Throughout life, people don masks, shifting with time, layering themselves in facades woven from expectation and fear. To understand them is to step into a maze of shadows, where truth flickers like candlelight—distant, elusive. Yet even you wear one, unseen, unnoticed, until life rips it away. When peril stands at your door, when the one you cherish teeters on the edge, the mask shatters. And what remains is raw, unfiltered being.
In that fleeting instant, stripped of pretense, human potential surges forth—a force unbridled, a truth unmasked, threading itself through the intricate weave of existence.
---
John ran.
His breath burned in his throat, his legs screamed in protest, but none of it mattered. The only thing that did was the figure ahead—the masked man disappearing into the night with his daughter.
He didn't think about how fast the man was or how far he had to go. He didn't even register his own exhaustion. He ran because stopping wasn't an option. Because somewhere ahead, in unfamiliar arms, his daughter was crying.
Then—a shot.
The night cracked open, the sound splitting the air.
John's focus wavered for a fraction of a second. His gaze flicked to the black shape in the man's hand. To the heat blooming in his side.
Pain slammed into him, sharp and immediate. His body screamed to stop, to clutch the wound, to collapse onto the pavement. But his mind rejected it.
He forced himself forward.
His vision blurred at the edges. The world swayed. His heartbeat thundered in his ears. But he couldn't stop—wouldn't stop. The thought of his daughter slipping away into the unknown was worse than any bullet.
A cry—small, panicked, familiar.
Close.
But his legs faltered. His body was failing him, fire spreading through his ribs. His fingers twitched, grasping at air. He reached—but the distance stretched, and the masked man vanished into the dark.
The bystanders who had watched—who had hesitated, who had almost helped—froze as the gunshot echoed in their bones. Fear had turned them to statues.
Only a few broke free. They rushed toward John, catching him before he hit the ground completely. Their voices blurred together—urgent, panicked.
Stay awake. Hold on. Help is coming.
Sirens wailed in the distance, growing louder.
John barely felt his blood pooling on the pavement. His body was shutting down, but his mind clung to a single, desperate thought—
My daughter.
Then, the world went black.
---
Standing up and leaving the cafe they crosses the spot where jason got hit.
"The guy smelled like flowers," Jason muttered, running his fingers through his already-messy hair.
Arnon raised an eyebrow. "Like what? Roses? Maybe he's a romantic."
Elyse didn't even look up. "Or a florist with anger issues."
Jason exhaled. "Not just any flowers. Something… subtle. Jasmine, maybe. Or lilies."
Arnon grinned. "So let me get this straight—you got decked by a guy who smells like a fancy candle shop?"
Jason shot him a look. "Thanks for the support."
Elyse smirked. "Maybe it's his signature move. He hits people, then leaves them confused and mildly enchanted."
Jason sighed. "Right. I'll send him a thank-you note. 'Dear Mystery Assailant, lovely scent, 10/10. Let's not do this again.'"
Arnon snorted. "Or maybe next time, just ask for his cologne."
Jay, however, didn't lie. And the way his ears still twitched, his body still tense—something, somewhere, had changed.
As they walked on, Jason ran his fingers through his hair again, slower this time. The thought had started as a joke, but now it lingered.
He had always been praised for his potential.And then there was his recent strength that made him move like a well-trained athlete. And yet, lately,it has dimmed.
And the only thing —
His hair.
Ridiculous.
He shook the thought away, focusing instead on the moment—the banter, the laughter, the quiet certainty that some things would always remain.
Even as the night deepened.
Even as their time here ran out.