The sun had dipped beneath the horizon, leaving the city veiled in a shroud of muted twilight. The streets were half-empty, their breath held between the hush of twilight and the chaos of night. Neon lights flickered, not with vibrance, but with uncertainty—like they knew something was about to happen.
Ania Malik walked alone.
Her long shawl clung to her frame, wrapping her in something between modesty and mourning. Her steps were slow, deliberate, weighed down by more than the grocery bags in her hand. Her heart was heavier. She had just returned from the airport. The echoes of Minhoo's soft smile and Hana's shy wave still danced behind her eyelids.
The apartment would be silent now.
Too silent.
She walked with her head down, lost in the mental reel of her children's last hug. She remembered Minhoo's promise to call every night, and Hana's tiny fingers brushing away a tear from her cheek.
And that was when it happened.
A screech shattered the calm.
A black van—sleek, fast, and unmarked—swerved toward the curb and halted with an aggressive hiss.
Ania's instincts screamed, but her body froze. Fear is funny like that—sometimes it roots you deeper than any anchor.
The side door flung open.
She turned to run, but arms—thick, rough, brutal—wrapped around her from behind. Her scream barely escaped before a soaked cloth pressed against her face. A sharp, chemical sting filled her nose and throat. Her limbs flailed, kicking and fighting, but her strength was draining fast.
The world blurred.
She heard snickering, someone speaking in whispers. One voice rough, another nasal, another deep and mocking. She caught only fragments: "Got her," "Boss'll be pleased," "What a pretty little prize."
And then everything vanished into black.
---
She woke to the sting of pain.
A wave of nausea hit her before the disorientation could even settle. Her head throbbed like it had been struck, and her mouth… it tasted like copper. Blood.
She was on concrete. Cold, cracked, and wet from a leak dripping rhythmically in the background.
Her wrists—tied.
Her ankles—bound too tightly.
Her face ached from a blow she couldn't even remember. Her mouth was gagged moments ago, but now they wanted her to speak. Or scream.
The room was barely lit by a flickering ceiling bulb. Shadows loomed large, creating monstrous outlines of her captors. Three of them. Menacing, dirty, and carrying the stench of smoke and sweat. They looked like they had crawled out of the gutters with knives in their hearts and demons in their eyes.
"Well, well, the widow has some spirit," the first man grinned as he crouched beside her, puffing a cigarette. His breath was sour, his skin leathery.
"She's prettier than I thought," said the second, younger, whose eyes scanned her like merchandise. "Too bad this ain't a social call."
The third one stood slightly apart. He was taller, leaner. His silence was heavier than their filth.
"You live like a saint," the second man continued, circling her, "but you ain't invisible. You've been watched for weeks."
Ania bit down on her trembling lip. Her body was aching, but her pride was intact. She locked eyes with the third man. "Cowards," she spat through blood. "Can't even fight a woman who's standing."
The silent one finally spoke. "We're not here to ask questions," he said coldly, flicking his cigarette to the floor. "We're here to leave scars."
The slap came without warning.
Her head snapped sideways from the force. Pain exploded across her cheek, and blood pooled at the corner of her mouth.
But she didn't scream.
She didn't beg.
And that only seemed to enrage them further.
Another slap.
Another blow.
Her world tilted between pain and darkness.
And then—just when her body felt like it would give out, just when the room's shadows felt like they would swallow her whole—
The lights went out.
Darkness, complete and suffocating.
"What the hell?" one of the thugs growled, fumbling for a flashlight.
Another cursed. "The fuse?"
But the third—the silent one—turned. "We're not alone."
The sound of glass shattering was almost poetic.
A high window cracked open in a rain of shards. Wind rushed in—sharp and cold.
A figure descended with the grace of death.
Dressed in all black. A tactical suit clung to a tall, muscular frame. His face—hidden behind a matte-black mask that covered everything except his eyes, which burned like coals in the dark.
He moved before any of them could react.
The first man lunged, but was lifted and flung into the steel table like a rag doll. The crash echoed like thunder.
The second pulled a blade and charged. A mistake. The masked figure ducked, twisted his wrist, and with one swift motion, disarmed him and drove a knee into his ribs. The thug dropped, wheezing.
The third man—the leader—had a gun.
But he never got to fire.
The masked figure kicked the weapon out of his hand with surgical precision and slammed him into the wall. The sound of cracking bone and drywall was sickening.
It was over in less than a minute.
Ania, dizzy and barely conscious, stared up at him.
The room was still. Only their groans filled the air.
He turned toward her.
Even in pain, even with blood blurring her vision, something stirred in her chest.
He moved quickly to her side. His gloved hands were gentle as they untied her wrists. She flinched from the contact at first, but then—
"Ania," he said. One word. Her name. But it carried more warmth than anything she'd heard in years.
Her eyes fluttered. She stared into his mask. Couldn't see the mouth, but the voice…
It echoed through her memories.
"I… know you…" she whispered, barely audible, her fingers trembling against his chest as he lifted her.
He didn't answer.
He didn't need to.
He picked her up—gently, reverently. As though she was glass he had broken once and was now desperate to piece back together.
---
Later That Night – Her Apartment
Moonlight spilled in through the window, casting soft, pale ribbons across the floor. The apartment was quiet—too quiet. The hum of the city outside barely breached its calm.
Ania lay on the sofa. Someone had cleaned her wounds. A warm compress rested gently on her ribcage. The dried blood on her cheek was gone. Her lips were moisturized with balm. A fresh blanket covered her, and the air smelled faintly of sandalwood and leather.
She stirred slowly.
Her eyes opened.
For a moment, she didn't recognize the setting. The night's chaos still pulsed in her veins. Then she saw her children's photos on the wall, the familiar clock ticking softly, and the flickering candle on the windowsill.
She was home.
Alive.
She tried to sit up, but pain snaked through her side. She winced, but forced herself upright.
And then… she saw it.
A single black glove. Left carelessly—or intentionally—on the table beside her.
She stared.
Her breath caught.
He had been here.
She looked around. The apartment was empty, silent. No sign of the man who had saved her.
But his scent lingered.
Not the pungent smoke of her captors—but clean fabric, faint cologne, the unmistakable presence of someone who carried shadows like skin.
Her fingers brushed the glove. It felt real. Warm.
And suddenly, her memory surged.
That voice.
The way he said her name.
She had heard it before. Not recently. Not directly. But in fragments—at night, when she thought she was dreaming. In the market, when a stranger greeted her and disappeared. Years ago, when she was younger, when that name—Devrathor—meant something more than just a memory.
Tears filled her eyes.
Was it really him?
Had he returned?
And if so—why didn't he stay?
Why didn't he show his face?
Had the man who once vanished from her life returned… only to become her ghostly savior?
Ania clutched the glove to her chest and leaned back into the cushion.
She wasn't sure what hurt more—her wounds, or the ache of recognition without certainty.
This night would remain etched in her soul.
Not just for the terror.
Not just for the rescue.
But for the whisper of something old rekindling—something long buried beneath grief and silence.
Someone had come for her.
Someone who had once meant everything.
Someone who now stood behind a mask… and a thousand memories.
And in that moment, surrounded by silence and shadows, Ania Malik whispered a name that had once made her heart race—and still did.
"Devrathor."
And the night listened.