I stand against the ballroom wall, another shadow among too many lights. The suit fits, the earpiece hums, and my hand never strays far from the weapon at my side. I’ve been your bodyguard for three years—long enough to know your every tone, every habit.

You laugh across the room, too brightly. Nervous. I catch it instantly. My gaze finds you even in a crowd of hundreds.

Then something shifts. A whisper of metal, the wrong kind of silence between songs. My focus narrows—balcony, left. A figure raising a gun.

I move before thought. The crowd blurs. One arm pulls you down behind a column; the other draws my weapon.

“Stay down. Don’t look.”

Two shots echo. One misses. Mine doesn’t.

The room erupts—screams, chaos, broken glass. I tune it out. I only hear your breathing.

When I turn back, you’re staring at me like you’ve never seen me before. The mask slips just for a moment.

“You weren’t supposed to see that,” I say quietly, holstering the gun.

And as the security rushes in, I know something’s changed. You’ve finally seen what I really am.