CUT: Part 13

Seb’s back pressed hard against the locked front door, the pistol heavy and slick in his sweating palm. Tears blurred his vision as he stared into the dimly lit living room, the blood-soaked couch a grotesque reminder of what had happened to Channing—or what he thought had happened.

From the kitchen doorway, Lyle Lilly emerged slowly, hands raised in a calming gesture. His lean frame looked almost fragile in the lamplight—messy brown hair falling into wide, concerned eyes, that easy half-smile nowhere to be seen now.

“Seb?” Lyle’s voice was soft, careful. “I thought you were locked up in the dorm. What the hell is going on?”

Seb’s lower lip trembled. The gun hung limp at his side. “I—I don’t know anymore,” he choked out, tears spilling hot down his cheeks. “Something terrible… Channing and Milt are out there accusing each other of being Hollowface. Of murdering Mason, the Dean, Dezzy, Josh… everyone. I don’t know who to trust. I don’t know what to do!”

Heavy pounding rattled the front door behind him. Channing’s voice, raw and desperate, filtered through the wood.

“Seb—please! Let me in! Don’t leave me out here with that fat freak! I’m telling you the truth—I didn’t do anything! Please… I’m hurt bad. I need help.”

Seb sobbed harder, sliding down the door until he sat on the floor, knees drawn to his chest. 

Lyle took a slow, tender step forward, crouching a few feet away so he wasn’t looming. “Hey… hey, look at me, Seb.”

Seb lifted his tear-streaked face.

“Maybe it wasn’t them,” Lyle said gently, voice steady and reassuring. The same easygoing tone he always used when Seb was stressed out. “Maybe it’s been you all along.”

Seb’s breath hitched. “W-what?”

Lyle inched closer, palms still open and non-threatening. “Think about it. Where have you been tonight? Can you really account for every minute? The blackouts you’ve told me about? You’ve been through hell, Seb. Trauma does things to people. Maybe your mind’s protecting you from what you’ve done.”

Seb shook his head weakly, but doubt crept in like fog. The memories blurred again—waking in the woods, the discarded cloak, the knife. Sunny’s face staring back at him.

“I… I don’t remember everything,” he whispered.

Lyle nodded sympathetically, scooting nearer until he was right beside him. “Exactly. And now you’re holding a loaded gun, terrified of two guys who’ve never hurt anyone. Channing’s your friend. He’s hurt out there. Let me help you, Seb. Give me the gun. I’ll keep us safe. We’ll figure this out together.”

Seb stared at the pistol in his lap, fingers loosening. The pounding at the door continued—Channing’s pleas growing more frantic.

Slowly, numbly, Seb extended the gun toward Lyle.

Lyle’s expression softened with relief. He took it carefully, thumb brushing Seb’s knuckles in a reassuring touch. “Good. Thank you. You did the right thing, buddy.”

He hooked an elbow under Seb and helped him to stand up. Lyle then walked to the door, and unbolted it. 

“Seb! Thank fuck–” Channing stumbled inside immediately—still completely nude, rushing towards Seb, arms wide.

“Don’t worry. It’s all under control now,” Lyle said as Channing entered. He steadied the gun and fired.

The bullet slammed dead-center into Channing’s broad, bare chest—just below the sternum, punching through muscle and bone. Channing’s hazel eyes widened in betrayal and agony; a wet gasp tore from his throat as his powerful body jerked backward, slamming against the wall before sliding down in a lifeless heap—legs splayed, thick cock flopping against his thigh.

Seb stared in frozen horror, ears ringing, the metallic smell of gunpowder thick in the air.

Smoke curled lazily from the muzzle as Lyle held the pistol steady, arm extended, expression serene—that same wide, easy smile locked in place like a mask.

“YOU!” Seb screamed, voice raw and shattering as he scrambled to his feet. Tears flooded his eyes, the full weight of the betrayal crushing him. “It was you—all of it—you fucking monster!”

Lyle’s grin only widened.

Seb bolted, stumbling from the hallway into the kitchen and crashed straight into the sweaty, heaving bulk of Milt Drabbs.

“Milt!” Seb gasped, clutching the fat man’s stained polo in desperation. “You were right—it’s Lyle, he’s fucking insane!”

Milt looked past Seb towards Lyle, a sick twinkle sparkling in his piggy eyes. He raised a small white voice-changer box to his thick lips.

“Surprise, Sebby,” he said—and Sunny’s voice, Hollowface’s voice, echoed through the device, chilling and gleeful.

Seb’s eyes went wide with horror, realization crashing over him like ice water. He shoved past Milt’s sweaty bulk, staggering deeper into the kitchen—hands scrabbling across counters, drawers, anything that might be a weapon, an escape.

A sharp, searing pain exploded in his lower back. He gasped, spinning awkwardly to see Milt right behind him, the fat man’s pudgy hand gripping the hunting knife pressing into Seb’s torso.

“Where do you think you’re going, little freak?” Milt sneered, jowls quivering, twisting the blade just enough to make Seb cry out.

Lyle strolled in from the living room, that easy smile plastered across his face—too wide, too calm. “I know you like to perform, Seb. We still need to hear your swan song.”

“Fuck you!” Seb spat, voice trembling with pain and fury.

Lyle stepped closer, setting the pistol down on the marble island with casual indifference. He fished Kurt Stryberg’s old Motorola flip phone from his jeans. He let out a chuckle. “Not so eloquent now, are you, ventriloquist boy?” He forced the phone roughly into Seb’s front pocket. 

“There we go, just need that phone planted there for when they find your body in the backyard.” He sighed theatrically. “Poor Kurt Stryberg. He always had a thing for the problematic ones.”

“You won’t get away with this, you sick fucks!” Seb said, trying to ignore the pain in his gut.

Milt yanked the knife free, passing it handle-first to Lyle while shoving Seb forward. Lyle caught Seb by the front of his hoodie, bunching the fabric in his fist, pressing the blood-slick blade against Seb’s stomach—tip piercing cloth and skin, drawing a thin line of fire.

“No, Seb. I think we will get away with it. Then again, you’d know all about getting away with murder, wouldn’t you?” Lyle whispered, eyes burning.

Seb stared, breath ragged, confusion warring with the agony.

“You killed my brother,” Lyle hissed, fake smile vanishing, pure hatred twisting his features. He drove the knife deeper—an inch into Seb’s abdomen now—hot blood soaking through instantly. Seb squirmed, a strangled cry escaping as pain lanced through him.

“Chuck Lee,” Lyle snarled. “Lyle L. Lee. I’m honestly shocked you didn’t catch it sooner. Thought the name ‘Lilly’ would be a dead giveaway. But I forgot—I’m dealing with an empty-headed idiot.”

“I didn’t kill him,” Seb ground out through clenched teeth, vision spotting from the knife’s twist.

“I don’t care,” Lyle spat. “He’s gone because of you. The only person I swore to protect —vanished. So tell me, Seb—if he isn’t dead, where the fuck is he?”

Seb’s legs weakened, blood dripping down his jeans. “The real question,” Seb rasped, “is why you let him get sent off to that camp in the first place. If you cared so much, you would have stopped it. They were fucking torturing him!”

Lyle’s laugh was bitter, unhinged. “Sometimes protecting someone means cutting out the rot—even if it hurts.”

He dragged the blade up to Seb’s cheek, slicing a deliberate, burning line from jaw to temple. Blood ran hot down Seb’s neck. “How does it feel, Seb? Everything you love ripped away? To suffer like I’ve suffered? Tell me. I want you to fucking TELL ME.”

Seb’s gaze flicked desperately to Milt, who lounged in the doorway like a bloated, grinning toad—sweat beading on his red face, gut heaving with every breath.

Lyle noticed. “Credit where it’s due—most of the best parts were Milt’s idea.”

Seb glared at the fat athletic director, venom burning through the pain. “You sick bastard. You murdered your own students.”

Milt chuckled wetly, gut jiggling. “Those dumb, horny meatheads weren’t going anywhere in life anyway. But tomorrow? Their oiled-up shots in FUCK gear will be splashed across every front page in America —‘Last Photos of the Doomed Coxwell Muscle Jocks.’ You can’t buy publicity or a legacy like that. Merch sales are gonna explode.”

Lyle clucked his tongue, tracing the knife down Seb’s throat, pressing just enough to draw another thin red line. “Now we tie up the final loose end. Poor, broken Seb—couldn’t handle his precious dummy act getting canceled. Tragic murder-suicide after teaming up with that perverted professor to slaughter the team.” He savored the words. “Stopped only by heroic Lyle Lilly and Milt Drabbs. I do like that headline.” He smiled coldly. “All we need now is a bullet in your skull to match Kurt’s. Milt—get the gun.”

Milt turned, waddling back toward the living room.

“Hey—uh, Lyle? Where’d you put it?” he called, voice muffled.

“Right here, pendejo!” a bruised, bloodied voice barked from the front entrance.

BLAM.

The gunshot thundered through the house. Milt’s scream followed instantly—high, piggish—as blood erupted from his shoulder in a red mist. The fat man spun, clutching the wound, face purple with shock and pain.

In the doorway stood Augusto “Gusto” Tormenta—shirt torn and soaked crimson, face bruised and swollen, but alive and furious, pistol smoking in his steady grip.

Lyle’s head whipped around, knife wavering for a split second.

Seb seized it—driving his heel into Lyle’s shin with every ounce of strength left. Lyle howled, knife clattering to the tile.

Seb bolted, shoving past the reeling Milt into the living room.

Behind him, Milt roared and charged Gusto. The reporter squeezed off another shot—click, jam. His eyes widened.

SLAM – Milt’s bulk collided with him, sending both men crashing out the side door into the night, grunts and thuds echoing as they fought in the dark.

Lyle snatched the fallen knife, eyes wild with rage. He scanned the empty kitchen, gunpowder stinging the air.

“WHERE THE FUCK DID YOU GO, SEB?” he screamed, voice cracking with fury.

His shout was met with silence. 

The house was quiet. 

Then, the white cordless phone on the counter rang—insistent, shrill.

Lyle stared at it in disbelief, chest heaving. He stalked over, snatched it up, and jammed the answer button.

“Hello, Lyle,” came the low, gravelly voice on the other end—Sunny’s voice.

Seb’s voice.

Lyle’s knuckles whitened around the cordless phone as he screamed into it.

“You pansy-ass FUCKER!”

A low, gravelly chuckle answered—Sunny’s voice, but unmistakably Seb’s cadence.

“Aw, Lyle… are you upset that things aren’t going your way?” The voice purred, dripping with mockery. “I know what will cheer you up. Let’s play a game.”

Lyle’s features twisted purple. “I swear to god, when I find you, I’m going to carve your face off.”

“Here are the rules,” Seb taunted, calm and cold. “I’m looking at you right now. You get two guesses where I am. If you win and find me… maybe I’ll let you get arrested and spend the rest of your years rotting in prison. But if I win and you guess wrong…” A deliberate pause. “Well, you always liked that part.”

Lyle roared, hurling a lamp across the living room. It shattered against the wall. He spun wildly, knife raised, eyes scanning every shadow, phone pressed to his ear.

His eyes locked on the basement door. “I found you, fucker!” He charged, kicking it open. Empty. Nothing but darkness and dusty stairs.

“Wrong,” Seb sang through the phone. “One guess left, Lyle. Tick-tock.”

“You little SHIT!” Lyle bellowed, overturning the desk in a crash of drawers and papers, stabbing behind it—empty. He flipped the couch next, slashing cushions in frantic arcs, feathers exploding like snow. “Come out and face me, you stupid faggot!”

Seb’s laugh echoed softly. “So close… yet so far. Getting warmer, though.”

Lyle froze, breath heaving, eyes darting. Then he spotted it—the narrow hallway closet door, slightly ajar.

His lips curled into a vicious snarl. Knife gripped tight, he crept forward, boots silent on the hardwood.

Inside the closet, Seb crouched in the dark, heart pounding. In his hands: a large black umbrella he’d found on the shelf.

Lyle reached the door, fingers closing around the knob.

Seb exploded outward.

The closet door slammed open as Seb charged, umbrella snapping wide like a shield. The metal tip caught Lyle square in the chest, knocking him backward off balance. The knife flew from Lyle’s hand, clattering across the floor.

Seb landed first, umbrella sweeping to the side. A few feet away, pulling himself up, Lyle locked eyes with him, hatred burning fiercely, then switched his gaze to the knife a few paces away.

Both dove for it at once —fingers scraping, elbows flying. Lyle’s lean frame grappled with Seb’s desperation; they rolled, grunting, across the blood-slick hardwood. Lyle gained the upper hand, straddling Seb, pinning his shoulders with his knees. He snatched the knife and raised it high, eyes blazing with triumph.

“Time to really feel it, Sebby,” Lyle hissed, blade poised above Seb’s throat. “TIME FOR YOU TO SUFFER!”

A thick strip of neon fabric whipped around Lyle’s neck from behind.

Channing Frost —naked, blood-soaked, but alive—yanked backward with every ounce of his remaining strength. The neon green FUCK jockstrap bit deep into Lyle’s throat, veins bulging in Channing’s massive forearms as his biceps peaked, pecs flexing hard despite the bullet wound still oozing crimson down his abs.

Lyle gagged, eyes bulging, knife wavering as he clawed at the garrote. He stabbed blindly backward, the blade grazing Channing’s thigh, drawing a fresh line of blood down those golden quads—but Channing held on, teeth gritted, pulling harder, his injured body trembling with effort.

Lyle’s face purpled, struggles weakening.

Then—BLAM.

A single gunshot cracked through the room.

The bullet entered just above Lyle’s left eye, exiting in a spray of red and gray. His body jerked once, then slumped sideways—dead weight collapsing off Seb, knife clattering harmlessly to the floor.

In the doorway stood Augusto “Gusto” Tormenta. Bruised, bloodied, shirt torn and soaked, but steady. The pistol smoked in his grip, golden-brown eyes fierce.

Seb pushed Lyle’s body off him, gasping, staring at Channing, who sagged against the wall, chest wound bleeding freely but alive, at Gusto, pecs heaving, face scratched —and finally at Lyle’s dead body.

“I win,” Seb said.