The Mask Beneath the Skin

The wind howled as the SUV sliced through the outskirts of the city, its black-tinted windows reflecting nothing but shadow. Inside, silence reigned—tense, heavy, unforgiving. Elira sat in the passenger seat, the paper from her mother still clenched in her fist. Gazom H. The name felt like a loaded weapon. A name tied to too many ghosts. A name that bled through her mind like poison ink.

Azriel drove like he always did: fast, smooth, calculating. His jaw was tight, his eyes forward, but his mind was clearly running ten steps ahead. He hadn't spoken much since they left the ballroom. Not after seeing Elira's mother. Not after watching her vanish like smoke.

"You knew she wasn't dead," Elira finally said, her voice low but sharp.

"I suspected."

"And Gazom H.?"

Azriel hesitated. "I know the name. Everyone in the underground does. He finances half the operations that run beneath this city. Arms. Trafficking. Data smuggling. Ghost-level surveillance. He doesn't run empires. He funds them."

"Why didn't you say anything sooner?"

His grip on the wheel tightened. "Because if Gazom H. is involved, it means this goes deeper than we thought. And it means your mother... she's not just a victim. She's a piece of something bigger."

Elira looked out the window, biting back a hundred thoughts. The reflection staring back at her wasn't the girl who entered this war. It was someone colder. Someone hungrier. Someone dangerous. She pressed the paper to her thigh and inhaled slowly.

"Where are we going?"

"To a safehouse near Sector 3. I have a contact. Someone who used to run contracts for Gazom. If anyone can give us a lead... it's him."

They drove through the dead veins of the city, through flickering lamplight and shattered-glass streets. Finally, they pulled up to a building that looked like a forgotten grave: rusted gates, stone walls, and a steel door that bore no name.

Azriel led her inside.

A man met them in the dark. Tall, broad, face covered in burns like melted wax. He didn't flinch when he saw Azriel.

"You shouldn't be here," the man rasped.

"I need a name," Azriel said.

"Don't we all."

Elira stepped forward, eyes unblinking. "Gazom H."

That made the man pause.

He studied her. "You're the girl from the list."

"Which list?"

He didn't answer.

Azriel moved closer, his tone ice. "Give us what you have."

The man finally turned, walking into the shadows. "Follow me."

They descended two flights of creaking stairs until they reached a steel vault door. Inside was a room filled with screens, maps, and photos pinned in bloody lines of red thread. One wall was covered in dossiers. At the center: Gazom H.

"He has a private estate," the man said, gesturing to a map. "No cameras. No drones. No bugs. Only invitations."

"And how do we get one of those?" Elira asked.

"You don't. You get summoned."

Azriel's jaw twitched. "Then we give him a reason to summon us."

The man grinned, teeth like razors. "Then you'd better make noise. Big, bloody noise."

Back at the penthouse, Talon and Caelum were already working. Thalia paced with her tablet, scanning encryption routes.

"The files from the party were rerouted. Someone's trying to erase the list."

"Did we lose it?" Elira asked.

Talon shook his head. "No. We backed it up. But they know we have it. Which means we have a target on our backs."

Azriel leaned against the wall, voice low. "Good. Let them come."

Caelum looked at the name Elira handed over. "You really want to go after Gazom H.? You realize what he is? He's not a man. He's a network."

"I realize what he's hiding," Elira said. "My mother. The list. The fire. All of it connects to him."

"Then we need to play this smart," Caelum muttered. "Start pulling at his web. Leak pieces of the list. Let him smell the threat."

Azriel nodded. "And when he bites, we strike."

Later that night, alone on the balcony, Elira stood in the cold wind, watching the city shimmer below like a cursed constellation. The lights looked like stars ready to fall. Or burn.

Azriel joined her, silent at first. Then, "You handled yourself tonight."

"I wasn't trying to impress you."

"You didn't."

She turned, glaring. "Why are you even still doing this, Azriel? Why not just disappear? You have money. Power. Connections. You could vanish."

He looked at her, expression unreadable. "Because I want to see how this ends."

"You want revenge."

"No. I want balance. And maybe... a little chaos."

Elira stepped closer, eyes burning. "You think you're so untouchable. But you're not."

He leaned in, his breath warm against hers. "Neither are you."

Their stare held. Sharp. Volatile. Crackling with something neither of them dared name. It wasn't trust. It wasn't desire. It was something carved from blood and memory.

Then a vibration buzzed through her wrist.

A message.

No sender. No trace.

Just three words:

HE'S WATCHING YOU.

She looked up. Azriel already had his gun drawn, eyes sweeping the skyline, body alert. But the rooftop was still. The shadows had teeth, but none struck.

They waited. Watched.

But nothing moved.

"Just a warning," Azriel muttered, lowering his weapon. "For now."

They returned inside, the door locking behind them. Elira walked slowly into the living room, her shoulders tight, fingers numb. As the adrenaline faded, her walls cracked.

And she broke.

Tears spilled without sound. Her face buried in her hands. Her breath ragged.

Azriel didn't say anything. He stood a few feet away, silent.

But he didn't look away.

He watched her fall apart.

And for the first time, she didn't care who saw.

_______

The night bled into silence as the city outside the penthouse sank into slumber. Elira stood by the wide glass wall, the skyline casting fractured light across her face. She hadn't spoken much since the message. The warning still burned behind her eyes — HE'S WATCHING YOU.

Azriel hadn't pushed. He stayed back. Silent. Watching.

But Elira had cracked.

The first glass of whiskey was poured without a word. The second, faster. By the time the third burned down her throat, her hands no longer shook — or maybe they did, and she simply didn't care anymore.

Azriel returned from the balcony to find her curled on the floor against the couch, an open bottle at her side.

"You planning to drink through the war?" he asked, voice low.

She looked up at him, her mascara slightly smudged, her robe loosely tied, her hair tumbling in waves over her shoulders. There were no walls left in her eyes tonight.

"Maybe," she muttered. "Unless you've got a better plan."

Azriel crouched beside her, elbows on his knees, watching her closely. "This isn't like you."

"You don't know me."

"I know you've never broken like this."

She scoffed, a bitter laugh breaking from her throat. "I saw my mother tonight. Alive. After all these years. And I didn't get to touch her. I didn't get to speak. Just a glimpse. A cruel little taste before they ripped her away again."

Azriel didn't move. Didn't blink.

Elira looked down at her trembling fingers. "Do you know what it's like? To be the weapon they forged and not even realize it? To be sharpened and twisted and then told you were meant to break things? Not save them?"

He said nothing.

So she reached for the bottle again.

He took it before she could.

Their eyes locked.

"I don't want to feel anything anymore tonight," she whispered. "Not the fear. Not the guilt. Not the hope. Not even the goddamn pain."

Her hand reached for his shirt, fingers curling into the black fabric.

He didn't stop her.

Elira didn't give him a warning. She just leaned in and kissed him.

Hard. Sudden. Fierce.

He froze — for a breath.

And then he kissed her back.

Not gentle. Not cautious.

It was wild. Intense. Frantic. As if the act itself could destroy every scar beneath their skin. As if kissing each other could silence the thunder in their veins.

Their mouths collided with heat and hunger, teeth grazing, breath gasping. Azriel's hands slipped around her waist, pulling her tighter, anchoring her against him. Her fingers fisted his shirt like it was the only thing holding her upright.

They broke apart only for a second, both panting.

"We shouldn't," she whispered.

"No," he said. "We really shouldn't."

And then — she kissed him again.

This time slower, but still burning. Like molten glass.

His hands traveled down her spine, her robe falling away as their bodies molded together in fire and friction. There were no words. Just touch. Just motion. Just noise and breath and skin.