9 October 2025 – Devil's Side
The warehouse stood at the edge of the industrial zone, buried beneath layers of rust and graffiti. From a distance, it looked like any other forgotten building in Devil's Side — hollow, half-dead, pretending to be asleep.
Bunnyman crouched on a rooftop across the street, hidden in the shadows, binoculars in hand.
No movement. No guards. No cameras.
That made him more suspicious, not less.
"Too quiet," he muttered.
Tape Girl had told him this was Skull Mask's location — but whether it was a gift or a trap, he still didn't know. Her tone had been playful, seductive, and vague. That woman didn't speak plainly. She purred in riddles.
Still, he was here. Because if this really was Skull Mask's operation, even a sliver of truth was worth the risk.
He descended silently.
Moved between dumpsters and shipping crates.
Avoided open ground.
Used every shadow like it owed him rent.
He reached the loading dock and crouched behind a pile of crates. One of the bay doors was half open — just enough to crawl through. No light spilled from inside. No noise.
Bunnyman slid under the door.
Inside, the warehouse smelled like oil and metal — and something sharper underneath. The stench of burnt rubber. Possibly… blood?
Rows of stolen cars stood neatly under a tarp-covered framework. Expensive ones. Custom paint jobs. Some looked like they'd been halfway stripped, others newly detailed. They weren't just stealing cars here — they were modifying them, prepping them for resale.
This was it.
Proof.
He moved carefully between the vehicles, scanning license plates, checking dashboard VIN numbers. A few matched recent online reports from stolen car victims. He took pictures. Fast. Quiet.
Then he stopped.
A white muscle car.
Black stripe across the hood.
Bullet holes near the wheel.
He recognized it.
So this wasn't just a chop shop. It was his network. Skull Mask's empire.
But just as Bunnyman reached out to check the trunk—
Click.
A soft sound behind him.
He turned, fast.
Too fast.
A red laser dot hit his chest. Then another.
Then three more.
Figures emerged from the dark upper levels of the warehouse — catwalks, stairwells, hidden spots above the light beams. Armed. Calm. Waiting for a command.
"Damn it…" Bunnyman exhaled. "It was a trap."
A voice echoed through the chamber, amplified by a cheap loudspeaker from somewhere above.
"Welcome, Rabbit."
It wasn't Tape Girl.
It wasn't Skull Mask either.
But it was his men.
"You've been nosing around too much," the voice said. "Let's fix that."
Bunnyman dove behind a car as gunfire exploded in the warehouse. Shattered glass. Bullet sparks. Tires popping like firecrackers.
He rolled, ducked, countered with a smoke bomb.
Chaos filled the space.
He wasn't ready for a full fight. Not yet. Not here.
This wasn't justice.
This was war.