Chapter 3: Mask On. Mask Gone. (Patreon)

MY BIGGEST POST YET! This one nearly broke me; I SAID I WAS 90% DONE AND IT TOOK ME 8 DAYS TO FINISH! But Chapter 3 is finally HERE: 28 pages, a new mask wearer, 9 unique images, a mask removal transformation, a bar fight, and a bonus: "Tank Top Gabrielle." inspired by this image:

THANK YOU FOR YOUR SUPPORT AND ENJOY!

Chapter 3: Mask On. Mask Gone.

Phoebe stared, heart pounding, into the brilliant, sapphire-blue eyes peeking out from Gabrielle’s transformed green face. They were still Gabrielle’s eyes—at least, they looked like hers. But something behind them shimmered with mischief.

“Gabs?” Phoebe’s voice trembled as she inched back. “Are you… still in there? Are you still you?”

The Masked woman tilted her head and blinked once—slowly. Then, in a voice low and glitchy, distorted like a warped VHS tape, she purred, “Better than ever, you idio—” She paused mid-insult, her vocal pitch suddenly skipping like a scratched record. “Wait, what was that? Must be a crossed wire.” Her grin widened. “Anyway… doing fabulously, sweet-cheeks! And about me? Gabrielle?” She struck a pose, pulling a nearby blanket off the couch and fashioning it into a makeshift American flag cape.

“I’m stronger! I’m faster! I’m—”

She stomped a heel against the floor with a dramatic boom and bellowed, “I’M BETTER!”

“Shhh! Gabs—Gabrielle—whatever—you’re gonna wake the whole damn building!” Phoebe hissed, leaping forward on instinct.

Without thinking, she clamped her hand over the Mask’s mouth. But instead of muffling her, Phoebe’s fingers squished right into her rubbery lips and stretched the mouth. It ballooned outward like a stretchy trumpet, and a blaring honk blasted from her lips, loud and obnoxious.

Phoebe’s eyes went wide. “Oh no—oh no no no—”

“You’re gonna get us caught, you green freak!” she whispered through clenched teeth.

Masked Gabrielle blinked, then gently pointed at her extended, duck-billed mouth.

“Mmmph? Could you maybe let go of my face?” she squeaked in a helium-duck voice.

Phoebe recoiled in horror as she realized Gabrielle’s mouth had stretched a full foot from her face. She let go instantly—and the mouth snapped back with the violent twang of a giant rubber band.

THWACK!

Phoebe stared in stunned silence at the Mask’s face… now completely warped.

Gabrielle’s eyes were misaligned—one on her chin, the other dangling near her temple. Her nose had migrated to the middle of her forehead. Her mouth had landed lopsided beneath her ear. She looked like a sentient Mr. Potato Head.

Phoebe’s face twisted in pure terror. “Oh my God…”

The Masked Gabrielle—still grinning, somehow—reached for her own dislocated jaw. She lifted her palm to her temple, where her ear used to be, and blew into it like a balloon.

With a FWOOF, her entire skull inflated, cheeks puffing out grotesquely. Then, with a cartoonish deflate-and-snap, all her facial features popped back into perfect alignment. The transformation finished with a sparkling ding.

She pointed a finger at Phoebe. “Nobody touches the face, missy!”

Then she tapped the side of her head and added with a wink, “As for Gabrielle? She’s taking a little siesta upstairs.”

Phoebe’s mouth hung open. “Wait… what do you mean ‘Gabrielle’s taking a nap’? That’s her body, isn’t it?!”

The Mask strutted past her like she owned the apartment, hips swinging, eyes gleaming. “It is what it is, sister,” she purred, spinning theatrically in the center of the living room. “To put it simply: I’ve got her hands on the wheel now, sweet-cheeks!”

Phoebe bolted after her, grabbing her shoulder.

“But is she okay?!”

The Mask paused, looked back, and bared her massive grin—those bright, oversized teeth gleaming like headlights.

“Oh, she’s fine!” The Mask said brightly. Then, casually brushing Phoebe’s hand aside, she strutted confidently toward the front door, tossing a playful glance back over her shoulder:

“…For now.”

Phoebe immediately sprang into action, darting ahead to block the door with her body. She spread her arms wide and stood her ground firmly.

“I promised Gabrielle I wouldn’t let you—her—whatever you are—out of this apartment!” Phoebe’s voice trembled slightly but held firm resolve.

The Mask merely tilted her head, lips curled into a smug smile. “I know. I was there, remember?”

Without effort, as if moving a curtain, The Mask placed a gentle hand on Phoebe’s shoulder and smoothly slid her aside, as though she weighed nothing at all.

Phoebe stood stunned for only a split second before her pride as a stuntwoman—and years of martial arts discipline—flared into fierce determination. She pivoted sharply, her voice commanding and loud:

“Stop right there, Mask—or Gabrielle—whoever you are! I don't want to hurt my best friend's body, but I swear I'll use force if I have to. Step away from that door!”

The Mask paused, then burst out laughing—an exaggerated, theatrical laugh that filled the room. “Hahaha! Oh, that’s adorable! Alright then—give me your best shot, sweetcheeks.” She extended her hand, palm down, offering herself mockingly.

Phoebe hesitated, brow furrowing in confusion. “Wait, seriously? You actually want me to flip you?”

The Mask leaned forward, smiling mischievously. “Absolutely. As hard as you can.”

Phoebe felt doubt creep in—not of her own strength or skill, but fear of injuring Gabrielle’s body. Seeing Phoebe’s hesitation, The Mask rolled her eyes dramatically.

“Whatever, you big wuss. I don’t have all night—see ya later!”

She reached again for the doorknob, and Phoebe’s training and reflexes took over instinctively. Grabbing the Mask’s wrist and arm firmly, Phoebe planted her hips against hers, pivoting sharply to execute a textbook judo throw. But mid-turn, something went inexplicably wrong.

Phoebe’s footing vanished beneath her. The floor fell away, and suddenly she was airborne, legs flailing helplessly. A fraction of a second later she crashed flat onto her butt, still desperately gripping The Mask’s wrist and arm.

“Ow! Ow…my ass!” Phoebe groaned, stunned. She glanced upward.

The Mask stood exactly as before… perfectly balanced, utterly unaffected, grinning down at her. Phoebe scrambled upright, still clutching tightly to The Mask’s arm and wrist.

“What the hell…?” Phoebe murmured, eyes wide.

The Mask sighed, theatrically bored. “You done yet? Because I’ve got places to be, wuss.”

Phoebe’s pride flared again. She tightened her grip, adjusted her stance, and threw herself into the maneuver once more. The outcome was identical: a blur of disorientation, then another collision with the floor.

Rage ignited inside her, frustration burning away caution. Phoebe surged upward again, repeatedly attempting the throw. Each try ended identically: humiliation and pain, her anger only intensifying with every bruising impact. Meanwhile, The Mask stood utterly unfazed, her expression sliding steadily from amusement into impatience.

On Phoebe’s fourth attempt, The Mask suddenly seized Phoebe's shoulder with her free hand, voice shifting sharply—sounding distinctly like Gabrielle herself:

“PHOEBE, STOP!”

Phoebe froze immediately, breath hitching as recognition flooded her.

The Mask’s voice softened slightly, sassy yet edged with genuine concern. “Listen—try again, but slowly. Really slowly. Just trust me on this one, okay?”

Swallowing her confusion, Phoebe nodded and cautiously repeated the throw, moving gently, step by careful step. To her astonishment, the entire room seemed to pivot smoothly around them, bending reality as if the Mask stood rooted at the center of a carnival ride.

“See?” The Mask said, watching Phoebe’s amazement with a smug grin. “I can bend reality and reality bends around me, sweetcheeks. You can’t beat me like this. There’s only one tiny way you could stop me, and unfortunately for you, I won’t spoil the surprise. Not tonight, anyway. The night’s young, and I have plans. Gabrielle deserves a break from her dreadfully boring life and that’s why I’m here.”

She turned and reached for the doorknob again.

But this time Phoebe didn’t move.

She stood there, breathing hard, hands clenched into fists at her sides. Her body ached, her pride throbbed, but more than anything, she felt fear. Not fear of the Mask. Not anymore.

Fear of losing Gabrielle.

“Why her?” Phoebe said quietly.

The Mask paused.

“I’m serious,” Phoebe continued, voice steady now. “Why Gabrielle? Why not somebody else? Why my best friend?”

The Mask slowly turned around, expression unreadable.

“Oh honey,” she said, placing a hand to her chest dramatically. “I’m her sweetcheeks… “ Looking at her ”So much repressed energy. So much longing. So much… unused potential. All that fire—and nowhere to burn.”

Phoebe narrowed her eyes. “She’s more than that. She’s smart. She’s kind. She’s not your playground.”

Phoebe stepped forward. “Let me talk to her. I know she’s still in there. I heard her voice.”

The Mask’s smile faltered for a brief second.

“I said stop, didn’t I?” Phoebe said again, louder this time. “That was her. Not you.”

The Mask rolled her eyes. “Ugh, you’re so dramatic.”

But she didn’t reach for the door again.

Phoebe stepped closer. “If she’s watching from the back seat, then she can hear me. Gabs—if you’re in there, listen to me. You’re not lost. You’re not alone. I’m still here. And I’m not letting go.”

The Mask’s eye comically twitched in frustration.

Phoebe noticed. “Yeah. I saw that. Your eye twitched. That was her, wasn’t it?”

“No,” The Mask hissed. “I’m just getting annoyed.”

The Mask’s previously annoyed expression suddenly twisted into a wild, unhinged grin. She raised a finger, theatrically pointing at herself as her voice dripped with playful menace. "If you want to make sure this body stays safe until I’m done having fun… then why don’t you just come with me, sweetcheeks?"

Phoebe, barefoot in her rumpled pajamas, shook her head in pure disbelief. "No! Absolutely not! I’m not even dressed to step outside, let alone follow you into the city like this!"

The Mask’s sly smile widened with unsettling delight as she slowly closed the distance between them. Each step was deliberate, predatory, playful… a dangerous dance. When she finally closed the gap, their bodies pressed flush—belly to belly, heartbeat to heartbeat. Phoebe instinctively tensed, but an unexpected calm began to seep into her muscles as the Mask’s breath—oddly minty, sweet, and unnervingly inviting—wafted to her senses. Her pulse fluttered involuntarily, her breath catching as the Mask leaned in closer, her breath hot and humid against Phoebe’s ear, the faintest moan escaping her lips, vibrating against Phoebe’s skin.

The Mask inhaled deeply, as though savoring the moment. "When did you last eat, darling?"

Phoebe blinked rapidly, startled by the bizarre question. "What?!"

The Mask’s grin widened impossibly, stretching her rubbery dark green lips far beyond what should be humanly possible. "I’m asking when was your last meal," she repeated, her silky voice laced with unsettling glee.

Still baffled, Phoebe stammered, "Why? What difference does that make? What does eating have to do with anything? “The grin stretched, lips rubbery and obscene. “Because I don’t want you to hurl.”

Phoebe’s mind barely had time to process those cryptic words before she felt the world shift beneath her feet. "Wait, what do you meaaaa—"

In an instant, the entire apartment and everything around them vanished into a blur of twisting color. With no warning whatsoever, they both transformed into a swirling, violently spinning human-sized tornado. Bright, dizzying spirals of green, red, gold, and blue flashed past Phoebe’s eyes. The roaring wind screamed in her ears as city lights, honking car horns, and disorienting shapes zipped by at impossible speeds. Disoriented, nauseated, and clinging desperately to Gabrielle’s body, Phoebe had no choice but to hold on for dear god, praying she wouldn’t lose consciousness.

After what felt like a lifetime—but was likely less than thirty seconds—the dizzying whirlwind came to a screeching halt with a sudden, ear-popping whoosh. The spinning chaos collapsed into stillness, and Phoebe barely realized that The Mask was holding her, dipped backward in a dramatic, almost theatrical ballroom pose. One hand supported her back firmly, while the other hand rested possessively on her butt, as if setting up for a grand, romantic kiss.

The Mask beamed at her like a stage performer basking in thunderous applause. "Welcome to my world, sweetcheeks!"

With a gentle flourish, The Mask lifted Phoebe upright and guided her onto her feet. Phoebe staggered, still breathless and struggling to regain her equilibrium. She opened her eyes wide and took in her surroundings, gasping as she realized where they were.

They now stood inside one of the most exclusive, high-end nightclubs in all of New York City—a glitzy, decadent temple to excess. Enormous crystal chandeliers hung from a vaulted ceiling, shimmering with thousands of tiny lights. Velvet curtains framed multiple elevated stages. The marble floor gleamed under the pulsing rainbow of stage lights. Powerful bass thumped beneath their feet like a second heartbeat, and glamorous patrons in designer outfits danced and mingled around them. The sheer decadence was overwhelming.

"Mask... Mask… what the hell are we doing here?!" Phoebe managed to choke out, her voice cracking with panic.

The Mask flashed her blindingly wide, oversized teeth. "You said you wanted to keep this body safe, remember? So I brought you along! Now you can supervise me all you want." She wiggled her eyebrows with innocence.

Phoebe flailed her hands in utter frustration. "I told you I wasn’t ready to go out! Especially not somewhere like this!"

The Mask tilted her head slightly and gave Phoebe a slow, exaggerated once-over, her mischievous eyes sparkling. "Are you sure about that, darling?"

"Yes, you green freak! I’m wearing my pajaaa—" Phoebe froze mid-sentence as she finally looked down at herself. Her familiar pajamas were gone. In their place was a breathtaking gown, shimmering gold under the nightclub lights as if spun from molten silk. The fabric clung to her curves like liquid metal, accentuating every contour of her body. Matching gold heels adorned her feet, and her hair had been elegantly styled into voluminous, cascading waves as if she’d spent hours in a high-end salon.

Phoebe’s jaw dropped. "Mask… what is happening?! When did you do this to me?!"

The Mask giggled, twirling slightly like a proud designer admiring her work. "You like it?"

"I mean, yes—it looks incredible, but—" Phoebe fumbled with her words, pulling up the hem of her dress in disbelief. That’s when she noticed something even more absurd: her panties had changed too. She was now wearing delicate, gold-trimmed, diamond-encrusted lingerie that sparkled and caught the light with every tiny movement. The luxurious texture felt surreal against her skin.

"Why did you even change my underwear?!" Phoebe blurted out, her face turning beet red.

With a devilish smirk, The Mask snapped her fingers. In an instant, she was holding Phoebe’s old white cotton panties—the same ones she had been wearing mere minutes ago.

"You mean these?" The Mask held them up to her face and took an exaggerated, theatrical sniff. "Mmm. Smells lovely. But honestly, sweetcheeks—these are the kind of undies my grandma would wear." She let out a fake gag and rolled her eyes dramatically.

With a flourish, The Mask casually flicked her wrist, launching the plain panties into the air. They twirled like a tossed napkin before vanishing mid-air in a puff of green smoke.

"You’ve got to treat your pussy like the national treasure it is, darling," The Mask purred. Phoebe’s cheeks burned.

With hips in overdrive, the Mask sauntered toward the pulsing dance floor.

“HEL-LOOO, NEW YORK!” Her voice echoed stadium-loud.

Inside, Gabrielle’s consciousness flickered—watching, trapped, woozy.—Phoebe?—

The body arched in a show-girl bridge, sweat gleaming on green skin. Music warped into a filthy funk as Mask weaponized every curve: hips scribing sinuous figure-eights, breasts swelling with each pulse.

Phoebe clawed through the crowd, gold heels skidding. “Gabrielle! Mask—stop!” Her words drowned in bass. Silk rope conjured from nothing curled around her wrist; with a yank, she was dragged to the catwalk’s edge—front-row captive to the night’s wicked cabaret.

The Mask finished a laser-tight spin and peered down at her captive friend. “Stunt-Queen! There you are.”

She crouched so their faces were inches apart, rubber-green nose almost touching Phoebe’s.

“Tell me, Pheebs,” she purred, “haven’t you ever wanted the spotlight just… once?”

Phoebe’s jaw clenched. “I’m not the one who needs attention.”

With a quick spin, the Mask multiplied. Five clones fanned out along the catwalk, identical masks, each wearing a different cheerleader outfit: sapphire, teal, midnight, electric, and baby blue. The crowd screamed; phones rose like a field of neon lighters.

The clones vaulted down among the dancers, each claiming a partner. One dipped a woman so low her pearls hit the floor. Spines corkscrewed, skirts snapped like bedsheets in a hurricane.

Phoebe tried to chase the real Mask but the clones swirled, switching places faster than strobe frames.

The Temptation

Suddenly every clone winked out—pop-pop-pop—until only the original remained, perched on a bar top. She crooked a finger; Phoebe felt the silk rope slacken, inviting her closer.

Phoebe hesitated. The pulse of the music, the screaming crowd, the flashing lights—it all blurred together like some hedonistic fever dream. And yet, at the center of it all, the Mask sat perfectly still, grinning, green skin glistening beneath the club lights.

"Come on, Pheebs," the Mask purred. "You’re already dressed for the part." She ran one hand along her own shimmering thigh, the slit in her gown rising scandalously high. “Don't be shy.”

Phoebe gritted her teeth. “I’m not playing your game.”

The Mask’s grin widened. “Oh, sweetheart... I don’t play games. I am the game.”

Then—without warning—the Mask vaulted off the bar in a gravity‑defying arc and landed at the very center of the writhing dance floor. The crowd erupted.

Her consciousness flickered, barely breaking the dark, while electric pleasure surged through every nerve the Mask commanded. The power coursed through her veins, whispering sexual desires straight into her thoughts.

Come now, Gabrielle.

The Mask seized a muscular man by his suspenders, yanking him into an exaggerated tango; his feet left the floor, eyes wide with mingled shock and fascination.

Gabrielle recoiled, the heat blooming at her core betrayed her, the Mask amplifying every repressed longing she had ever buried.

Phoebe battled forward through the tightening crowd—arms, hair, and bodies thrashing like a living tide. “Gabs!” she shouted, her plea swallowed by the bass.

The Mask moved like unleashed chaos. The floor morphed into an orgy of limbs, every dancer bending to the Mask’s overtly sexual choreography.

Somewhere inside the mask: Why deny yourself?

Phoebe shoved forward, calling Gabrielle’s name, but the Mask, easily distracted with her raw desire for passion—never looked back.

Across the sea of bodies, the Mask locked onto a statuesque blonde draped in crimson silk, amusement glimmering in her eyes.

Gabrielle’s pulse spiked.

The Mask’s lips curled, tongue tracing them with hungry delight.

A rush of heat swept through Gabrielle’s sex. The Mask’s desire was unstoppable—and she knew, with chilling certainty, that this was only the beginning.

The Mask’s pupils dilated.

“Oh-ho, hello, gorgeous," she purred aloud.

In a blur, she abandoned her previous partner and slithered toward the blonde like a heat-seeking missile. The crowd parted for her as if magnetized by her pure, raw confidence. Phoebe strained to follow, but the sea of dancers grew denser.

The Mask reached her new target, cupping the woman’s chin between her  fingers. “You’ve been watching me all night, haven’t you, sugar?”

The woman laughed nervously but didn’t resist as the Mask’s cartoonishly plump lips inched closer, breathing in her ear, smelling her hot moisty minty breath, teasing the edge of a kiss, swaying together like an erotic pendulum.

Phoebe froze at the perimeter, helpless, horrified. This was no longer a performance. The Mask’s hunger was slipping loose—turning primal.

Another woman joined, then another. Soon the Mask was wrapped in a swirl of bodies, pulling them into her growing, feverish orbit like a green-faced planet.

Phoebe’s stomach twisted. She could barely tell where Gabrielle ended and the Mask began. And she could see it in the crowd too—people cheering, laughing, reaching for their phones. No one could see the danger.

Except her.

“Gabrielle…” Phoebe whispered under her breath, knowing her friend couldn’t hear. “Please don’t do this.”

The Mask was now fully engulfed in the pulsating swirl of partners—giggling, moaning, groping hands tangled in hair, silk, panties. The scene spiraled toward something animalistic.

Phoebe tried one last time to press forward—but a pair of enormous bouncers suddenly blocked her. Their crossed arms and blank stares made clear she wouldn’t get another step closer.

The Mask, completely oblivious to Phoebe now, threw her head back and laughed—a wild, ecstatic cackle that echoed across the dance floor.

She was gone - gone.

Phoebe could only watch, as the Mask slipped deeper into her own unrestrained sexual appetites.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Half an hour passed. No sign of Gabrielle. No sign of The Mask.

Phoebe remained in the club, eyes darting across the undulating sea of bodies. The crowd had only grown thicker, more intoxicated by the hour, but Gabrielle had completely vanished into it. She pushed through cluster after cluster of dancers, scanning every corner for that unmistakable green face.

Nothing.

An hour crawled by. Desperation simmered beneath her carefully maintained exterior. Finally, Phoebe made her way toward the staff entrance, cornering one of the club’s security workers.

“Have you seen a woman wearing a green... mask? Full head like prosthetic? Pretty unique.”

The man thought for a moment, then casually shrugged. “Oh yeah. Left about thirty, forty minutes ago. VIP member picked her up. They got into his limo.”

Phoebe’s stomach knotted. A mix of anger and dread swirled inside her, but she forced herself to nod politely, suppressing the urge to scream.

Where the hell did she go? Where did The Mask take Gabrielle’s body now?

Outside, the night air was heavy, thick with the fading pulse of the city’s wild energy. Phoebe paced the sidewalks, scanning parked cars and scanning every limo she could spot, but none showed any trace of them. She couldn't go to the police—not after what happened at Jungle Studios. There was no way she could explain any of this without sounding completely insane.

Instead, she kept moving, flagging Ubers, crisscrossing the city in a desperate, aimless search. Every hour that passed chipped away at her hope. The club scene slowly bled into the quiet hush of early morning. The sun’s first shy rays began to stretch over the skyline.

At 5 a.m., Phoebe finally admitted defeat.

If she comes back at all, Phoebe thought grimly, she’ll return home.

She arrived back at their apartment complex utterly exhausted. Her beautiful conjured gown—once flawless and regal—was now sweat-stained and smeared with city grime. Her feet ached, and the golden heels she once marveled at felt like medieval torture devices.

The apartment door was unlocked.

Phoebe’s heart raced. She stepped inside cautiously. The living room remained in the same surreal chaos from earlier—the aftermath of Gabrielle’s wild transformation. Cautiously, she tiptoed toward Gabrielle’s bedroom.

Empty.

She checked her own room, but found nothing. The apartment was silent.

Phoebe slumped onto her bed, fists clenched on the verge of tears, her head spinning from fatigue and frustration. The first full beams of morning light crept through the curtains when suddenly—

WHOOSH!

A deafening whirlwind slammed into the apartment’s entrance. The force rattled picture frames and slammed Gabrielle’s bedroom door shut with a thunderous BANG!

Phoebe shot to her feet, frozen mid-step. She could hear it now—inside Gabrielle’s room: electrical crackles, the sound of rubber balloons stretching, and a long, drawn-out dreadful moan echoing through the doorframe. She watched in shock as a strange gust of energy rushed toward her, swirling under her private region and  around her legs.

Her glimmering, high-fashion gown began to ripple and shimmer unnaturally. The golden fabric liquefied before her eyes, oozing down her body like honey, until it reshaped itself back into her original pajamas. The ornate heels shrank and dissolved, leaving her barefoot once more.

Phoebe let out an involuntary breath, half-relieved, half unnerved. As she lifted her pajama top slightly, she confirmed it — her old, plain cotton panties had returned as well. She let out a small, strangled laugh. At least that part of me is back.

Behind the door, the strange sounds slowly shifted from rubbery stretching into something closer to human—an exhausted gasp, less animal, more Gabrielle.

She cautiously approached the bedroom and eased the door open.

The sight inside was both comical and heartbreaking: Gabrielle’s bare legs sprawled across the bed, her body collapsed face-first into the mattress, butt raised awkwardly in the air. The Mask lay discarded nearby, face down on the floor like a dead creature.

“Gabs?” Phoebe whispered softly. “Are you okay?”

A muffled groan escaped Gabrielle’s lips. She sounded like someone who had just run a marathon and then got flattened by a bus.

Phoebe quietly stepped in and gently turned her over, cradling her limp form. The sticky sweat clinging to Gabrielle’s body reeked of cheap alcohol and whatever debauchery The Mask had plunged into. But Gabrielle was breathing. She was here. Alive.  .Phoebe pulled the blanket over her, tucking her in carefully. She couldn’t suppress the wave of strange affection and protective relief that swept over her. Then, eyeing The Mask on the floor, Phoebe’s face hardened. She snatched it up, gripping its rubbery surface with distaste. The sooner she got it away from Gabrielle, the better.

In silence, she tiptoed back to her own room, stuffed The Mask deep into a drawer, and slammed it shut.

The Hangover

Hours later, at 8 a.m., Gabrielle’s alarm clock blared into life.

“Gah!” Gabrielle jolted upright, flailing in a half-hearted karate pose. “Don’t mess with me, pal, I’m a night goddess!”

She froze mid-sentence, blinking at the empty room.

“Wait… why the hell did I just say that?” she mumbled, her voice raspy. “And why do I feel like apologizing?”

Her head pounded as the hangover fully settled in—mouth dry, tongue coated with the taste of bad pizza, hair a tangled mess of matted curls. Her skin was clammy, her stomach sour. But the worst part wasn’t physical—it was the eerie emptiness in her mind.

She couldn’t remember anything.

Gabrielle’s eyes suddenly went wide.

“The Mask!”

She stumbled out of bed, searching every corner of the room. Nothing. The Mask was gone.

That’s when Phoebe’s voice called from the living room: “Gabs! You awake?”

Gabrielle felt a strange, involuntary wave of relief. She answered sheepishly, “Yeah… I’m up, sweetcheeks—uh—wait. Why did I just call you that? I don’t say that.”

Phoebe’s voice came louder this time. “How you feeling?”

Gabrielle rubbed her eyes. “Like I got hit by a train and then drank the remains.”

Silence.

Then—SLAM!

Phoebe burst into the room, eyes fierce. “You don’t remember anything from last night?!”

Gabrielle squinted, wincing at the loud bang. “No! I told you my head’s killing me! It’s all foggy. What happened?”

Phoebe crossed her arms, staring her down. The tension between them thickened as Gabrielle waited, confused and frightened.

Gabrielle looked at Phoebe with a puzzled expression, as if trying to figure out what was hiding behind her friend’s quiet stare. The atmosphere in the room felt unusually heavy, like the strange stillness before a thunderstorm rolls in. She turned her head toward the nightstand, her eyes locking onto the digital clock.

“8:15 a.m.,” she muttered urgently. A wave of panic washed over her as she sat up, her sheets twisting around her like seaweed. The glowing numbers stared back at her like a ticking bomb.

“Pheebs, can we talk about this later?” Gabrielle blurted out, already throwing off her blanket and stumbling toward the dresser. “I have to be at work in thirty minutes, and I look like a total mess.”

Phoebe didn’t move. Her eyes scanned Gabrielle's face with quiet intensity, watching for any flicker of the wild, unpredictable personality that had taken over her friend the night before. But nothing was there. Gabrielle just looked like Gabrielle—tired, stressed, and completely human.

“Sure… whatever you say, sweetcheeks,” Phoebe replied, attempting a playful tone.

Gabrielle stopped mid-step. That word—sweetcheeks—landed oddly in her mind. It felt familiar in a way that made her skin crawl. She blinked and rubbed her temples. Déjà vu, maybe. She shook it off.

“Okay, that was weird,” she mumbled and dashed into the bathroom.

By 8:30 a.m., Gabrielle had done her best to make herself look halfway presentable. Her hair was twisted into a hasty bun, and she had thrown on a mismatched outfit that somehow passed for acceptable. With a granola bar clamped between her teeth, she hustled out the door.

Meanwhile, Phoebe stayed behind in their apartment. She had been given the day off as a reward for multiple back-to-back shifts. Normally, she would’ve celebrated with a nap or some Netflix, but today felt different. Heavier. She sat down on the living room carpet, knees to her chest, and stared at the closed drawer where the Mask was locked away.

Even tucked out of sight, it felt like the Mask was still watching her. The drawer gave off a strange energy, like static before a lightning strike. Phoebe reached for it once, hesitated, and slowly opened it an inch. A strange hum filled the air. She slammed it shut again.

Not now. Maybe not ever.

The hours dragged. By 6:00 p.m., Phoebe had chewed her nails to the quick. Gabrielle was never this late. She always came home by six on the dot, maybe five minutes later if the trains were running slow. But now it was well past seven, and still no word.

Phoebe sent a few texts. No reply. She called twice. Straight to voicemail. Just when she was about to lose it, her phone buzzed to life.

(Unknown Caller.)

"Hello?" Phoebe answered, heart pounding.

"Pheebs... it’s me," Gabrielle’s voice came through the line, low and shaking. "I’m in trouble."

"Where are you? What happened?"

"I’m at the police station. A detective came to the studio and brought me in. They say I’m the main suspect for the break-in at Jungle Studios."

Phoebe’s stomach dropped.

"They say they found DNA—skin cells, hair. It’s all a match. They keep showing me footage of someone with super speed and super strength wearing this green mask, it might be me. But I told them I didn’t know anything, but… I don’t know. I’m starting to doubt myself."

"I’m using my one phone call on you because you’re the only person who knows what really happened. Please, Phoebe. They have no one else."

Phoebe was already halfway out the door. "Don’t worry, Gabs. I’m going to figure this out. I promise."

An officer’s voice crackled through the phone: "Time’s up."

"Thank you, Pheebs," Gabrielle whispered before the call cut off.

Interrogation Room

Gabrielle sat in a freezing cold metal chair, her body tense. The white walls around her seemed to close in. Everything was sterile, empty, and too quiet. Her fingers drummed nervously on the metal table.

The door opened with a sharp click. In walked Detective Sanchez, a neatly dressed Latina woman with keen eyes and a no-nonsense stride. Her badge gleamed against her blazer, and her hair was pulled into a perfectly tight bun that screamed discipline. She looked like she followed every rule in the book and maybe even helped write a few.

She didn’t slam the folder down or throw accusations. Instead, she placed her files neatly on the table, took a deep breath, and looked Gabrielle in the eyes. Her voice was clear, direct, but not unkind.

“Gabrielle,” she began, “we first found fingerprints that matched yours on our system and upon bringing you here, after doing some DNA tests, the forensics team compared biological traces from the scene—skin cells, hair, and other identifiers. It’s all pointing back to you.”

Gabrielle opened her mouth to protest, but Sanchez held up a hand, preempting the response. “There’s more. The security footage we reviewed... it’s impossible. We’re talking acrobatics, superhuman reaction time, strength beyond normal limits. But the only lead we have is you. And I don’t like holes in my cases.”

She paused, then unwrapped a Snickers bar and looked at Gabrielle with exaggerated focus.

“Sorry in advance,” she said.

Without warning, she flicked the candy bar at Gabrielle’s forehead.

“Ow! What was that for?” Gabrielle said, recoiling.

“Testing for superhero reflexes,” Sanchez replied flatly. Then, with an almost bashful glance, she added, “Okay, that was dumb. I’m sorry. You just don’t strike me as the kind of person who bends steel bars and defies gravity.”

She stepped forward, gently rubbing the spot she’d hit. “But this doesn’t add up. And when things don’t add up, I get curious. That’s my job.”

Gabrielle’s defenses were crumbling. She felt a lump rising in her throat, panic simmering under her skin.

Sanchez’s tone softened, but her eyes never lost focus. “What do your friends call you?”

Gabrielle nodded. “Gabs.”

“Okay, Gabs. Is there anything you want to tell me?”

Gabrielle hesitated. Her lips parted, then closed again. The Mask. The transformations. The powers. It was all right there, clawing at her insides. She felt the words almost escape.

“Well, Detective Sanchez—”

The door burst open.

A younger officer rushed in, panting. “Detective Sanchez, we just got a sighting! Downtown at a biker bar. That green-faced freak showed up again. Eyewitnesses say she’s tearing the place apart.”

Sanchez’s brow furrowed. Gabrielle blinked in disbelief.

“If the Mask was locked away in their apartment… then someone else must’ve used it.”

Phoebe!

Five minutes later, another officer came to the room.

“You’re free to go, ma’am. Detective Sanchez cleared your release.”

Gabrielle stood slowly, heart hammering. Her mind was a blur of dread and confusion.

If Phoebe had put on the Mask… the real chaos hadn’t even started.

Mean Fiddler Bar

A few moments earlier…

The front of the Mean Fiddler biker bar exploded in a cacophony of shattered glass and shrieking metal as a gleaming limousine barreled through the entrance like a champagne cork out of hell. Patrons dove out of the way, beer mugs crashing to the floor as dust and neon lights filled the air.

Then, silence—save for the creaking of the limo's suspension.

The rear door swung open with exaggerated theatrical flair. A single long, pale leg extended out, heel first, wrapped in a glittering black stiletto. Then the rest of her emerged.

She was a spectacle in every sense, fire red hair flaming down to her shoulders, a massive green face twisted in a manic smile, and a skin-tight yellow dress peppered with polka dots that shifted subtly with her every exaggerated move.

She raised her arm high above her head and shouted, “I’m here to kick ass and chew bubblegum—and I’m all out of bubblegum!”

The room went dead silent. A few bikers exchanged bewildered looks.

“Did she just say she’s gonna fight us?” one of them muttered.

Before the comment could settle, she shot back with an eyeroll and a scoff: “Duh, you dumb ass! What else would I mean by saying I’m here to kick ass?”

A towering biker, easily 6’5" and built like a wrecking ball in denim, cracked his knuckles and strode forward. The others stepped aside, muttering warnings and encouragement in equal measure. As he approached, he cast a massive frame that swallowed her entirely in the eyes of the other bikers.

He loomed over her and barked, “Hey, green-headed bitch! I dare you to kick my ass!”

A beat of silence followed.

Then, from their area came a sharp, cackling voice: “Gomu… Gomu…”

WHAAAM!

With explosive force, the biker flew across the bar, crashing through the same hole the limousine had punched into the wall.

The crowd gasped.

She was now revealed to wear comically old school boxing gloves, her grin impossibly wide, her eyes locked into a wild, primal focus. Her stance had shifted—no longer playful, but predatory.

She bounced on her heels, hair waving like flames, and shouted, “What are y’all waiting you morons… Let’s FU**ING GO!”