The Birth of Mr. Dust

The mask felt heavier tonight.

Not because of its weight—I'd worn it enough times to forget it was even there—but because of what it represented now. Mr. Fox wasn't just a symbol anymore. He was a name woven into whispers, into fear, into respect. And as I walked out of Station 47, past the faces still marked by the echoes of Sasha's arrest, I realized something.

I wasn't just wearing the mask.

I was becoming it.

The night air hit differently when the adrenaline wore off, crisp and cold like the universe itself was trying to remind me I was still human beneath the persona. I shoved my hands into my pockets, walking the familiar route back home. The city lights blurred around me, smudged against the dark canvas of the skyline. Every step was a beat in a song only I could hear.

When I finally reached my apartment, I hesitated at the door. Just for a second.

Then I pushed it open.

Camille was the first thing I saw, of course.

Because how could I not?

She stood in the middle of the living room like she owned the very concept of attention. Her outfit was even more extravagant than last time—layers of dark silk intertwined with gold accents, asymmetrical cuts that somehow made perfect sense, and sleeves that flared like whispers of smoke. A-Rank fashion designer? Understatement. She didn't just design clothes. She crafted art you could breathe in.

Sienna was curled up on the couch, her face an impressive shade of red that almost matched the blush creeping up her neck. She looked like she'd been sitting there for a while—probably enduring Camille's relentless teasing.

I shut the door behind me, pulling off the Fox mask and setting it on the entryway table.

"Miss me?" I asked, my voice lighter than it had been all day.

Camille smirked. "Of course. But I think someone missed you more.

Sienna groaned, covering her face with a throw pillow like it could shield her from existence itself.

I couldn't resist.

Crossing the room, I flopped down next to her on the couch, ignoring her muffled protests. "Aw, don't be shy. My girlfriend shouldn't be this embarrassed to see me."

The pillow dropped.

Her eyes—wide, amber, startled—locked onto mine.

We'd never said it out loud before. The word. Girlfriend. Despite the kisses, the quiet mornings tangled in blankets, the comfort of her presence like gravity itself. But saying it felt natural, like the word had been waiting on the tip of my tongue all along.

Her heart skipped a beat—I could practically hear it—and then she rolled her eyes, trying to mask the flush creeping up her cheeks. "You're insufferable."

I grinned. "But you like me anyway."

Camille snorted from across the room, tossing something toward me. I caught it without looking.

The new mask.

I turned it over in my hands, letting the light catch the gradient colors of sunset fading into shadow. It wasn't flashy like Mr. Fox. No sharp edges or bold lines. Just soft, mysterious patterns woven into the surface, like secrets hidden in plain sight.

A Dust Mask.

It felt right, but also weird, like I was looking at a literal ball of dust. I had no idea how Camille could've ever made something like this.

"Introducing…" Camille spread her arms dramatically, "…Mr. Dust."

I chuckled, standing up and sliding the mask on. The world shifted slightly—not because the mask changed my vision, but because it felt like it changed me.

I opened my status menu and redeemed my pending reward. The option to choose my next job glimmered like a prize I'd been waiting to claim. I didn't hesitate.

New Job Selected: Detective (B-Rank)

A rush of information flooded my mind. Not overwhelming, but sharp. Focused. Like the world snapped into clearer detail.

[Detective Skills Acquired]

Observation (Level 5): Enhances the ability to notice minute details in environments, behavior, and physical evidence. No clue is too small.

Deduction (Level 4): Analyzes information rapidly, connecting dots that others might miss. Patterns reveal themselves like threads in a tapestry.

Interrogation (Level 3): Increases effectiveness in extracting information through questioning. Not just about what people say—but how they say it.

Instinct (Level 4): Heightens gut feelings regarding truth, danger, and deception. A sixth sense honed for survival and clarity.

I also received a Firefighter Portfolio, neatly organizing all my firefighter skills within it. Just like before the skills didn't disappear—I could access them whenever I needed—but atleast I could hide them when necessary.

Mr. Dust had work to do.

I grabbed my jacket, ready to leave, but paused at the door.

Camille was lounging now, sipping something from a fancy glass. Sienna was still glaring at me like I'd committed some unspeakable crime by existing.

"Try not to miss me too much," I said, voice muffled slightly through the mask.

Camille's grin was pure mischief. "Oh, I'll be fine. But—" She glanced at Sienna, her eyes gleaming. "Are you still not willing to share?"

Sienna's jaw clenched. She didn't say anything. Just looked away, her silence louder than any answer she could've given.

I didn't stay to hear more.

The Evaluation Center wasn't far, but the walk felt different. Like I was someone else entirely. Mr. Fox had been born out of necessity—a symbol to protect, to inspire. But Mr. Dust?

He was a choice. I made him to get my revenge.

The center was quiet when I arrived, the fluorescent lights humming like distant static. The same familiar receptionist sat at the front desk, scrolling through something on her tablet.

Rebecca Kline.

She glanced up as I approached, her expression neutral at first—then shifting slightly. Not fear. Not recognition. Just… curiosity. Like she was looking at a puzzle missing a few pieces.

"Can I help you?" she asked.

I gave her a polite nod. "Here for evaluation."

She processed my information without question, though her eyes lingered a little too long on the name Mr. Dust.

Something about me made her uneasy.

As I waited, tapping my fingers against the armrest of one of those uncomfortable chairs, a door opened down the hall.

Evelyn stepped out.

Her sharp gaze swept the room until it landed on me.

She didn't hesitate.

Didn't blink.

"Mr. Dust," she said, her voice cutting through the quiet. "Who are you really?"

My muscles tensed beneath the mask.