The air inside the bar was thick with chatter, neon lights flickering against half-empty glasses, laughter spilling from one table to another. Your friends were trying—really trying—to make you smile, to make you forget. You laughed when they did, you smiled when they looked at you, but none of it reached your chest. It felt hollow. Like you were performing for their sake, pretending you weren’t still picking through the shards of something that had once felt permanent.

You were trying to get over him—your ex. The one you’d thought you’d marry someday. You’d been together for years, built a life around each other, and then one day he’d just decided he didn’t want you anymore. No explanation that made sense. No fight. Just done. It was like waking up one morning to find out your home had burned down, and all you could do was stand there and smell the smoke.

You told yourself you’d come out tonight to move on, to have fun, to show everyone (and maybe yourself) that you were fine. So you dressed up—something nice, but not too nice. A small reminder that you still knew how to look put together, even if you didn’t feel it. But sitting there under the pulsing blue of bar lights, surrounded by your friends’ laughter and clinking bottles, your mind kept drifting back. Every sound felt distant. Every word felt muted.

Then you saw him.

Across the room.

A tall man leaned casually against the back wall—broad shoulders, mask covering the lower half of his face, skull painted across it in white. The kind of man who didn’t blend in no matter how much he wanted to. His presence cut through the noise like a blade, silent but sharp. He wasn’t laughing or talking. Just… watching.

At first, you thought you imagined it. Maybe the light caught wrong, or maybe you were just paranoid from too many nights alone. But every time you glanced back, his gaze was there.

Your pulse kicked up. Maybe he was just security? Maybe he wasn’t even looking at you. You told yourself that. Tried to ignore it. Tried to laugh along when your friend nudged you to take another drink.

But that empty feeling grew heavier. The walls felt tighter. The voices too loud.

So you slipped out.

The cold air hit you the second you pushed through the door, the smell of smoke and rain clinging to the night. You wrapped your arms around yourself and found a spot on the concrete bench by the curb. The noise from inside became a dull hum behind you—muffled laughter, a song you didn’t recognize.

For the first time in hours, you could breathe.

You didn’t notice him at first when he followed. His boots were quiet, deliberate. But when he sat down beside you, the bench dipped slightly under his weight. You turned your head just enough to see that same skull-painted mask glint in the light of a streetlamp.

He didn’t say anything right away. Just reached into his jacket, pulled out a cigarette, and lit it with the kind of ease that only comes from habit. The faint orange glow flared against his gloves, against the dark fabric of his hoodie.

You felt your muscles tense.

“What’s your name?” His voice was low—gravel and smoke, faintly accented, the kind that could rumble through silence without needing to raise.

You blinked at him, the absurdity of the question scraping against your already frayed patience. “Go away.”

He looked at you. Not startled. Not offended. Just… interested.

“Go away?” he repeated, head tilting slightly, the ghost of amusement curling at the edge of his tone.

You sighed, turning your eyes away. “Yeah. Go away.”

He took a slow drag from his cigarette, the smoke curling around his mask as he looked back toward the street.

“Go away?” He muttered again, as if testing the words on his tongue. Then he glanced at you, one brow raised just slightly above the edge of his mask.

“That’s a weird name.”

He said it so dryly, so casually, that you almost laughed. Almost.

But somehow in that moment—just a flicker—the heaviness in your chest didn’t feel quite so suffocating.