Two days later 25th, May 2042 at 09:00 AM, the warm morning breeze filtered through the half-opened window slats of Madam Di-Xian's office, carrying with it the scent of sakura incense and the faint hum of city static. The room was steeped in a strange calm, like the breath before a storm.
Madam Di-Xian sat elegantly on a low crimson velvet couch, porcelain teacup in hand, her eyes lidded with thought. Beside her stood Alvi Taslim, files in hand, her trademark pink hair catching the light as it fluttered gently alongside Di-Xian's blood-red strands.
Before them stood Jun, Farhan, Roy, and Masud—four agents in silent formation, their postures sharpened with anticipation.
Madam Di-Xian's voice broke the silence, smooth as silk and cold as iron.
"Boys. You know why you've been summoned?"
"Yes, Madam. For a mission," said Jun, stepping forward. "And… without 90, right?"
His eyes flicked subtly—part relief, part hesitation.
Di-Xian's crimson gaze didn't waver.
"Correct. This time, you're on your own."
She sipped her tea, then set it down delicately.
"But be warned… this task isn't straightforward. It's grotesque. Are you ready?"
Roy stepped forward with a firmness that echoed military drills.
"We're ready, Madam."
"Good," she said softly, then gestured to Alvi. "Alvi, distribute the case files."
"Yes, Madam," replied Alvi, voice neutral as she handed out the folders. Her eyes flicked to each man, unblinking, calm.
"The situation is as follows: the region of Texaseon has reported a disturbing increase in disappearances—mainly youths. Locals are terrified. Doors stay locked at sundown. No one walks the streets alone."
She pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose.
"A group of teenagers vanished. Their remains were never recovered. Texaseon Police initiated an investigation but yielded nothing. SSCBF stepped in six years ago—still, the case stagnated."
Masud frowned, flipping through the file.
"How the hell does a case this severe go unsolved for six years?"
"Because," interjected Di-Xian with cool venom, "it was buried. Forgotten. Until Agent-90 recovered it from Captain Robert's archive.… on a silver pen drive."
Farhan gave a low whistle. "He's always ten steps ahead, that one."
"Focus," snapped Alvi, her voice slicing the air. "This isn't about admiration. It's about apprehension."
Her expression hardened.
"Gonda-san delivered fresh intel this morning. The locals speak of a shadow—the Leather Mask Man. A butcher. A freak in stitched leather, wielding a chainsaw. Allegedly, he turns his victims' flesh into furniture. Lampshades, upholstery, curtains—crafted from human skin."
Jun paled visibly. Masud muttered under his breath, "That's bloody deranged…"
Farhan crossed his arms. "And the teenagers?"
Alvi opened her folder and read off a list, her voice flat.
"Ten names: Marcus Ito. Liara Chen. Shun Hoshigaki. Tamara West. Kaito Minazuki. Erika Soto. Brendan Hajime. Selene Fuji. Raj Awan. Naomi Katsura. All disappeared on the same day. Their last known location: a derelict farmhouse outside Texaseon Ridge."
The room fell quiet. The implications hung in the air like a guillotine.
Madam Di-Xian stood slowly, her shadow long across the lacquered floor.
"You'll find him. You'll make him answer for what he's done. And if the rumours are true…"
Her voice dropped to a dread-soaked murmur.
"Then you'll return the favour… skin for skin."
The agents snapped to attention.
"Roger that," they barked in unison, fists slamming against their chests.
Di-Xian gave a single nod, deadly calm.
"Dismissed. Hunt him. Break him."
As the four agents turned to leave, their expressions hardened with grim purpose, Alvi glanced once at the departing team, her own mouth tightening ever so slightly.
The hunt had begun.
Time is 13:22 PM, the 1954 Mercedes-Benz 300SL, a relic of chrome and class reborn with fusion-electric engineering, cruised down the cracked arteries of Highway 14 like a silver ghost in the daylight. Its gullwing doors had been modified to lock mid-drive for tactical deployment, and its sleek body hummed with suppressed power as it tore through the dust-laced outskirts of Texaseon.
Inside the cockpit, the atmosphere was decidedly less elegant.
Farhan gripped the wheel, sunglasses perched low on his nose, weaving slightly between potholes like he was in a drifting tournament.
"I cannot believe Madam let us take this car. This isn't a field unit—it's art."
Roy, riding shotgun, leaned his elbow on the open window. "Art doesn't have recycled leather seats that smell like burnt tea."
From the backseat, Jun scowled as a jolt bounced his head off the frame. "Oi! Can you not murder us before the monster gets the chance?"
Masud sat beside him, arms folded, expression stoic. "Wouldn't that be ironic… agents sent to hunt a cannibal, flattened by vintage engineering."
Farhan grinned. "That's not irony, that's poetic justice. Besides, if I die, I want it to be in style."
"Remind me," muttered Roy, "to remove you from our next team composition."
Jun peered out the side window. The landscape was bleak—Texaseon's edge wore its trauma like an open wound. Fields once lush now stretched brown and arid. The husks of silos stood like broken teeth. Every building looked like it had survived a war no one documented.
"This place feels wrong," Jun murmured.
"Because it is," said Masud, deadpan. "The locals don't talk. Law enforcement doesn't answer calls. It's not a town—it's a mausoleum."
Farhan leaned over the steering wheel as they passed a faded welcome sign:
Welcome to TEXASEON – EST. 1989
Population: [DATA LOST]
The letters beneath the name had been scorched off and graffitied with a crude image of a chainsaw and the words: "LEATHER NEVER DIES."
The car fell into a heavy silence.
Roy broke it. "...That's subtle."
Jun tapped the screen on his datapad. "Satellite shows our target area's about two klicks north-east. That farmhouse cluster."
Farhan downshifted with a grin. "Perfect. I was getting tired of smooth roads anyway."
"Please don't kill us," said Roy again, flatly.
"You wound me."
"Not as much as that maniac with the chainsaw might."
Farhan shrugged. "Then we better find him first."
The 300SL kicked up a swirl of dust as it veered onto a gravel path, tyres crunching dry earth. The midday sun cast a jagged shadow of the car across the land, a silver shark skimming the bones of forgotten earth.
Texaseon was waiting.
And it wasn't friendly.
Time becomes 14:07 PM, the wind whispered across the open grassland, dry and laced with dust, as the four agents stepped out of the 1954 Mercedes-Benz 300SL, surveying the warped silhouette of the abandoned farmhouse ahead. Its boards were cracked and sun-bleached, windows darkened like blind eyes, the skeletal frame of a windmill creaking nearby.
Just as they began their approach—
"Oi! You there!"
The call came from behind—worn, gravelled.
They turned as an elderly man shuffled toward them, wrapped in a patchwork coat and gripping a cane that had clearly seen more war than wood.
"I don't know you," the man said, eyes narrowing. "What business brings you here?"
Jun stepped forward, diplomatic. "Sir, actually—"
Farhan interrupted with a light grin. "We're just admiring the view. Big fans of open fields and... rotting architecture."
The old man squinted, unconvinced. But he simply sighed, his voice dropping.
"You shouldn't be here."
Roy tilted his head. "Something wrong, sir?"
The old man's eyes grew distant, voice lowered as though the fields themselves might be listening.
"The Leather Mask Man. He's not a myth. He's real—and he doesn't take kindly to visitors. Folks disappear around here. Screams in the night. Chainsaw echoing through the trees. Those who tried to stop him… he butchered."
Masud stepped forward, calm and firm. "Thank you for the warning, sir. But that's why we're here. We're not just passing through."
Before more could be said, the old man suddenly froze, pointing toward the upper window of the farmhouse.
"He's there! LOOK!"
The agents whipped around.
In the murky glass of the second floor, a hulking figure stood—face obscured by cracked leather, body thick and unmoving. Then, in the blink of an eye, he vanished.
"Move!" barked Roy, already unholstering his Reaver MK-12.
They sprinted for the front porch. The old timber groaned underfoot as they reached the door—locked.
"No time!" Jun snapped, kicking the door with a thunderous crack. The frame gave in with a splintering scream.
But they barely had a second.
The roar of a chainsaw erupted from the dark, and out of the shadows lunged the Leather Mask Man, the blade aimed straight for Jun.
"JUN!" Farhan reacted instinctively, grabbing him by the chest and pulling him down just as the blade grazed the air—catching Farhan across the forehead, tearing a shallow but bloody cut.
The chainsaw scraped past, the man-beast snarling behind the mask.
Roy didn't hesitate—he raised the Reaver and fired twice. The bullets hit centre mass. The Leather Mask Man grunted and staggered, blood spattering across the peeling wall, before retreating back into the shadows of the house.
"After him!" Jun shouted, but Farhan gripped his shoulder.
"No—don't rush it. He's baiting us. This place is probably riddled with traps."
They paused, hearts pounding, as silence fell once more inside the rotting structure.
Masud turned to Farhan, eyes flicking to the gash. "You're bleeding, mate."
Farhan wiped the blood from his brow with a half-smile.
"Scratched my good looks, the bastard. We'll call it even after I carve my name into his dining room table."
Jun turned to him, breathless. "You saved me. I owe you."
Farhan gave him a lopsided grin. "That's what brothers do, mate. Don't thank me—just don't cock up the next shot."
Roy scanned the dark hallway with his weapon drawn. "So what's the plan?"
Farhan exhaled, the pain making his jaw twitch slightly. He pulled a compact device from his utility belt.
"We sweep room by room. No heroics. He's strong, but he's not clever. We flush him out. We split—two upstairs, two down. Trap him between us."
Masud nodded. "Let's end this monster story before nightfall."
The four agents exchanged a grim look—comrades bound by blood and bullets—then silently slipped into the shadowed farmhouse.
The hunter had become the hunted.
The floorboards creaked under Masud's boots as he advanced down the narrow hallway, pistol raised, steps calculated and silent. The house groaned with age—each sound indistinguishable from threat.
He reached the final door on the left. The wood was warped, half-hinged, painted in streaks of old, dark red. A rancid stench leaked from the crack beneath.
Masud inhaled slowly. Then, with one swift motion, he kicked the door open, pistol raised.
Inside, the room was a shrine of horrors.
Stripped wallpaper curled like dead skin. Furniture was cobbled together from bones and stitched leather. Human hair lined a lampshade. The floor was sticky beneath his boots. Hooks hung from the ceiling like silent witnesses.
He scanned left—nothing.
Then right—
A roar of steel burst from the shadows.
The Leather Mask Man lunged from behind a cabinet, chainsaw shrieking to life as he swung for Masud's torso.
Masud dropped, sliding sideways on one knee, the blade missing by inches and embedding itself into the wall with a brutal crack.
"You sick freak," he muttered, whipping up his pistol.
Point-blank, he jammed the barrel against the butcher's chest and fired three rounds—each one thudding into flesh with a meaty thump.
The Leather Mask Man howled, staggering back, blood seeping through his patchwork apron. But he didn't fall.
Instead, with a sudden burst of strength, he wrenched the chainsaw free and swung again—this time toward Masud's head.
Masud ducked just in time, the blade tearing through air where his skull had been a split-second earlier.
The momentum sent him tumbling sideways. As he rolled to his feet, the butcher came forward with a guttural growl and kicked him hard in the chest, sending him crashing into a dresser.
Winded but focused, Masud gritted his teeth, reached into his tactical vest under his coat and drew a slim carbon-fibre pencil—Agent-90's design. In one fluid motion, he lunged low and stabbed it clean into the butcher's foot, piercing through boot and flesh with a sickening crunch.
The Leather Mask Man bellowed in rage and recoiled, staggering.
The sound of bootfalls thundered in from the hallway.
"Masud! We're coming!" shouted Jun.
The door burst open. Farhan and Roy followed close behind, weapons drawn.
But the butcher was already retreating—stumbling backward through a hidden door in the corner, ripping it shut behind him.
Bang!
The door slammed and locked.
Masud stood, chest heaving, wiping blood from his brow. His shirt clung to his ribs, damp with sweat.
"Lucky bastard," he growled.
"You alright?" Jun asked, scanning him.
Masud gave a terse nod. "He nearly took my head off. But I think I broke his bloody foot."
Roy crouched, examining the room with narrowed eyes. "He's not just a killer. He's an artisan of madness."
Farhan offered Masud a hand. "Remind me never to go furniture shopping in Texaseon."
Masud took it with a dry smirk. "Noted."
Jun reloaded his sidearm, eyes on the door. "We need to finish this. He's bleeding now—we follow the trail."
Roy's voice was quiet, cold. "Let's end the story."
The team moved out—no words, just the rhythm of four steps bound by trust, tracking blood across the floorboards into the dark.
The time becomes 14:53 PM, A trapdoor groaned open beneath the dresser, its rusted hinges screeching like wounded metal. A narrow, spiral staircase wound downward into suffocating blackness, the stench of blood, mildew, and something older—feral—rising to meet them.
The agents descended with guns raised, torches flickering across damp, mould-slick walls. The silence below wasn't empty—it was watching.
Farhan went first, his expression taut with focus. Behind him, Masud, Jun, and Roy moved in formation, every bootstep calculated, the tension so thick it could be carved.
At the base of the stairs, the corridor widened—revealing a butchery of madness.
Black plastic bags sagged like overripe fruit from meat hooks on the ceiling.
Ropes of sinew hung from iron nails hammered into the walls.
Bloodstained manikins stared with hollow eyes, dressed in scraps of skin stitched into grotesque costumes.
The floor was sticky. The air, choked with iron.
Masud wrinkled his nose. "God almighty… this isn't a lair. It's a mausoleum."
Jun swallowed hard, torchlight trembling just slightly in his grip. "This man's not human…"
They moved deeper, until a sudden scream split the silence.
It came from behind a partially open steel door at the far end of the chamber.
Female. Muffled. Agonised.
Farhan raised a clenched fist—halt.
They edged closer, eyes darting. Behind them, shadows danced along the walls, always a step too slow to match their movement.
Suddenly—
CRASH.
The steel door was thrown open, and through it burst the Leather Mask Man—now clad in a stitched hide apron, his face more grotesque than before. His right hand bore his new weapon:
A chainsaw-blade fused with giant industrial scissors—jaws serrated, motor screaming.
He bellowed with rage, saliva foaming at the corners of his stitched mouth, and charged.
His body burned. Wounds from Masud's bullets pulsed with each breath, but his fury drowned the pain. He could still hear his mother's screams from the basement where she once locked him. He remembered the laughter, the ridicule. They all had faces like these agents. All deserved to be skinned.
"They came to take what's mine... I'll hang their hides beside the rest."
He surged forward, vision blurred with red and hatred.
Farhan didn't flinch. "Guns up! We end him. Now."
Masud rolled aside just as the chainsaw-scissors ripped through the wall beside him, sending splinters flying. Roy fired twice—centre mass—bullets thudding into the brute's side. It slowed him, but didn't stop the charge.
Jun unleashed a burst from his sidearm, strafing left, shouting, "Flank him!"
The four men moved like a single organism—trained, precise, deadly.
And still, he kept coming.
Leather Mask Man's grotesque weapon screamed as he swung it again—missing Farhan by inches as the agent ducked and rolled, firing point-blank at the monster's kneecap.
The beast roared.
"He's hurt—but he's not done," Roy growled.
The agents took formation, eyes locked on the blood-slicked butcher as he stood between them and the final chamber—the one from which the scream had come.
This was no longer an arrest.
This was an execution.
The chamber reeked of death and despair. The agents stood amidst the carnage, their breaths shallow, eyes scanning the grotesque surroundings. Bodies hung like macabre decorations, their lifeless forms swaying gently, casting eerie shadows on the blood-smeared walls.
Suddenly, a chilling scream echoed through the chamber.
Farhan: (alert) "Did you hear that? Someone's alive in here!"
Masud: (nodding) "I'll check it out."
Masud moved cautiously towards the source of the scream, his footsteps echoing in the silence. He entered a dimly lit room, the stench of decay overwhelming. In the corner, huddled together, were two teenagers—Marcus Ito and Liara Chen.
Masud: (softly) "You're safe now. We're here to take you home."
Marcus: (weakly) "Who... who are you?"
Masud: "Rescuer. We've come to stop the monster."
Liara: (tears streaming) "Our friends... Erika, Brendan, Selene, Raj, Naomi, Shun, Tamara, Kaito... they're all gone. He killed them."
Masud's face hardened, a mix of sorrow and determination.
Masud: "I'm sorry. But we need your help to end this."
Back in the main chamber, Jun faced the Leather Mask Man, their chainsaws clashing in a symphony of metal and fury. Sparks flew as the blades met, each strike echoing the rage and pain of countless victims.
Farhan: (joining the fray) "Let's finish this!"
He lunged, stabbing the monster's knee, causing it to falter. Jun seized the moment, slicing through the creature's torso. Blood sprayed, coating Jun's face, but the monster wasn't done. It began to regenerate, its body mending at an unnatural pace.
Roy: (shouting) "Aim for the core!"
He fired his Reaver MK-12, the bullets tearing through the creature's chest. The monster roared, its body convulsing. Jun, with a final cry, drove his chainsaw into the beast's abdomen. An explosion erupted, throwing Jun back. As the smoke cleared, only the creature's lower half remained, twitching before collapsing.
A moment of silence.
Then, laughter.
Farhan: (grinning) "We did it."
Roy: (smirking) "About time."
Later, the police arrived, cordoning off the area. Marcus and Liara were escorted out, wrapped in blankets, their faces pale but alive.
Roy: (reporting) "Madam Di-Xian, mission accomplished."
Madam Di-Xian: (on screen) "Well done. Return to base."
News outlets buzzed with the story: "Leather Mask Man Eliminated: Texaseon's Nightmare Ends."
At SSCBF headquarters, Nightingale stared at the headline.
Nightingale: "Isn't this the case we couldn't solve?"
Chief Wen-Li: (entering) "Indeed. But justice has been served."
Captain Robert: (nodding) "Well what goes around comes around."
Lan Qian: (adjusting her spectacles) "A case closed, finally."
The team stood in silence, honoring the fallen and the brave.