S.M.A.S.H

III. I'm the Morally Grey Guy (duh)

Song for this chapter: Love you to Death by Type O Negative (As scared as I am of Peter Steele, I must admit, he had some pretty good vocal skills)

You laid under your bed, hand over your mouth, trying to stifle the sounds of your breathing. You had heard a loud "Hey!" from just outside your door, but you didn't know if it was Shayne or the intruder. You were relieved when the door opened, and you saw Shayne's shoes in the soft moonlight.

"Y/N? Where are you?" He asked. You could hear the sleep in his voice. "I either killed him or knocked him out, and I don't want to find out by myself."

"I'm here," you squeaked, pushing yourself out from underneath the bed. You walked over to him and wrapped your arms around him. "Thank you."

"You are welcome," he said. "And you are shaking."

"Can you blame me?"

"No," he sighed. "No, I cannot. Come on, let's go check out the crime scene."

You released each other and followed Shayne out into the hallway, ready to see some kind of terrifying creature. Freddy Krueger, the Babadook, a biblically accurate angel with malintent-- something like that. But, to your surprise, it was a regular-ish guy.

He had his hair parted down the middle, dark sunglasses lying askew on his face. He wore a black shirt with a wolf in front of a moon and khaki shorts. The weirdest thing about his outfit-- set aside the fact that he wore sunglasses at night (a true Corey Hart fan, if I may)-- was that he appeared to have some kind of blade at his hip. It was in a holster, but it wasn't a gun. No gun would be that long unless it was an early, portable prototype of a tank.

"Do you know him?" Shayne asked, crouching down to get a better look at the intruder.

"Shayne, I don't know anyone here outside of the people from work-- and I don't even know all of them yet."

Then, the man on the floor began to stir. He gave a quiet groan, turning his head towards Shayne ever so slightly.

"Who-- who are you?" He whispered.

"Who are you?" Shayne asked. "You don't get to ask questions."

"Yes, I do. I'm looking for Y/N, and you look nothing like her. In fact, you're rather ugly." The intruder looked forward again, at you. "She's not."

"I'll give you a choice: you either give us your name, or we call the police." Shayne kept his eyes trained on the man on the floor. "And, trust me, the LAPD is not a force to be reckoned with."

A/N: I don't know if that's true or not-- I've never been to L.A. I've made it up for dramatic affect.

The man sighed, moving to sit up before his hand flew to his abdomen. "I'll tell you my name under one condition: I get an ice pack. It seems as if I've been assaulted."

Shayne looked to you, and you shrugged. What harm would it do? It wasn't like he was asking for your wallet.

"Fine," Shayne sighed. "But name first."

"I am The Chosen."

A sense silence filled the room. The Chosen? Really? He couldn't even come up with a real name?

"Okay, no ice pack for you. Get up and get out. Go find someone else to stalk." Shayne grabbed the man's bicep and hauled him to his feet. But he insisted.

"It's true," he replied. "That's my name. 'Chosen' is my name. I swear to it." He then groaned, hand moving to his abdomen once again. "I promise."

Shayne looked at you, and you stepped forward.