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— Still clinging to that sad little lock-up of yours? — sneered Penta, every word dripping with the arrogance that defined him. — Who am I even talking to today, huh? Carístico? Místico? Or maybe Sin Cara… you know, the one nobody really wants to remember?
Místico didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. He knew Penta well, too well. Knew he said things just to provoke, to dig where it hurt the most. And any reaction would be a win for him. Still… the blood boiled in his veins. Not because of the jab, but because of who stood in front of him. Penta wasn’t dangerous in that flashy, over-the-top way some wrestlers pretended to be. He was real. The kind of man who crossed lines without asking, who carried a threat that wasn’t performance, but instinct. That’s why relaxing around him wasn’t an option. Not now, not ever.
The rudo stepped closer with that insolent calm of someone who knows he’s feared. His hand lifted, brushing the air near Místico’s masked face. But Místico didn’t let him get any further. He grabbed Penta’s wrist with a grip that left no room for questions. The tension in Penta’s hand was immediate, the muscles tightening under the pressure. The move caught him off guard, but instead of annoyance, he smiled, that slow, dark smile that never meant anything good. A chill ran down Místico’s spine, fast and sharp like lightning.
— Don’t try anything stupid, dude — he muttered under the white fabric of his mask, voice low but clear enough to carry the warning — Because the way you treat me… that’s how I’ll treat you.
Penta raised both hands and took a half-step back, feigning innocence like all he’d meant was to mess around. Místico didn’t buy a second of it. He kept his eyes locked on him, sharp and unblinking, never letting his guard down.
— Me? Try something? Nah, I’m just here wishing you luck — added Penta with that smirk, the one that always spelled trouble.
Místico let him walk away in silence, letting the quiet speak for him. He didn’t need to reply. He already knew what came next: in the ring, there would be no words, only unfinished business. And that, he thought, would be the best part of the day.
From the very first ring of the bell, Penta threw protocol out the window. He went straight for his opponent’s face, hands firm and ruthless, tearing at Místico’s sacred mask like it was paper. This wasn’t clumsiness. It wasn’t just another provocation. It was a statement. He wanted to see that face. He wanted to look into the features of the man that some, whether boldly or romantically, dared to call his opposite. The fabric ripped with a dry, violent sound, and when their eyes met, time seemed to narrow into a single point. Even though both wore identical lenses, Místico radiated purity, while Penta seemed to consume everything in his gaze. And still, that look, intense and raw, held something stripped down. Something bare. As if for a fleeting second, in the middle of chaos, they recognized each other.
But that invisible truce shattered with a kick Penta never saw coming. A white flash across his ribs knocked him off balance. And instead of lashing out, he smiled, with his lips, with his eyes, with the shadow of his mask. That smile felt like mockery to Místico, and it got under his skin, deep. So they kept going, colliding like meteors over and over in the atmosphere. Every lock, every strike, every slam onto the mat hit with brutal force, yet there was pleasure in the pain. Penta enjoyed it for the chaos, for the savagery. Místico for the challenge, for the certainty that this was someone who demanded everything from him. As if the two of them, standing on opposite moral ground, understood each other better in body language than they ever could in words.
The match only got hotter. The crowd was on its feet, a sea of voices rising in waves. And then, calculated, precise, Místico clawed at Penta’s mask with the same unyielding hands. The fabric tore like a secret dragged into the light, and the arena erupted. They were even now. Eye for an eye.
In the midst of that ritualized fury, Místico let himself get swept up in it. His heart thundered against his ribs like a war drum, his breath slicing at his lips with each blow. In a nearly instinctive motion, he grabbed Penta’s mask and started to pull it off completely. Not to shred it. Not to humiliate him. To remove it. Like someone yanking the truth out from under a lie.
The crowd’s roar was deafening. Some screamed for Penta, but the majority chanted Místico’s name like he was a hero standing at the edge of glory. And it was that sound, that trembling, devoted echo, that stopped him. His body shook from the inside out. And with a silent exhale, he simply pushed Penta’s head to the mat. Gave him the space to fix his mask. A gesture so small it was nearly invisible. Almost merciful. But full of intent. The match raged on, longer and fiercer than anyone had anticipated. It wasn’t an exhibition—it was a ceremonial war. When the final three-count fell in Místico’s favor, the stadium erupted. Both men lay exhausted on the mat, breathing like they’d just crossed through a storm. But it was Penta who stood up first, mask torn but still dignified, and left the ring without looking back. He knew Místico would speak. That he’d raise his arms and say something for the kids, for the dreamers, for those who still believed in heroes. And that image alone, that predictable picture, pulled a low, rough, dirty laugh from his throat as he disappeared into the shadows of the hallway.
In the locker room, the air was thick with the scent of adrenaline and a faint trace of cheap disinfectant. Penta walked as if weariness hadn’t sunk into his bones, as if the fight hadn’t wrung the breath and sweat from his body. He found Místico sitting in silence, a towel draped around his neck, elbows on his knees, chest rising and falling with slow, measured breaths. The kind of breathing that doesn’t soothe the body, but the pride.
Penta leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, a half-smile curling across his face.
— Almost took it, huh? The mask. I didn’t think you had it in you to be so bold.
Místico didn’t move at first, but his voice came out steady, like a whistle barely restrained behind his teeth.
— And you? You tore mine like it was nothing. The match had barely started.
Penta clicked his tongue, like scolding a mischievous child who hadn’t understood the rules of the game.
— I tore part of it, not the whole thing. Big difference. I wasn’t gonna rip it off. — His tone, laced with fake innocence, betrayed every move he’d made in the ring — But you, of course, wanted mine. The whole thing. What an obsession, huh?
Místico stood up without a word. The air shifted, tense, charged, like electricity before the storm. He stepped forward fast, and before Penta could react, his back hit the wall, and Místico was inches from him, fists clenched, eyes burning.
— First you come out there to provoke me, then you disgrace me by ripping my mask in front of my people… and then, you have the nerve to laugh in my face?
Penta raised an eyebrow, delighted by the fire smoldering before him.
— Laugh? Come on. I just came to say hi. I didn’t know you were so sensitive, little princess...
The nickname landed like salt in a wound Místico hadn’t even admitted was there. Not because it insulted him, but because of what it stirred inside. He felt the heat rush up his neck to his cheeks, that unfair kind of flush that burns more within than on the skin. He couldn’t let Penta see him like that. Slowly, like someone shedding a weight to finally speak the truth, he lifted the mask up to his nose. He looked him straight in the eyes, and his voice came out firm, cold, and clear.
— Don’t play with me again. You have no idea what you’re getting into.
— Oh, I know exactly what I’m getting into — he replied softly, with a poisonous sweetness — That’s why I came.
But Penta didn’t look the slightest bit intimidated. Not even close. His eyes scanned him with a mixture of mockery and something darker, harder to name. Penta's eyes were fixed on Místico's lips as they moved, and he honestly wasn't even processing what he was saying
— That’s enough, stop… I get it. — Penta’s voice, for once, held less mockery and more reflection, as if he weighed his words before letting them drift into the air — All I’m saying is, you’d have a hell of a time being a full-time rudo. You showed it. When you were ripping my mask off… you were enjoying it.
The words hung in the air like dust after a fall. Místico didn’t answer right away. He couldn’t. Because those words hit him right where he didn’t want to look. In the deepest part, the most repressed one. The part that had driven him, in the heat of the fight, to tug with rage, barely contained hunger, at his opponent’s mask. And not for revenge. Not for justice. The truth is, he wanted to do it. He thought about it. With both hands gripping the fabric, he imagined, for a second, what lay beneath. Penta’s face, defenseless, unmasked. The smeared paint, the eyes blazing with fury, or something murkier. His glistening forehead, the raw flesh of the enemy revealed. He had wanted to see that. He had wanted to see him.
And that thought, now laid bare, made his expression harden.
— You don’t know what you’re talking about — he said, his voice sharper than he meant it to be — Don’t think you can play mind games with me.
Penta tilted his head, amused.
— You spaced out just to say that? Cute.
Místico took a step back, chewing on his anger. His heart pounding in his chest like he was still in the ring.
— Can you fuck off already?
— I’m going, I’m going… — Penta raised his hands, mock surrender — But I’ll leave faster if you give me a mask.
— Are you serious?
— Of course I am. What, I can’t ask for anything in this life? Although if you don’t wanna give it to me… — and there it was again, that half-smile, the one that came dragging chaos behind it — …I’ll just take it myself.
Místico exhaled like he wanted to empty himself completely. As if letting the air out could push Penta away, keep him outside. He was tired. Of him, of his comments, of his games. And also, though he’d never admit it, of himself. Of how his ears burned with every word, every nickname, every ridiculous provocation that shouldn’t get to him.
But it did. And that pissed him off twice as much.
Even so, he stepped away. Like someone who knows they've stood too close to the fire. He walked over to his bag, forcing himself to ignore the gaze he could still feel burning into his back. He rummaged through his things, bandages, water, and that handful of masks he always carried: out of tradition, strategy, respect.
His fingers brushed against a fresh one, neatly folded, ready to be handed over. But then he felt it.
Something he couldn’t explain, a pull in the pit of his stomach. It wasn’t anger. It wasn’t desire. It was something murkier, more primal. Something that whispered no, not that one.
No.
He had to give him this one. The one he was wearing. The one that had already lived. The one with torn fabric and a sweat-soaked forehead. The one that spoke of battle, of fury, of pride. Just as he hesitated, Penta’s voice cut through the air again like a sudden blow:
— What, you gonna stand there drooling over your rags all night?
— If you wanna leave, then do it already. I’d be thrilled — he shot back without turning around, his voice sharp as a blade.
With brisk movements, he slipped the new mask over his neck and pulled it up to cover his face. Then, just as easily, he peeled off the old one from the crown of his head. No ceremony. As if it were nothing. But it wasn’t. And he knew it.
He hurled it toward Penta with the kind of precision that only comes from tightly-reined rage.
— Here. Now get out. You’re polluting my personal space.
Penta caught the mask with one hand, never taking his eyes off him. He didn’t say anything at first. He just held it, studied it like it was something sacred, a relic he never expected to receive. Then his mouth curled into a smile that promised nothing good.
— Oh sure, your personal space — he sneered, turning away with slow, theatrical flair — See you around, princess. Hope you don’t cry for me tonight.
The door was just starting to open when a T-shirt came flying through the air. Penta managed to shut it just in time, the dull thud of cotton hitting wood echoing in the silence like a final word. Místico stood there, chest heaving, his face burning beneath the fresh mask. With the bitter taste of having given more than he meant to. And pride stabbing at his ribs, because he didn’t even know why.
Penta walked to his truck with steady steps, as if the weight of the night didn’t touch him at all. He climbed in without hurry, shut the door with a soft slam, and pulled out his phone to text Fénix: “I’m here. Let me know when you’re out.” He tossed the phone onto the passenger seat and turned to adjust the duffel bag he’d thrown carelessly behind him.
There, almost forgotten on the back seat, was the mask Místico had given him. The same one he had torn apart with spite.
He picked it up with one hand, slower this time, as if it had grown heavier somehow. The torn fabric, still damp, smelled of sweat, of effort, of the fight itself. That rip along the top, where he’d yanked it in the adrenaline of the match, looked like a moment frozen in time. He traced it with his fingers, feeling the frayed edges. And then, slowly, almost unwillingly, a smile began to curl on his lips.
A dark smile. Almost secret.
He turned, instinctively, to make sure no one was nearby. The tinted windows gave him some privacy, but he checked anyway, just to be sure the lot was empty. The only sounds were the distant hum of an electric post and the thudding of his own heart, speeding up for no clear reason.
Still holding the mask, his fingers slid down to the zipper of his black jeans. He let out a breath, lips trembling ever so slightly. At first, he touched himself over the fabric, testing the surface, feeling how the arousal pulsed in time with the memory: Místico’s body over his, that tension in the locker room, those eyes he couldn’t see, but whose intensity still pierced straight through him. He didn’t take long to pull the zipper down, sliding the waistband just far enough to free himself. He was already hard, pulsing against the night air and the urgency of something he wouldn’t dare say out loud. With the mask in his hand, he brought it to his cock, pressing it just barely against the skin.
It was rough in some places, soft in others. The contrast of textures sent a shiver down his spine. He imagined it wasn’t fabric brushing against his cock, but the other wrestler’s face: his features beneath the mask, his breath held back, the heat of his skin. A low moan escaped him, eyes nearly closed, surrendering to the image he’d conjured in his mind. The cloth drank the heat of his skin as if it were alive. He gripped himself tighter, pumping with a steady hand while the other clung to the battered fabric like it was a prize, or a silent confession. Then, through the haze of pleasure, he noticed the sudden glow of his phone lighting up.
A notification. His gaze, heavy with lust, slid toward the screen: Fénix had replied. “Almost done here. Just finishing up a few things, I’ll be there soon.”
Penta clenched his teeth. He knew he didn’t have much time. But he didn’t need much.
His mind began to spiral, carried by the heat pooling in his lower belly and the lingering weight of the mask between his fingers. He imagined Místico’s mouth struggling to take him in, the way his lips would part clumsily, his eyes burning with fury and shame. In his mind, he heard him groan, heard the restrained gasps and snarls, felt his hands clawing at him in a last attempt to stop the inevitable. But he didn’t stop. He didn’t want to. A twisted smile formed on his face as the fantasy took shape.
He imagined corrupting him slowly, pushing beyond what Místico claimed he wanted, until that pristine facade he defended so fiercely broke apart. The combination of the tactile sensation and the mental image of Místico gasping in submission pushed him to the edge. It didn’t take long.
A shiver ran down his spine as he came violently, his body arching slightly as his hips trembled forward in a final, involuntary thrust. The climax ripped a low, almost silent moan from him as his seed soaked the mask. He felt the texture of the fabric stain under his hand, and that alone sent a chill up his spine.
He breathed heavily, keeping his eyes closed for just a moment longer, as if by holding them shut he could stretch out the moment for a few more seconds. When he came back to himself, disgust and shame mixed in his throat. As best as he could, he discarded the mask, folding it and shoving it between the dirty clothes he kept at the bottom of the seat. He had barely begun to compose himself when he heard the unmistakable sound of the doorknob: Fénix trying to open the door. His heart stopped for a millisecond. He thanked, with all his soul, the extra seconds the locked door gave him.
Those seconds were gold: he grabbed a couple of papers from the packet he always carried just in case, quickly wiping the excess from his fingers, his belly, and his pants, juggling so there’d be no visible trace. He tossed the crumpled papers into the corner of the passenger seat and ran a hand over his face as if that could erase the lingering flush.
Finally, he unlocked the door with a soft click.
— All set, done — he murmured to himself just as Fénix opened the door to put his things in the vehicle.
— Why was it locked? — Fénix asked as he climbed in, tilting his head with a hint of suspicion while arranging his backpack between his feet.
— The insecurity is insane — Penta replied, shrugging nonchalantly, though the way he avoided making eye contact gave him away a little.
Fénix looked at him with that sideways expression he used when he knew he was being lied to, but he didn't feel like digging into it.
— And you? Why did you take so long?
— I stayed to hide Dragon Lee's clothes — Fénix responded with a mischievous smile, as if holding back laughter.
— Damn kid jokes... you should've hidden his idiot brother’s clothes too.
They both let out a brief laugh, sharing the light echo of a simple moment, part of the backstage camaraderie and harmless revenge. It was that childish humor that eased the tension after each match. Fénix stretched in his seat and, just before fastening his seatbelt, squinted at something partially hidden among Penta’s things. He frowned, recognized the colors, the design. Or at least, thought he did.
— Is that Místico's damn mask? — he asked, his tone a mix of surprise and mockery, pointing with his chin.
Shit.
— Yeah, I stole it — Penta said without flinching, feigning disinterest as he adjusted the rearview mirror with more attention than necessary. He tried to sound casual, but the tension in his jaw was minimal... though noticeable.
Fénix didn’t seem very convinced, and as expected, he reached for it, curious to touch it. Just as his fingers got close, Penta slapped his hand away with a firm, dry smack.
— Don’t go poking around, don’t you touch that.
Fénix raised an eyebrow, amused.
— You’ve got some weird tastes, man...
— And yours is even worse, you like-
He didn’t get to finish the sentence. Fénix’s mask flew in his direction, hitting him square in the face with a precision that left him frozen, wide-eyed, more from the emotional impact than the physical one. He didn’t react right away. He just blinked. Then, without saying a word, he took off his own mask and, with a slow, knowing smile, threw it back at Fénix, hitting him in the shoulder.
— No respect anymore, huh… — Penta muttered, letting the following silence carry a false solemnity as he started the vehicle.
The engine roared, breaking the moment and without looking back, Penta drove off, leaving the building under the city lights. They didn’t say anything else. There was no need.