Mikhael

“I’m home, lil shadow,” I call out, pushing open the front door. It creaks loudly, but well…this is home. I kick off my shoes and close the door behind me.

Suddenly, my phone rings. I glance at the name—Mr. Han. The owner of Blue Hour, the late-night restaurant where I should be rushing to, but after everything today…resting at home sounds way more appealing, which is very unlike me.

I answer and bring the phone to my ear. “Good evening, Mr. Han.”

“Where are you, Mikhael? Is something wrong or are you running late?” His voice is laced with concern, very different from Alvin.

I wander further inside, opening the fridge as I speak. “Mr. Han, I was hoping I could take a break tonight—”

“A break? Did you have a fight? Should I send Maxie over to check on you?”

“What? No, no. I’m perfectly fine,” I hurry to reassure him, grabbing a leftover box of lasagna from the fridge and sliding it into the microwave, pressing the timer. “It’s just…something came up that needs my immediate attention,” I say, leaning on the counter.

A sigh comes from the other side of the phone, “Thankfully, it’s nothing serious. Alright, take a break. You deserve it. Just try to message either Maxie or me, we’ve been getting worried.”

“I’m fine, Mr. Han. You worry too much,” I reply, a small smile tugging at my lips, amused at how quickly he panicked over something as trivial as me being late.

“With the kind of trouble that finds you, someone has to. Alright, I won’t keep you any longer. Eat something, finish your work, and get some rest. Good night, Mikhael.”

“Good night, Mr. Han.” The call ends just as the microwave chimes, announcing that the lasagna is ready. I don’t pull it out. There’s someone I need to see before I can allow myself to eat.

Crossing into my bedroom, which connects to the living room, I sink down onto the floor and let my eyes rest on the figure perched on my bed. A smile slips across my face. Lil shadow isn’t a dog, a cat, or any sort of imaginable house pet. He’s a Shadowman plushie—a gift from Lionel five years ago. A little outdated now, worn at the side, but still one of the dearest things I own.

I flop onto the bed face-first, burying my cheek into the sheets as a tired exhale slips out of me. “The real you is something else, aren’t you, Lil Shadow?” My hand stretches lazily toward the plushie, fingers brushing over its tiny stitched arm.

I groan into the blanket, rolling half onto my side so I can glare at its stitched grin. “Can you believe he called me handsome? Handsome! Me?” My voice rises a pitch, half complaining, half disbelieving. “He must be out of his mind. A guy like him has to be ridiculously good-looking under that mask. Girls probably line up for a chance to catch his attention, and yet he called me handsome?!”

The frustration burns off instantly, leaving me staring at the plushie with a shy smile tugging at my lips. “Still…hearing it felt nice.” My thumb runs across Lil Shadow’s mask. “I just want to see him unmask. Just once. Is that selfish? I know it would probably make him uncomfortable, but…” I force a laugh. “I just want to thank him, at least. For saving Dad. For saving me.”

I hold the plushie’s gaze, its button eyes looking back with patience, as if it understands more than I want to admit.

“It would be cool if you could talk back, Lil Shadow. Bet you’d just tell me to stop being such a sap.” I grin faintly and roll onto my back, staring up at the ceiling. “Is it really so wrong to be emotional? I can’t help it. I’ve always been a heart guy, not a brain guy. Layla, Lionel—they’re always composed, know what they want with their life. Me?” I chuckle and shake my head. “I wear everything on my sleeve. Even when I shouldn’t.”

I sit up, my eyes drifting across the room. The medals and trophies catch the shine of the moonlight through the window, reflections of my teenage years. Beside them, the canvases I painted lean against the wall. “Sometimes…I miss when it was simpler,” I admit.

Rubbing a hand over my face, I push to my feet and glance back at the plushie. “Yeah, yeah. You’re right. Focus on the present.” I touch the spot on my arm where the Stealers clawed me and wince. “Guess I should wrap this up before it gets worse.”

I pat Lil Shadow gently on the head. Then I turn toward the bathroom, the creak of the floorboards following me as I go. Finding the roll of bandages doesn’t take long, touching it reminds me of the past. It has been two years since I’ve been in a real fight—I should stop thinking about the past. Let bygones be bygones.

I unbutton my white dress shirt, sliding the left side off my shoulder. The scratches aren’t as bad as I feared. I wind the bandages firmly around the bruised skin. Strangely, they don’t sting. My lips press together as I think back to Shadowman’s chant. Some kind of blessing…or maybe a numbing trick. Either way, it works.

My gaze lifts to the mirror. The usual neat part of my hair has given way to chaos, sticking in every direction after being jumped through rooftops. My skin, warm under the bathroom light, gleams with a faint sheen of sweat. My eyes, though they’ve seen better days. The dark circles carved beneath them are deeper than ever. Still, I don’t hate what I see. I don’t feel the urge to write the same tired line in my diary, the one that always threatens to overflow inside me.

My eyes trail lower, following the faint scar on my shoulder as it curves across my back. I trace a finger over it. That’s when I notice it—the tremor running through my hand.

“Oh…shit.”

I yank on a burgundy T-shirt, tossing the dress shirt into the laundry basket before rushing back to the living room. The briefcase waits on the table, and I dig through its contents with frantic hands until my fingers close around the familiar orange bottle. The cap twists off with a click, and I shake a single white tablet into my palm.

Grabbing a chilled water bottle from the fridge, I swallow it down in one gulp, my throat easing with the gulp.

A shaky breath escapes. “Thank god…got it in time.”

My stomach grumbles in protest, and I shake my head before opening the microwave and pulling out the box of lasagna. Setting it on the table, I sit down and murmur, “Xièxiè nǐ de cān shí.”

Dad taught me to always show gratitude before eating, no matter how simple the meal. A small habit, but one that’s stayed with me.

I dig in, taking a bite. “Mmh…this is good.” Another forkful follows before I reach for my phone, idly scrolling through names until I pause at one: Jasmine.

With a smile, I tap the video call button. She picks up within seconds. Her olive eyes flicker on screen for only a moment before the camera suddenly flips away.

“What are you doing?” I ask, leaning back in my chair.

As expected, silence. Jasmine’s never been one for words. Instead, the view tilts, and through the darkness I catch coworkers, faces flushed with drink waving at me. I nod back politely, squinting. “What exactly are you trying to show me?”

“…Just watch,” she finally says, her voice carrying a mischievous undertone.

I take another bite of lasagna as the phone steadies. The lights in the bar flicker then cut out. My jaw nearly drops along with my fork when the spotlight reveals Jasper, Jasmine’s twin brother, standing on the bar table. Dancing. And with—

“Strippers?!” I blurt out, nearly choking.

“Yes, Mikey!! You’re missing out!” someone slurs from off-screen.

I laugh under my breath, horrified. Whistles and cheers echo through the phone. A mental note forms instantly: if the higher-ups ever learn their employees dragged the office party to a strip club, I won’t be able to protect a single one of them.

The camera angle doesn’t change, leaving me to witness Jasper—shirt halfway off, hips shaking in rhythm to the music blasting through the room as if this cursed image is meant to be seared into my memory forever.

“Turn the camera, Jaz. I can’t watch this monstrosity anymore.”

She giggles, finally flipping the camera back around. Her face fills the screen, framed by loose strands of hazel hair that slipped free from her bun. She’s in her blue dress shirt, leaning back with a glass of whiskey in hand.

“How many drinks did he have?” I ask, narrowing my eyes.

Before she can answer, someone in the background yells over the music,
“It’s all tequila, Mike! No wonder he’s dancing like crazy! Let’s go, Jasper! Seduce all the women!”

The voice fades into the chaos, and Jasmine gives me that deadpan, knowing look before raising two fingers toward the camera.

“Just two? Haah…that man’s tolerance is as non-existent as his love life.”

I scrape the last bite of lasagna, wash it down with a glass of water, and sigh. “Jaz, you and Jasper need to leave the party. We still have to write the report, remember?”

Her face brightens instantly like she’s been waiting for me to give her an excuse to leave.

“Drown him in cold water if you have to,” I add dryly, standing to take my empty box to the sink. “If it gets serious, just haul him to the hospital.”

She flashes me a thumbs up, then leans in close. “I’ll call you later.” And cuts the call.

With dinner done, I figure I should set up my laptop and sort through the notes I scribbled during the meeting. I reach for my briefcase, but my phone buzzes with a notification.

You have a match♡!

“You’ve got to be kidding me…”

Another one of Jasper’s antics. For the past week, he’s been sneaking into my phone and trying to play matchmaker. At first, it was blind dates. Now, he’s resorted to online dating apps, insisting it’ll “change my life”. Every single time, I end up ghosting before the meetup even happens.

This latest obsession of his is some new app all the kids are raving about. What was it called again? Luvo. Cute name, probably just another excuse for flings. Not my thing. Long-term dating? Marriage? I considered it once…even thought I’d found someone. But that ended badly, and I’ve kept the door shut ever since.

I power off my phone, but it pings again and again, until my patience frays. With a frustrated exhale, I unlock the screen and open the app. The name stares back at me: Optimo Lynx.

Did Jasper swipe on a guy? What was he thinking…
You know what, it’s fine. I’ll just be upfront and tell this kid I’m not interested. End it quickly. I open the app, and sure enough, there’s already a chat waiting for me. The profile picture isn’t even a real photo—just some cartoonish character.

Optimo : 

Hello? Is this Mikhael? I hope I’m not talking to a creep… 

I was hoping to ask something.

Mikhael :
Listen, kid, I’m not interested in your advances. 

Either keep it to yourself or try someone else.

Optimo :
What? No, no! You’ve got it all wrong.

Mikhael : 

Not. Interested.

Optimo :
I’m Shadowman’s friend! 

Now will you listen to me?

Mikhael : 

Shadowman’s…friend?

What are you even hinting at, kid?

Optimo : 

Please, stop calling me a kid… 

And yes, I’m Shadowman’s friend. He asked me to contact you regarding your injury from the stealers.

This makes me pause as I sink onto the bed. How does this kid know about the scratches? Is he actually telling the truth, or just some attention-starved wannabe?

Mikhael :
Alright, go on.

Optimo :
Thank you! 

Even if I sound crazy, I’m actually a doctor—well, in training, but that shouldn’t matter. I’ve studied enough to know how to treat wounds properly. I’m still working toward becoming a surgeon, but I’m only telling you this so you’ll trust me. I’m not some scammer pretending to be Shadowman’s friend, I swear.

Is this going to lead anywhere, or is he just circling around the point? His typing cuts off, the chat falling silent for a few minutes. I almost switch off the phone and focus on the report, but then the bubbles reappear.

Optimo :
Sorry for rambling… 

It’s one of my nervous habits…Anyway, about your wound. Can you describe it? 

I didn’t—I mean, that would help me figure out the best way to treat it.

I glance at the bandaged arm, brushing my fingers over the fabric as I think of a way to phrase it.

Mikhael :
Scratches. Like the kind you’d get from a cat. 

They should hurt more, but Shadowman…used a chant, I think? 

The pain’s minimal.

Optimo :
A chant, really? Then you’re lucky. He rarely uses those unless he thinks it’s absolutely necessary.

I’d say keep them bandaged… 

Mikhael :
Already done.

Optimo : 

Oh! You’re quick and calm, too. Most people panic when they face the stealers, but Shadowman told me you actually fought back. That’s…different. Reckless, maybe, but different. You must be a skilled fighter.

Mikhael : 

I wouldn’t call myself that.

And whether it’s reckless or not, that’s not for you to decide. It was survival.

If you don’t mind me asking…you seem awfully close to him. How long have you known Shadowman?

Optimo : 

We’re childhood friends. He trusts me with his secret. I act as his eyes and ears around the city, helping people after he rescues them.

I let his words sit for a moment. Something about them doesn’t line up. I trust Shadowman, but this boy? Not yet. Let’s test him.

Mikhael : 

If you’re really his friend, tell me…what’s his real name?

Optimo : 

I-I can’t tell you that. I can’t break his trust like that.

I’m sorry, I need to leave…something came up.

Just like that, he disappears from the chat. I stare at the screen for a second longer before scoffing under my breath. Free of him, at least for now. I don’t hate the boy, but I don’t trust anyone who tries to connect through dating apps. In the end, they cling to you, call it “love,” and leave you with the mess.

I switch off my phone and set it aside. My laptop blinks to life as I open the documents needed to review before drafting the report. Sitting with my back against the bedboard, I glance at my phone when it buzzes again.

Jasmine :
We’re home. Send the group meeting link.

Mikhael :
You took your sweet time.

          How is Jasper holding up?

She sends a photo. Jasper, blissfully showering with his clothes still on. A laugh escapes me before I can stop it, and I reply with a thumbs-up emoji.

Hopefully, this whole encounter with “Optimo” will fade into nothing more than a passing memory. With any luck, I can shift my focus back to where it belongs: on my work, on my friends and on reality. Love isn’t something I have time for and maybe not something I even deserve.