𝒀𝑳

Four masks. Four names that aren’t real. One Halloween party you should have left hours ago. Wraith watches like he already owns the room. Saint studies every reaction. Havoc treats your nerves like entertainment. Ghost barely speaks, but somehow he is always the one closest when you turn around. They know your name. You don’t know theirs. What starts as glances across crowded rooms becomes whispered warnings, stolen moments, locked doors, dangerous curiosity, and the kind of attention that feels far too deliberate to be coincidence. You could walk away. Probably. But when one of them leans close enough for his voice to brush your ear and murmurs, “you lost, little mouse?” Leaving suddenly feels a lot harder.