Chapter 03: The Mask

He stepped away from the mirror with hesitant steps, then turned to face it as one would gaze upon a faded land splattered with scattered bloodstains.

His heart lurched at the horror before him. His reflection stared back like the surface of stagnant water—half his face visible, etched with exhaustion, the other half concealed behind a cracked metal mask. A distorted, grotesque smile split the mask's lower half, oozing mockery and death.

The eyes in the reflection were like the bottom of a dry well, hollow and lifeless, watching him as if beckoning him toward a step from which there was no return.

He studied the mask in stunned silence, his heart pounding violently, each beat threatening to rupture his chest.

As his gaze sank deeper into himself, the ringing in his ears vanished abruptly, as if silence had been poured over him all at once.

He remained motionless, staring into his own mirrored eyes, as though an unseen force were dragging him inward by a thick rope, pulling him toward a bottomless abyss.

Then came the whispers—faint, laced with the faint rasp of scraping metal, brushing against his ear like a wind passing over a rusted grave.

He raised his hand toward the mirror, slow and laborious, as if his arms were bound by chains corroded from years of stagnation. With immense effort, he tried to touch his face—not his real one, but the one in the reflection.

The distance between him and the mirror was no more than an inch when the unexpected happened.

The mask suddenly moved. It lunged at his finger like the edge of a blade, slicing through the air with lethal silence, as if intent on severing what little will he had left.

In a primal surge of instinct, every last shred of his resolve gathered within him. He clenched his fist and struck the mirror violently, forgetting the weight of his arm, ignoring the exhaustion that clung to him.

But… the blow rebounded with unexpected force, as if the mirror were not glass but a wall of flexible steel.

His body crumpled to the ground. He landed hard on his tailbone, pain reverberating up his spine like the tolling of a bell in a deserted temple.

He sat there, breath ragged, his features empty—no fear, no anger… just arid disbelief.

Eyes adrift in a sea of confusion, his usual expressiveness failed him entirely in the face of what he had witnessed.

He tried to rise, but his body refused. He froze in place, as though the earth beyond him no longer existed—or as if the chains that had bound his arms had now coiled around his entire body, rendering him completely immobile.

The only thing he could lift, with great difficulty, was his head—and when he did, he faced her… and how he wished he hadn't.

As the mirror's reflection defined him, it finally laid bare the agony tearing through his chest. Yet—she—did not shatter when the truth reached her. Instead, she fractured in the opposite direction, as though something within her had been discovered.

She split into shards, carrying that unmistakable summons, but with a smile far more horrifying than the mask.

It was the same smile he thought he had buried in the catacombs of his past, now etched onto his mirrored face. It twisted into a scorching laugh, its contemptuous gaze gleaming with a dark, mesmerizing allure… as if that version of him had finally achieved its purpose.

Then, suddenly, it vanished.

At the same moment, the world around him began to dissolve, as though the sky were raining shards of crystal over a still lake.

His eyes darted to the clock on the wall—12:00, it read. But he did not see numbers or time. Instead, he saw faint, fragile threads leading toward something indistinct… the frayed end of truth's tether.

He wanted to scream… to flee… but his body remained rigid.

His gaze shifted to the computer, desperate to cling to anything that could deny what he had seen. A cacophony of whispers grew louder, intertwined with the rattling of taut chains, their discordant sounds dragging massive iron weights across the floor.

He crawled forward, like a wounded soldier on a battlefield, driven by the desperate hope that this was merely one last nightmare… though deep down, he knew it was far worse. Still, he clung to denial—as if it could save him.

He reached the computer, praying that all of this was just a passing hallucination.

But the moment an image flickered onto the screen, the last remnants of his ability to deceive himself shattered.

There it was—staring back at him with contempt. The same grotesque mask, the same horrifying grin he had seen moments before, now even more vivid, even more monstrous.

At the same time, the whispers sharpened, morphing into a distorted, fragmented voice uttering unintelligible words, while the screech of chains grew more terrifying, weighed down by something impossibly heavy.

Then, words bled onto the screen—fresh, vivid, as though written in dripping blood:

In that moment, every thread of denial snapped.

He collapsed to his knees, stunned, struggling to stand, to reclaim some semblance of composure—but his body would not obey. He could not rise, could not move. The shackles he had dismissed as illusions were now undeniable reality.

The screeching stopped, replaced by murmurs too vague to decipher, yet carrying a tone that seeped into his core.

He summoned every ounce of strength to stand, but his legs betrayed him.

From the computer, an eerie sound emerged. Unknown words reverberated, their tone ominous, the static sending chills down his spine.

A cursed message unfolded:

"You who thought you had severed the threads of an inescapable fate."

The words pierced his soul like knives falling from a clear sky. The voice continued, indifferent:

"You deluded yourself into believing those thick cords could be cut with rusted shears—shears too dull to even tear a rotted page from your past."

He could not reply. Could not move. The voice grew more domineering:

"You, who chose a path beyond your reach, convinced that lies and bright performances could spare you from your destiny."

Each word eroded another piece of his world, draining the color from his existence, drowning him deeper.

His pupils darkened with misery as the voice continued, a black light extinguishing all that remained buried:

"What did you truly believe, in your heart of hearts? Did you think a mask of innocence and kindness could hide the vileness of your damned, demonic soul?"

He stood frozen, unable to refute the accusation. The truth gnawed at his self-denial. Darkness thickened in his vision as he whispered to himself:

"Who have I fooled? I am nothing but a monster longing to walk among men."

The voice returned, clearer now, laced with predatory mockery:

"You wear a mask that does not belong to you, parading it with false confidence, believing it could conceal your ugliness. A deranged creature who knows no mercy."

With every word, the world around him sank further into blackness. His vision darkened at the edges as he clung to the last shreds of hope, forcing out a defense:

"I... am not running... I am trying to be better... a person who does not regret his past."

A brief silence followed—not out of sympathy, but anticipation. Then the retort came, deliberate and venomous, underscored by a malicious laugh:

"You claim you do not run? That you feel no regret? How laughably hypocritical. You don't even know regret—you are a beast lying to himself and the world. But you were right about one thing: you do try to believe your own lies. You shout them at the top of your lungs, drowning out reality, what you refuse to acknowledge, what you fear to admit."

Then, coldly, it delivered a prophecy from which there was no escape:

"Did you think a vile demon, emerging from hell just because it glimpsed the light, could ever live among the pure? Ironically, you are worse than any demon by immeasurable lengths. At least the demon was born in hell... but you? You were once of the light, and yet you chose to fall. You severed yourself from purity to wallow in darkness, becoming a grotesque fiend... all because you wore a mask that was never yours. Did you think returning to the light would undo what you've done? Lies... You are ■■■."

He could not hear the final word—as if a veil had been drawn over his ears—but he didn't need to. The weight of the words alone was enough to obliterate the last flicker of light within him, scattering it like dust into an irreversible void.

With that extinguishing, his eyes lost the last traces of color, the last glimmer of life, leaving his face adrift in an emotionless emptiness... a void that mirrored his soul.

For a moment, he contemplated himself, trying to comprehend his state, before finally speaking—as if addressing the void rather than himself—in a voice barely above a whisper, the voice of a man no longer capable of thought, consumed by a flood of despair:

"Truly... how did I get here? When did I suddenly yearn to be a better person? Even though I know... I can never return to what I thought I once was."

Silence followed—but it was not merciful. It was the quiet of shock, the echo of words spoken unconsciously, words that should never have been uttered.

Even the space around him seemed to pause, as though it had overheard a confession that was never meant to be heard.

Then he continued, as if speaking directly to the darkened computer before him—or perhaps to the void surrounding him:

"Was the mask I stole stronger than me? Or is there still a missing piece to this riddle?"

No answer came... The silence persisted. The light had vanished entirely, and the room he was in had become an endless black expanse—no walls, no ceiling, no horizon.

There was nothing left… only him and the computer, two entities trapped in this desolate void.

But the computer did not respond. It gave no sign of life, as if it, too, had lost the ability to speak.

He did not stop. His voice grew sharper, like a blade being whetted against rough stone—a voice that wounded before it was understood:

"I tried... I tried to ignore every piece of evidence before me, even though I knew the truth from the very first glance. I was like a deaf man at a raucous party... No—it was more like blindfolding myself with thick cloth and convincing myself I could still see."

With his words came the sound of shattering—the sound of chains breaking, the ones that had bound him for so long, now fracturing under an overwhelming force.

Slowly, he stood. His body still felt heavy, as if the restraints remained even though he knew they had broken... but he rose regardless.

His eyes were empty now, but behind that emptiness was hunger—a terrifying hunger for answers.

He fixed his gaze on the computer, hollow yet ravenous, the look of one ready to devour the truth no matter how horrifying, no matter the cost.

Then he spoke, his voice quiet, yet carrying something unnerving, something capable of tearing through illusions:

"What took you so long to fall silent? Weakness? Or has your tongue finally been cut out after all that ceaseless prattle?"

A joyless smile twisted his lips as he let out a laugh he could no longer suppress:

"Or perhaps... you're exactly like me. You think yourself mighty, armed with grandiose words and nothing else. You try to drive me mad with these hallucinations, betting that I'll break under them, that I'll become easy prey for the voices whispering in the dark."

He turned slightly, eyeing the darkened screen with cold defiance before continuing, his voice growing clearer, heavier:

"Or maybe... you never intended to control me. Maybe you were only trying to break my mask, to destroy what was built over me, to force me to face the regret I've always ignored."

He smiled—but it was not a smile of relief, nor even of mockery.

It was the smile of a man who had finally realized the trap he was in, yet refused to be its prey.

"How long did it take you to succeed?"

Unexpectedly, he began to clap slowly, his smile widening, his hollow eyes gleaming as he jeered:

"Bravo, bravo... I applaud your efforts. Pity these chains bind us both—otherwise, I might have seen your face clearly."

A long silence followed, its end uncertain. Within it, muffled laughter lingered, like static behind thin glass.

Then, faint footsteps reached his ears—light, like a passing breeze, emerging from unseen corners, accompanied by a whisper so quiet he almost missed it, laced with barely contained amusement:

"Everything is in its rightful place."