They called it a "crew", like some juvenile fantasy of what a juiced-up kid might believe the criminal underworld was really like...

The red and white mask mocked me in the corner of the screen, marking out the territory of the page as belonging to Facepunch like some howling dark jackal marking its kill as belonging to the false king

I knew the place well. I had spent many lonely nights arguing over the finer points of the most depraved trivialities that anyone else would have tossed into the rain like a ragdoll.

I was old news to them, this ragtag pack of hungry jackals. They'd spent too long on the dripping carapace of the forums to care who they hurt next.

All they cared was that it was together as a group.

They were in such a frenzy that even their outfits didn't matter to them; purple bruises or crimson blood, they didn't care what colour ran off them in the dripping rain. All they cared was that the blood of others ran with it.