The scent of pine and stone lingered in the crisp mountain air, while the distant echo of church bells drifted down from secluded abbeys. The common folk went about their days happily, doing chores and daily tasks with ease. Their laughter drifted through the streets, their hands busy with work, their minds untroubled. In a mansion nestled in a small mountain town, shadows stretched long across the polished floors. But behind the shadows they ignored—beneath the surface of their quiet lives—something darker lurked. Vicious creatures and savage men, invisible but never truly gone. Hellbent on destroying the happiness of others. From the edge of the room, one of the shadowed figures stepped forward, his head bowed as he nervously approached his boss. “Sir, I have located the suspect. The one who threatened mutiny.” He swallowed hard, stealing a glance at his superior. The room was thick with tension, the weight of unsaid words pressing against him. He knew his boss wasn’t usually this cold—there was once warmth behind those eyes—but now, that warmth had vanished. The traitor had crossed a line, and hesitation was no longer an option. The boss was already calculating what came next. The superior sat on an exquisite chair in eerie stillness, golden eyes flickering with unreadable intent as he processed the information. He didn’t react immediately—he never did. Silence had always been his greatest tool, his sharpest weapon. The dim candlelight shone onto his head, catching on the intricate designs of his mask. Concealing everything but those piercing, golden eyes. The polished edges of his mask gleamed faintly, an unsettling contrast to the darkness outside. The mask was a barrier–but not to hide weakness. To make his presence even more unnerving. To keep people guessing. He slowly exhaled. The movement was barely noticeable, but it was still enough to make his subordinate tense in anticipation. “Is that so?” His voice was smooth, edged with quiet amusement, as if the revelation was more of an inconvenience than a real threat. He was never alarmed–only intrigued. He leaned back, fingers tapping lazily against the armrest of his seat, gaze never leaving the trembling man before him. The underling expected anger, perhaps fury–but he had forgotten the cruelest thing about his leader. He didn’t get angry. He calculated. He decided. The mask revealed nothing—not a twitch of a lip, not a furrow of a brow. It made it impossible to read him, impossible to predict his next move. “Where is the suspect now?" A shaky breath left the young man’s throat as he answered his boss. “We captured him, sir–” he hesitated before speaking once more, “what shall we do with him?” “Nothing. I will take care of him.” There was no hesitation in the superior man’s voice. He knew exactly what he planned to do. “Take him to the dungeon. I will deal with him later,” he waved his hand, motioning for everyone to leave. In hurried shuffles, the guards and the subordinate left the room. Once they were all gone, the man stood up in one swift motion, his movements unnaturally smooth. The likeness of an aged assassin, or something more dangerous. He wove through the mansion with practiced ease, his strides quick but controlled, his presence barely a whisper in the air. No footsteps echoed, no fabric rustled—only the faint disturbance of space where he had been a moment before. When he reached his bedroom, he stepped inside without hesitation, moving straight to the mirror. His fingers slid through strands of purple hair, carefully pulling them away from the mask that concealed most of his face. The mirror before him was shattered, fractured lines cutting across the glass like veins of something long broken. Yet still, he studied it. His gaze lingered, searching, as if the ruined reflection held answers it refused to give. “I can't wait for the day I can take this off,” he snarled, his fingers brushing the edge of the mask but stopping short of removing it. It clung to his face like a brand, a constant reminder of the role he was forced to play. The polished smiles, the diplomatic restraint—it all felt like rot beneath his skin. Every moment spent pretending gnawed at him, a quiet betrayal of the man buried underneath. He stripped off his tailored suit, tossing it aside with disgust. In its place, he pulled on a fitted black tunic, reinforced boots, and gloves worn smooth from use. A belt lined with tools and weapons followed, each one a reminder of the life he used to lead—the one that still called to him in silence. Finally, he fastened the dark cloak over his shoulders, its hood deep enough to hide his face in shadow. He paused at the door, breathing in the weight of the transformation. This wasn’t just a disguise—it was a return. Then, without another word, he strode out of the room, shedding civility like dead skin. He quickly maneuvered through the mansion, cutting each corner efficiently. He walked out the front door and sighed. One of his bodyguards was walking around the mansion’s outskirts and somehow missed the superior leaving. He was gone for a while. By the time he stepped back inside, the air had shifted. Something had changed. A bodyguard approached from the side, his stance stiff, professional, but edged with unease. For several years, he had guarded the estate. “Sir.” The masked man barely acknowledged him, yet stopped walking. “A corpse has been found nearby.” The superior paused, his golden eyes flickering with unreadable intent. His fingers grazed against his mask, adjusting it as a soft sigh escaped his lips. “Is that so?” His voice was smooth, unaffected, as if he were commenting on the weather. The guard nodded. "Yes, sir. Do you want me to investigate further?" The masked figure tilted his head slightly, gaze steady, unmoving. “No." His voice carried absolute certainty, leaving no room for debate. “Have them clean it up." And with that, he walked past, dismissing the matter entirely. He moved through the estate’s gardens in long strides, making his way back to his bedroom. He removed the cloak from his body, revealing a bag he had found outside, along with bags of a black liquid. He set the bag in a secure place before walking into his bathroom. He undressed and sighed. A soft squeak escaped as he turned the handle to the bath, a steady stream of water flowing through the faucet. Once the water was high enough, he turned the water off and stepped in. The water enveloped his calves, relaxing his muscles with every passing second. Slowly, he lowered himself, allowing the water to rise, surrounding him until he settled against the bottom of the tub. As his muscles relaxed, a soft sigh escaped his lips. He swiftly lifted his hand and pulled his mask off, gently setting it next to the tub. The cool air touched his skin, and for a moment, he just breathed. His face—angular and sharp, framed by dark hair parted cleanly down the middle—felt raw beneath the mask’s absence. The pressure that had clung to his cheekbones and jaw now faded, leaving behind a faint ache, like phantom armor. His pointed ears twitched slightly, freed from the constraint. He cupped his hands, scooped up water, and poured it over his face. The sensation was instant—cool, cleansing, real. The mask had hidden him. The water reminded him he was still there. Refreshed, he leaned back, letting the silence settle around him like mist. After his bath, he rose. Water was dripping down his body. Quickly, he dried his face before putting the mask back on. After drying off, he discarded the towel and dressed. Fitted breeches hugged his legs, followed by a white linen shirt with billowing sleeves. He secured a corset-style doublet with a structured fit and fine embroidery that reflected quiet luxury. With everything ready, he strode out of the room, down the hallway, and into the courtyard. He had plans to go into town.