Bleach Unmasked Novels & Stories

It was a vow. She rose on her elbows, sweat glistening on her collarbone. “You promised one last game.” He reached into the drawer of the rosewood cabinet near the bed and retrieved a card inked in crimson wax and gold foil. He held it between two fingers. “The Ritual of Unmasking,” he said. “The final game. Not all guests are invited.” Maristella sat up, her interest piqued. “And what does it involve?” “A test of trust,” he said, voice velvet dark. “One final scene. One final surrender. If we both pass we remove our masks. If not we vanish into the night.”

Blake wasn't one with emotional attachment to anyone, so if there was actually someone, then I'd watch as that person was torn apart limb by limb. “A stripper from the club,” My eyes lit up at that, “which stripper?” “She's always masked, no one knows her real name, but she goes by Sable in the club. I've been on her case for a while now, even had the club manager bring her to me. I scoffed, and slid into my chair. “That bastard,” I muttered underneath my breath, clenching my fist so tightly. “Boss?” It just had to be her, why couldn't it be someone else?

Three masked figures burst through the side doors—dressed in Red Web suits, faces hidden behind sleek tech masks. “Get the original alive,” one said. “Kill the rest.” Eve moved first—like a blur of silver and wrath. Chaewon drew her blade.bAnd the room became a bloodbath. It was like a dance choreographed in code. Chaewon and Eve moved as one—slashes synchronized, kicks mirrored, two bodies woven together like strands of fate. One attacker down. Two. Three, but the last one drew something worse, a detonator. Eve lunged. Too late. Boom—The blast took out half the lab.

They held a silver tray with a single item: a mirror shard, no larger than her palm. She took it without asking. The moment her gloved fingers curled around it, the figure whispered—so close to her ear it felt like breath from inside her own head: “Do you consent to be seen… without the mask?” The mirror shard trembled in her hand. Not physically. But symbolically. It was a challenge. A ritual. At The Mirror, unmasking wasn’t literal. It meant surrendering the part of yourself you guarded most. It meant letting the room see past Domica. Past Dominique.

Ella nods. “I am not doing that!” I exclaim. “Oh yes, you are,” Lana grabs my arm. “Drink your coffee. Our first stop is anal bleaching, so get your sexy ass upstairs and in the shower. Wear something with easy access.” “Anal bleaching? Please tell me that is something else and not what it sounds like,” I gulp. “It's exactly what it sounds like. We're gonna get that asshole of yours waxed and bleached. No man wants to look at a dark, depressing sinkhole when they are giving anal. It should look very inviting,” Ella winks.

I looked down at Kael. My breath caught in my throat. His face was a raw, indistinct ruin. The magic hadn't just copied his features; it had stripped them completely away. His nose was a flattened lump of cartilage. His lips were fused and completely undefined. His heavy brow was gone. He looked like a mannequin made of melted wax and raw muscle. He was still breathing, but his identity was entirely erased. Irina stood up. She held the hardened grey mask in her hands. She turned to Bram.

"Uh, yeah, about that—I'm kinda allergic to blood." She blinked. "What?" "Yeah. I pass out when I even glance at it." She scanned my profile , releasing a breath. "Why isn’t it stated here ." "Gotta have been a mistake. My mom mustn't've said it." She glared at me but finally waved me away. "Tomorrow. Fine." "Thanks, nice lady," I said, backing up in case she changed her mind. Bag check next. The guard there looked at me suspiciously. "Strip."

She didn't stop until she reached the dressing room, slamming the door behind her and locking it. Her reflection stared back at her from the mirror, her flushed face, swollen lips, mask askew. She looked thoroughly fucked. She looked like a woman who'd just had her world turned upside down. And if Grayson found out Joy Smith/Honey Johnson was indeed Red, what would he do? Grayson Taylor was Sir. She still couldn't wrap her mind around that. Her hands trembled as she removed the elaborate mask, revealing the bruise she'd been hiding. In the harsh light of the dressing room, it looked even worse than it had this morning.

It was elegant and terrifying. We approached a woman seated behind a sleek glass desk. Her face was expressionless. When she saw Mr. Everhart, she stood quickly and bowed, deeply, reverently, before sliding something across the counter: a mask. Without hesitation, Mr. Everhart took it. The mask was white porcelain, etched with subtle obsidian lines. He placed it over his face and pinned a silver tag to his lapel. The name engraved on it was, Alpha. He turned to me “You won’t be needing this yet,” he said quietly, though his eyes behind the mask were unreadable.

My grip tightens on the phone. No. No, no, no. My heart slams against my ribs, my pulse roaring in my ears. I watch him—Ghost—standing in that fucking room, his hands shaking, desperation clear in his eyes. He wasn’t pleading for our lives. He was trying to undo what he did. “Why should we believe you?” the masked man asks. Ghost lets out a bitter, humorless laugh. “How else would I know the name? Come on, why do you think I told that idiot to stop?” His hands clench at his sides, his whole body tense. “Just take the three million and let us go.”