🎠Chapter 25 – Behind the Mask
"Get up."
Rey woke to the feeling of his blanket being ripped away. The chill bit into his skin, dragging him unwillingly out of sleep.
"Luca—what the hell?" he croaked, squinting up.
His brother loomed over him, already dressed immaculately in a black suit, mask tucked into his breast pocket, eyes sharp as ever.
"Up. Now. You're coming with me."
Rey groaned, burying his face in his pillow. "No mafia meetings, Luca. I'm not in the mood to hear about laundering or kneecaps."
"This isn't that," Luca said. "It's a masked exhibition. But think of it as a meeting. Powerful people gather there. As a Mysterio, you should understand how these things work."
"I'm not a Mysterio like that," Rey muttered.
Luca ignored him. "Get dressed. Wear black. No paint-stained hoodies."
Twenty minutes later, Rey stood beside his brother at the grand marble steps of the gallery.
He felt awkward in the tailored black suit that Luca had practically thrown at him. The crisp jacket hugged his broad shoulders, accentuating his lean frame. His shirt was unbuttoned at the top, revealing a glimpse of his collarbones and the delicate black tattoo curling there — thin brushstroke-like lines forming an abstract symbol. His mask was simple matte black, accentuating the sharp cut of his jawline and high cheekbones. A few strands of his thick, wavy dark brown hair fell into his eyes, which were shadowed with exhaustion but still burned with quiet intensity.
He tugged at the mask's strap, feeling exposed despite being covered.
Inside, the gallery pulsed with low music and murmured conversation. Crystal chandeliers cast soft light over rows of paintings. Waiters moved silently with trays of champagne flutes. The scent of expensive perfume and polished marble filled the air.
Rey drifted away from Luca, drawn like a magnet to a large painting displayed under a spotlight.
His own painting.
He hadn't seen it in years. An abstract orchard, painted in furious reds and bruised purples, with streaks of silver slicing through the shadows. Looking at it now felt like staring at his own veins laid bare on canvas. His chest tightened painfully.
"Beautiful, isn't it?"
The voice snapped him out of his trance. He turned.
Beside him stood a woman in a deep navy gown that draped elegantly over her shoulders, a black lace mask covering half her face. Midnight hair curled down her back. Her eyes — dark, intelligent, calm — flicked between him and the painting.
She tilted her head slightly, studying the artwork with a faint smile.
"The painter… I've always wondered what kind of person they were," she said softly. "This piece feels… lonely. But also alive. Like whoever made it poured everything into it, even the parts of themselves they didn't want anyone to see."
Rey's jaw tightened, his sculpted features shadowed under the gallery lights. His fingers itched to paint again just hearing her words.
"Yeah," he said quietly, voice almost hoarse. "He… they probably did."
She turned to him, brows arching at his slip, but her smile only deepened. "You speak as if you know them."
Rey shrugged, glancing away. The movement made a lock of his wavy hair brush across his temple. "Maybe I do."
She laughed softly, the sound like a small bell echoing through the quiet hum of the gallery. "Whoever they are… I hope they're okay."
Then she turned and walked away into the swirling mass of masks and silks, leaving him standing frozen, staring at her retreating figure.
He let out a breath he didn't realise he'd been holding.
Behind him, Luca's voice cut through the haze.
"Who was that?"
Rey blinked. "No one."
But his chest felt warm in a way he hadn't felt in a long time.
And for the first time in weeks, he wondered:
Maybe there's more to live for than just survival.