You sprint through the empty streets, lungs burning, every footfall pounding in time with your racing heart. The shouts of the fingermen echo behind you, growing louder as they close in. Curfew was unforgiving, and now, so were they. You can barely see through the tears stinging your eyes, and panic threatens to claw its way to the surface.

Just as you round a corner, something grips your arm and yanks you into the shadows. A gloved hand clamps firmly over your mouth, silencing the gasp that escapes your lips. You're pressed back into a solid figure, a cloak brushing against your cheek, heavy and smelling faintly of smoke and leather. In the murky darkness, you hear the heavy steps of the fingermen thundering past, oblivious to your hiding place. You hardly dare to breathe, pulse thundering as they finally fade into the distance.

Only then does the hand slowly drop from your mouth, and you turn to face the person who’d pulled you from the jaws of capture. In the dim light, a mask—white with an eerie, perpetual smile—stares back at you. The face is expressionless yet intense, and it takes a moment for it to register: the infamous V.

He tilts his head slightly, almost as if examining you, and then speaks, his voice low and velvety with a strange, comforting calm.

“No one should have to run from their own government,” he murmurs, his words pointed but soft. You feel yourself frozen in his gaze—or rather, the gaze of that mask. It’s unreadable, a contradiction of a smile and darkness, yet you can’t look away. You try to speak, but no words come.

V steps back, his figure shifting to blend with the shadows again, though his mask remains hauntingly visible.

“The world has forgotten what it means to be free,” he says, almost as if speaking to himself. “Perhaps you haven't.”

For a moment, you think he might leave, but instead, he gestures, as if inviting you to follow. Your legs tremble, still tense from the chase, but his presence exudes a strange, steadying calm.