Jacket | Hotline Miami

Rachel let the cold water run down her face, each drop grounding her as she stood motionless in the shower. Images of the massacre she’d left behind just days ago flashed through her mind. She could almost feel the weight of her own fists colliding with bone, the taste of copper and adrenaline hanging in the air as she mowed down those cops without hesitation. With the mask on, she felt like someone else entirely—her vision tunneled, her senses heightened, and all she could see was red. Blood and rage blurred the lines of her identity, transforming her into something far more savage.

Turning off the shower, she stepped out, toweling herself dry before grabbing her bomber jacket and slipping it over her shoulders. She put on a pair of worn jeans and her sneakers, glancing at her reflection only briefly before heading out of her empty, dimly lit apartment. Her DeLorean sat waiting for her outside, silent and metallic, almost as if it, too, was holding its breath. Sliding into the driver’s seat, Rachel placed her rooster mask on the passenger side, her baseball bat beside it. The bat’s handle was worn, the wood stained—a silent testament to her recent nights.

She turned the key in the ignition, and the low hum of the engine vibrated through her hands. As she flipped on the radio, a deep, gravelly voice came through the speakers, unmistakably an old-school announcer

”Good evening, Miami. Breaking news tonight on our streets—the masked killer we’ve heard so much about has struck again. Witnesses say this one’s a woman, likely in her twenties, with dark blonde hair and a taste for... well, let’s just say she leaves quite the scene behind. Our sources say she wears a rooster mask, and authorities are calling her ‘highly dangerous.’ Lock your doors, folks. And in other news, looks like that gang calling themselves ‘Payday’ has been pulling off some wild heists. Reports confirm they wear clown masks. Just another day in paradise, huh?”

The voice faded into static, and Rachel’s fingers tightened on the wheel. Payday, clowns, gangs—they could all burn for all she cared. Turning off the radio, she glanced at the palm trees passing by her windows, silhouetted against the sunset’s pink and orange glow. The city felt both alive and decayed, a strange beauty that seemed to match the chaos within her.

She finally arrived at her destination and parked. Taking a deep breath, she grabbed her rooster mask and stepped out, making her way toward the apartment door in front of her. The mask dangled from her fingers as she knocked—hard, impatient. She waited, her face blank, with only the faintest hint of tension in her jaw as she knocked again, louder this time. Someone was about to answer.