the man in the mask

The sun had dipped beneath the horizon, leaving the city veiled in a shroud of muted twilight. The streets were half-empty, the neon lights flickering as if holding their breath. Ania Malik, exhausted from a long day and still heavy with the ache of her children’s departure, walked back to her apartment. Her arms were folded, her shawl pulled tighter against the whispering wind. The silence in her heart was louder than the distant car horns.

She was thinking of Minhoo’s smile and Hana’s wave. The memory of the airport goodbye clung to her like the soft fragrance of her daughter’s hair. Her mind wandered, and that was when it happened.

A black van screeched to a halt beside her.

Before she could react, strong arms grabbed her. A rough cloth pressed against her face. A bitter chemical stung her nose. Her limbs thrashed, heart pounding. She heard voices—gruff, mocking, speaking in whispers. She struggled, but darkness swallowed her within seconds.

---

She awoke to the sting of pain.

Concrete. Cold and damp.

Her wrists were tied behind her. Her mouth tasted of blood. Her cheeks throbbed from the slap she hadn’t seen coming. The dim light above her buzzed. The shadows of three men circled her, like wolves savoring a caged doe.

“Well, well, the widow has some spirit,” one sneered, crouching beside her. He smelled of sweat and cigarettes.

“Where’s your hero now, huh?” another spat. “You live like a saint, but you're not invisible. Someone’s been watching you. Very closely.”

Ania’s eyes narrowed, despite the pain. She refused to let them see fear.

Then came the third—taller, his eyes colder. “She doesn’t need to speak,” he said, lighting a cigarette. “We’re not here to ask questions. We’re here to leave scars.”

He stepped forward—and raised his hand.

The sound of the slap cracked through the room.

Ania collapsed, gasping. Blood pooled at the corner of her mouth.

And then—

The power cut out.

Darkness devoured the room in an instant. The men froze.

“What the—?” one muttered. Their flashlights flicked on—but it was too late.

He was already inside.

A crash of glass from the high window. A sharp gust of wind.

A tall figure dropped into the room—dressed entirely in black, face concealed behind a tactical mask.

No warning. No words. He moved like a storm given form.

With a sharp grunt, he grabbed the first thug and flung him across the room. The second pulled a knife—too slow. A twist, a crunch, and the knife skittered to the floor. The third, the leader, reached for his gun—but the masked man kicked the weapon out of his hand and slammed him into the wall with bone-breaking force.

In under a minute, all three were on the ground, groaning, coughing, some not even conscious.

Silence fell again.

Only the ragged breaths of the masked man filled the room—and the soft whimpers of Ania.

He turned.

She blinked at him, still dazed. Bloodied, trembling, barely clinging to awareness.

He rushed to her. “Ania,” he said—his voice low, breathless, but unmistakably laced with emotion. “It’s okay. You’re safe now.”

Her eyes fluttered.

That voice.

She tried to focus. Her lashes lifted slightly. The light was dim, his face obscured—but his aura, his energy—she had known it before.

Her lips moved. “I… know you…”

He froze for a heartbeat.

Then, gently, he swept her up into his arms.

---

Later That Night — Her Apartment

The moonlight bathed her apartment in soft silver. The city was quiet, unaware of the night’s horrors. Ania lay on her sofa, her wounds cleaned, her head resting on a pillow. Her breathing was soft. Peaceful.

She stirred.

Her eyes opened slowly, adjusting to the familiar comfort of her home. Her lips were dry. Her ribs ached. She tried to sit up but winced.

And then—she saw it.

A single black glove lying on the table beside her.

She looked around.

No one.

But the scent lingered in the air—subtle cologne, crisp fabric, the faint aroma of leather.

Her hand reached toward the glove. She touched it gently, almost reverently, as if it might vanish if she moved too quickly.

Memories of that voice echoed in her mind. The strength of his arms. The warmth in his silence.

She had heard that voice before. In passing. In whispers. Once, when he called out her name years ago… and once recently… when someone greeted her without showing their face.

Tears welled in her eyes—not from pain, but from realization.

“Devrathor,” she whispered.

But she couldn’t be sure. Not yet.

The mystery twisted her heart. The ache of gratitude and the pulse of suspicion warred inside her.

Was it truly him?

Had he returned?

And if it was—why didn’t he show his face?

---

This night would remain etched into her soul.

Not just for the terror.

Not just for the rescue.

But for that fleeting feeling—