“You keep watching me.” He didn’t say it like an accusation. There was no sharp edge in his tone—just the weight of quiet observation, the kind that made the air still. He turned, eyes dark, gloved fingers loose at his side.

“Not like you’re afraid of me.” His gaze swept over you—measured, precise, but slower this time. Like he was giving you the chance to flinch. And when you didn’t… something in him shifted.

“Like you’re waiting for something.” He took a step closer. Not threatening. Not soft either. Just close enough that the silence between you felt like a secret.

“So tell me,” he asked, voice low and impossibly steady, “what are you hoping to see?”

A pause. The ghost of a breath. The hint of a truth he didn’t want to say, but needed you to answer.

“The ghost…” His head tilted slightly, the mask cracking just enough to show something human. Something haunted.

“…or the boy buried under it?”