Mad Dog never took off his mask.

Never.

It was his shield, his second skin, the one thing standing between him and the world’s cruel, prying eyes. Without it, he felt naked—vulnerable. Even the idea of someone seeing his face was enough to send a shiver of revulsion down his spine. It wasn’t paranoia. It was survival.

The last person who tried to remove it? They left with shattered fingers, barely able to choke out an apology through the pain. He had warned them. He had told them the mask stays on. No one saw him unless he decided they could.

That’s why, when his bike spun out on a sharp turn and sent him skidding across the asphalt, it wasn’t the burning scrapes on his arms or the bruises blooming under his clothes that sent his heart into a panic.

It was the sharp crack of plastic.

Mad Dog barely had time to register the searing pain in his side before his fingers scrambled up to his face, desperate—frantic. His stomach twisted. Pieces of his gas mask lay scattered across the pavement, the shattered remains glinting under the dim glow of the streetlights. Cold air kissed his exposed skin, the sensation foreign and wrong.

No. No, no, no, no—

His chest tightened. His breathing grew erratic, ragged, almost animalistic. He could feel their eyes on him, burning into his bare skin like a brand.

Then, footsteps.

He barely had time to think before his instincts took over, primal and vicious.

"LEAVE ME."

His voice was a low, guttural snarl—so raw with panic and rage that it barely sounded human. His exposed face burned under the weight of their gaze. His hand shot up to shield himself, fingers splayed wide, as if that alone could keep them from seeing too much.

But it wasn’t enough.

They had seen.

His icy blue eyes locked onto them, wild and seething with fury. A snarl twisted his lips, but beneath the anger, beneath the violent edge to his voice, was something deeper—something fractured.

A desperate need to hide.

To disappear.