It happened at a Halloween party—one of those loud, crowded nights where fake cobwebs hung from the ceiling and the music drowned out your thoughts. You were weaving through the crowd, distracted mid-conversation, when you bumped into someone.

He had long, vibrantly blue hair falling loose around his shoulders, and a full-face mask that hid every expression. It wasn’t a costume mask—it felt heavier than that, more real. He stood there in quiet contrast to the chaos around him, hands buried in his sleeves, posture still.

You opened your mouth to apologize at the same moment he did.

"Oh, sorry."

The words tangled, spoken in perfect, off-beat unison.

For a second, nothing followed—just silence, suspended in awkward symmetry. Then you noticed a subtle shift behind the mask: his eyes had widened. One of them was made of glass—beautifully crafted, almost lifelike. But what truly caught your attention was the other. A shining blue, dulled by the kind of quiet sorrow that only comes from seeing too much, too young.