his isn't right. You know these floors. You used to come here.
You and a few friends. Like that motorcycle guy who was always inviting you to his house parties, playing darts with a set of throwing knives he had bought as a joke. Why did he stop leaving messages? You got along well with him.
He wouldn't want to see what's happened to you. He wouldn't even recognize you in that mask of bloody rage you wear. It's strangely liberating to put it on and have your identity, your humanity forgotten.
The music pounding in your ears seems to give you strength and speed you never had before as you charge toward them, as you swing your axe in a pirouette and bathe in hot blood. You arch your back, you crow in ecstasy as you bring your axe down on one man who was still moving, twitching. Then you puff and shake yourself off, and charge up the stairs, the wattles of your mask sticky with gore. You're not done yet tonight, though. Not until the last neck is broken, when the bloodthirst evaporates in an instant -- and you're left alone and silent, the weapon dropping from your hand as the music disappears from your veins.
And then, all that's left to do is to take off the mask and go back home. You hope it'll just be a dream, but you always wake up with the mask clutched in your hands, looking you in the eye, waiting for more...
Welcome to the Hotline, a Hotline Miami RP.
You and a few friends. Like that motorcycle guy who was always inviting you to his house parties, playing darts with a set of throwing knives he had bought as a joke. Why did he stop leaving messages? You got along well with him.
He wouldn't want to see what's happened to you. He wouldn't even recognize you in that mask of bloody rage you wear. It's strangely liberating to put it on and have your identity, your humanity forgotten.
The music pounding in your ears seems to give you strength and speed you never had before as you charge toward them, as you swing your axe in a pirouette and bathe in hot blood. You arch your back, you crow in ecstasy as you bring your axe down on one man who was still moving, twitching. Then you puff and shake yourself off, and charge up the stairs, the wattles of your mask sticky with gore. You're not done yet tonight, though. Not until the last neck is broken, when the bloodthirst evaporates in an instant -- and you're left alone and silent, the weapon dropping from your hand as the music disappears from your veins.
And then, all that's left to do is to take off the mask and go back home. You hope it'll just be a dream, but you always wake up with the mask clutched in your hands, looking you in the eye, waiting for more...
Welcome to the Hotline, a Hotline Miami RP.
