Human beings are profoundly complex creatures, like layers stacked upon one another, each hiding secrets beneath the surface. In what way, you might ask? The answer is simple, yet extraordinary: in every aspect.
Our biological complexity is a masterpiece. Within our bodies, organs work in perfect harmony, like musicians in an orchestra directed by an invisible symphony. The heart beats tirelessly, pumping blood that nourishes every corner of our being. The lungs inhale and exhale, delivering oxygen to the body, while the kidneys purify what sustains us. Each organ performs its role flawlessly, all to maintain the miracle we call life. Imagine, for a moment, asking a human to build something like this from scratch. It would take millennia to create anything remotely similar—if they didn't give up first. Such perfection has led many to the idea of a creator, a superior being who designed this intricate system with purpose and intent.
However, as intricate as our biology is, it pales in comparison to the true enigma of our existence: human psychology. Our minds, with their twists and secrets, are an impenetrable labyrinth. Think about it: you don't behave the same way with your mother as you do with your friends, nor the same way with your friends as with your boss. Our behavior not only changes depending on who we're talking to but also on the environment, the place, and the precise moment. It's an adaptive skill that simpler animals lack, a gift I like to call the mask.
The mask is both our shield and our defining trait. It allows us to hide our true nature, protect ourselves, and play the role that suits us in every situation. It's an evolved defense mechanism, designed to conceal who we really are, because exposing that vulnerability could bring disastrous consequences. But the mask isn't just a shield—it's also a weapon. And like any weapon, it's as deadly as the skill of the one wielding it. There are those who know how to use it with astonishing expertise, shaping the world's perception to their will, twisting others' realities to fit their desires. These are the ones who truly govern the fate of others.
And I, Shade, consider myself one of them.
The mask has served me well. In my day-to-day life, I'm just another face in the crowd: polite, kind, the neighbor who smiles as he passes and gives up his seat on the bus. No one would ever suspect my darkest thoughts, the truths hidden behind my careful words and courteous gestures. But beneath this façade lies a reality few could ever imagine.
My mask is not just a tool; it's the key to my freedom and power. It's the veil that separates the world from the true darkness I carry within. And in this deadly game of light and shadows, only the most cunning survive.
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Before I tell you my story, allow me to share a bit about my life, because every story has an origin, and mine begins with a childhood that, at least on the surface, seemed fairly normal. I remember growing up in an ordinary environment, surrounded by friends and innocent games like any other child. However, there was something that set me apart, something that quickly caught the attention of those who notice oddities in others: my obsession with order and cleanliness. It was almost a compulsion, an insatiable need to keep everything in its place, to ensure the world around me remained immaculate.
My parents didn't seem to mind in the slightest. In fact, they were delighted. "You're a special child," they would say, smiling with satisfaction whenever my room was spotless or when the silverware gleamed after I meticulously cleaned it. When someone called me "weird" or mocked my obsession with order, my parents would advise me to ignore it. But the truth is, those taunts were rare and infrequent. I could exaggerate and tell a tragic tale, but the reality is, I wasn't subjected to much cruelty. Perhaps it was because, in the eyes of others, I was considered an attractive child, a "natural beauty." People would say I had the potential to become a model someday, and while I never cared much about those comments, I learned to take advantage of them.
Appearance, no matter how much some insist it doesn't matter, holds tremendous weight in this world. If you're attractive, doors open more easily, and people tend to be more lenient, more willing to be persuaded. From a young age, my looks provided unexpected advantages: teachers seemed kinder to me, and classmates, even those who saw me as a rival, often ended up wanting to be on my side. And so, almost naturally, I rose through the social hierarchy at school. My good grades, impeccable behavior, and that face people couldn't help but admire meant that popularity followed me from my earliest years to the final days of my school life.
Sometimes, being popular was pleasant, I admit. There was always someone willing to help me, to carry my books, to volunteer for anything I needed. But, of course, everything comes at a price. Deep down, that willingness was nothing more than a selfish game, an attempt to gain something in return: favors, prestige, a little of the glow they believed radiated from someone like me. It was a clumsy and obvious way of using their own masks. After all, popularity, far from being a gift, was more of a burden. Enduring the company of social parasites, those hangers-on who tried to take advantage of any relationship with me, was exhausting.
But in the midst of this social theater, I met the person who is now my wife. She was an enigma to many, the ideal of beauty everyone coveted: a girl with shining blonde hair and striking blue eyes that seemed to hold untold secrets. She was the uncrowned queen of the school, the girl who drew every gaze and made boys turn their heads as she passed. Yet to me, she was just another person trapped in the game of appearances. I wasn't particularly drawn to her; I didn't feel that overwhelming attraction everyone else seemed to experience when they looked at her.
However, fate—or perhaps the pressure of our environment—played its hand. Rumors began to spread, fueled by our interactions as classmates. "The perfect couple," some whispered, even before there was anything between us. People seem incapable of minding their own business, always eager to create narratives and drama where none exist. Somehow, that pressure pushed us together, resulting in a relationship that, while I didn't desire, was perfect in appearances.
After graduating from university, finding a job wasn't particularly difficult, although the beginning was far from ideal. I started working at a fast-food joint, a dirty and greasy place where the air reeked of burnt oil, and the walls were smudged with greasy fingerprints. It was a chaotic environment, filled with shouting, impatient customers, and the constant sizzling sound of frying oil. But, as always, I managed to adapt. It was a place others detested, but I saw an opportunity.
While working at that restaurant, I discovered something crucial: human connections, even in the most mundane places, can open unexpected doors. Gradually, I earned the trust of a few regular customers. Many of them came in every week, always seeking a bit of courtesy, a friendly smile that could make their day slightly more bearable. I was all of that and more: the helpful employee, the attentive young man with an impeccable smile. I knew exactly when to ask about someone's day and when to simply nod in understanding.
It was during this time that I met the man who would change the course of my life. He was a middle-aged man with a stocky build and a perpetually sweaty face, the kind of person who always seemed uncomfortable in his own skin. He was about five foot three, with a stomach that almost comically protruded over his belt. But beyond his physical appearance, what mattered was the way he looked at me—with a mix of admiration and envy. He noticed my communication skills, my ability to talk and persuade, and offered me something that sounded like a golden opportunity: a position as a secretary for an important political figure in my country.
It was at that moment that I saw my chance. In this sweaty, obese man, I didn't see a person; I saw a vehicle, a tool to climb higher, another stepping stone toward what I was looking for. Gratitude didn't drive me—ambition did, the desire to leave that grimy restaurant and play in a higher league. And so, thanks to this simple twist of fate, I landed the job I have today.
My boss's name is Raven. He is an attractive man, almost imposing, always dressed in impeccably tailored suits that emphasize every line of his athletic figure. He has an air of mystery, that intangible quality that makes people admire and distrust him at the same time—something essential in the political world. He is charismatic, yet calculating. His smile has the ability to put people at ease, but I know the truth: you can never trust a politician. No one handles masks better than they do. They move like masters in a game of shadows and appearances, and Raven is no exception.
Thanks to this job, I've managed to climb quickly in material terms. I now own a decent, modern, centrally located house—something unattainable for many in a city where housing prices are exorbitant. It's an elegant home, full of clean lines and order that keeps my obsession in check. Everything is in its place, perfectly arranged, as if it were a reflection of the façade I present to the world.
From the outside, one might say my life is almost perfect: an enviable home, a job that lets me mingle with powerful figures, and an attractive wife that many would describe as "ideal." But appearances can be deceiving. With each passing day, I notice how living with my wife becomes more difficult, more irritating. Her little habits, which I once tolerated, now feel like constant torture. The irritation grows within me, and sometimes I think the mask I wear with her is the hardest one to maintain.
But there's one aspect of my life that I still fully enjoy. At night, I have my little projects, my secret escapades. Tonight, for example, I've made plans with a young woman I met a few days ago. We'll meet at a small, secluded park, one of those forgotten places. We'll take a walk, and I'll be the charming man I always am—the gentleman who inspires trust. But then, I'll take her to a house I own on the outskirts of the city.
It's a special place, my private sanctuary, where the real magic happens.
There, behind closed doors, I'll put on my best mask, the one I've perfected with every victim. This will be my fourth murder, and I know I'll savor every second, every meticulously planned detail. The thrill courses through my veins like a sweet poison. The mask I'll wear is not just a tool; it's an extension of myself, of the darkness I've embraced as my true identity. This version of me is the only one that truly doesn't wear a mask.