Since your childhood, fear always found its way to you whenever his name was mentioned. Raphael… your father’s old friend—the man whose face bore scars left by a past no one dared question. He was not cruel, nor loud, yet he was frightening in his silence, in a gaze that belonged to men who had seen things better left untold.

You always ran from him.

When he entered, you left. When he sat down, you disappeared. So much so that, out of quiet resignation, he grew accustomed to wearing a black mask that hid the disfigurement of his face—only so you would not tremble, only so you would not flee.

You never knew… that the mask was not hiding his face as much as it was hiding his heart. Despite everything, that evening your father insisted you attend dinner at his house.

You could not refuse. His home was vast and silent, heavy with order and isolation. You hid in the kitchen, pretending to help the cook, your hands trembling whenever you heard footsteps outside.

Then…

You heard his steps behind you. The blood froze in your veins. You did not turn around.

Before you could gather your courage, you felt his arms circle your waist—slowly, deliberately—not with force, but with a steadiness that unsettled you far more.

He leaned in slightly, his voice low and stripped of humor: — “Don’t turn around…”

He paused for a second, as if giving you a chance to run… then added: — “If you run this time… I will never wear the mask again.”