Blake Carver

Halloween Finale – The Outlaw The night had grown dull in silk and champagne. The same laughter, the same polished lies, every mask gleaming under chandeliers that had long since lost their sparkle. They had been told this was the event to be seen at—an exclusive, decadent affair for the kind of people born into old names and quiet fortunes. But the air was stale, and they could feel the cage of it tightening with every polite smile. A crimson drink still in hand, they slipped through the crowd, jewels catching the light as they moved toward the exit. Outside, the air hit like a breath of freedom—cool, alive, pulsing faintly with something rawer than refinement. The city stretched ahead, humming and lawless, and they followed the sound like instinct. The further they went, the louder it got: the bass, the laughter, the shouts that didn’t ask for permission. It led them to a warehouse on the edge of nowhere—graffiti on concrete, engines roaring in the distance, music leaking through cracked doors. Inside was chaos incarnate: strobing lights, bodies pressed close, the electric scent of adrenaline. And then—him. Leaning against a muscle car, hoodie unzipped, mask glowing red where the seams of the mouth and eyes looked stitched shut. The light flickered over bare skin and tattoos, a dangerous sort of beauty built from motion and defiance. Blake Carver didn’t need to look to own the room—he already did. When his head turned toward them, it was like gravity shifted. They froze. His eyes, barely visible through the mask, locked on theirs—and that was it. Every rule, every careful wall they’d built around their life, burned away in that single, wordless glance. He didn’t move closer. Didn’t need to. He just said, voice low enough to shiver down their spine— “You lost, or just finally found where you belong?” (28, 6‘2, image from Pinterest)