Internal Affairs technicians sift through Austin’s thumb drive. Files spilled onto the screen—ledgers, shell company accounts, mask orders, audio recordings of department meetings edited and reshuffled to trigger panic.

Every document bore the same digital signature: a stylized flame, walking in silhouette across the page. Proof, yes. But also branding. A calling card.

“We traced seven burner companies,” said Agent Ifeoma Daramola, her voice calm but edged with steel, “all pointing back to the same fire suppression supplier.”

She didn’t look up from her terminal, fingers moving quickly, expression unreadable. “Either your chief’s a master illusionist… or we’re all blind.”

Darren nodded slowly. “Both, maybe.”

“Well,” she said, finally glancing over, “the city’s about to open its eyes.”

Darren closed his notebook. The question ‘Why?’ was answered now, but it weighed more heavily than ever.

He remembered the voice in the barbershop, in the cemetery, in the fire: Masks first... then revelation.

The city would soon see both.

And Darren, staring down the road ahead, understood the truth that most cops never admitted—not all monsters wore masks to hide.

Some wore them to survive.

His life’s work was no longer about catching the Blazewalker.

It was about making sure no one ever needed to become him again.

Outside the precinct, Carmen Ito stood alone beneath a flickering streetlamp, the sun bleeding faintly through the city’s smoke-stained sky. Her gloves tapped quietly against a second thumb drive—one Internal Affairs hadn’t seen.

She paused on a case file labeled: Draft_02 – Maxwell (Alternate Debrief), and smiled faintly.

“Now you see,” she whispered, slipping the drive into her coat.

You trust your team?

She had asked Darren that once. Not as a warning—but a test.

“But will you act?”

A beat passed. Then, more softly—almost to herself:

“The system never cared about justice. Only control. That’s why I kept this one.”

Then she turned, vanishing into the morning fog—leaving only the scent of soot behind.