Morning light seeped through the heavy curtains, faint streaks painting the walls of Alex's cramped apartment. The air inside was heavy, unmoving—a stale cocktail of leftover takeout, unwashed clothes, and the faint tang of mildew that had seeped into every fibre of the furniture.

The table, its surface scratched and weathered, groaned under the weight of empty boxes and greasy wrappers. A half-read novel sat among the mess, its spine cracked, pages bent from careless handling.

Alex leaned back in his chair, the wood creaking under his weight. His eyes, bloodshot from sleepless nights, skimmed the open pages, but the words blurred together into meaninglessness.

"Tsk." He clicked his tongue, snapping the book shut with more force than necessary. "Same damn trope, every time. Do these authors think we're fools?"

With a flick of his wrist, the book slid from his hand and landed with a dull thud on the floor, joining the clutter of crumpled papers, discarded wrappers, and an old shirt he hadn't touched in weeks.

He leaned back, letting his gaze settle on the ceiling, the faint crack above the fan pulling his thoughts elsewhere. How long had it been since anything changed? Days, months, years—it all blurred together. Wake up, read, eat, sleep. His life was a treadmill of monotony, the world outside moving forward as he remained frozen, drowning in his own inertia.

His hand instinctively brushed the scar that ran across his back, the faint ridges a silent reminder of a past he couldn't outrun. It wasn't a pain anymore; it was a weight, one that dragged him down every time he thought of what he had been and what he had lost.

The distant sound of shouting snapped him from his thoughts. Alex's jaw tightened as he stood, stretching his stiff limbs. His black mask rested on a hook by the door, its cold surface catching the dim light.

He picked it up, letting the smooth material rest in his hand for a moment. It wasn't just a mask—it was armour, a wall that separated the man he had become from the man he used to be.

Sliding it into his jacket pocket, Alex grabbed his phone from the cluttered table. His thumb hovered over the screen for a moment before dialling a familiar number.

The line clicked, and a voice came through, rough and indifferent. "Yeah?"

"Nothing today," Alex said curtly. "You can handle it."

A grunt of acknowledgment was the only response before the call ended.

"Bastard," Alex muttered under his breath. Ian's coldness gnawed at him, but complaining wouldn't change anything.

He stepped into the hallway, his nose wrinkling at the familiar stench of spilt beer and cigarette smoke. The dim, flickering bulb overhead cast uneven shadows on the cracked walls, the vandalism and graffiti only adding to the bleakness of the building.

His thoughts turned bitter as he made his way toward the stairs. How had he ended up here? This place was a reflection of everything wrong in his life—broken, neglected, and stagnant.

But a sharp smell halted him in his tracks.

Gunpowder.

Alex's lips curled into a grimace as he followed the scent, his steps deliberate on the creaking wood. It led him to the apartment next door, where muffled voices and the occasional metallic clink hinted at trouble.

His fist slammed against the door. "Hey! Open up!"

There was a pause, followed by hurried shuffling on the other side. The door creaked open a fraction, revealing a boy no older than sixteen. His face was pale, beads of sweat glistening on his forehead. Behind him, the faint glow of an unshaded bulb illuminated a room in disarray—shell casings on the floor, a dismantled gun on the table.

Alex's eyes narrowed, his voice low and dangerous. "Do you want to die, kid?"

The boy stammered, his hands fumbling to hide the weapon. "S-sorry... it won't happen again."

"It better not," Alex growled, leaning closer. The shadow of his hood made his features unreadable, but the quiet threat in his voice was unmistakable. "Next time I smell gunpowder, you'll find out how professionals deal with idiots."

The boy nodded quickly, his throat bobbing as he swallowed his fear. Alex stepped back, turning away without another word. He didn't need to stay—the fear in the boy's eyes told him enough.

As Alex descended the stairs, his thoughts drifted back to his own youth. Reckless fights, heated arguments, scars left behind—literal and otherwise. He let out a hollow laugh, his voice echoing faintly in the empty stairwell.

Some things never change.

But that didn't mean they couldn't. If people didn't try to change, the only things waiting for them were destruction, misery, and demise. It was something Alex hoped no one would ever truly want—or suffer through.

The streets outside were as chaotic as ever, the city buzzing with impatient honks and hurried footsteps. Alex raised a hand, signaling for a cab. 

"Westbridge Street," he said as he climbed in. "The orphanage next to the coffee shop." 

The driver glanced at him through the rearview mirror. "That'll be twenty-five." 

Alex arched a brow. "Twenty-five? It's a ten-minute drive." 

The driver shrugged. "Inflation, boss." 

Alex rolled his eyes, tossing a fifty onto the dashboard. "Just get me there. And fast." 

The cab jerked forward, weaving through the cluttered streets. Alex leaned back, adjusting the hood of his jacket. His fingers brushed the edge of the mask in his pocket, its cold surface grounding him. 

As they neared the orphanage, the bustling cityscape gave way to quieter streets lined with trees. The familiar sight of the old building came into view—its brick walls worn but sturdy, the sign above the door slightly faded. 

The cab pulled to a stop, and Alex stepped out, slipping the mask deeper into his pocket. 

"Keep the change," he muttered, walking away without waiting for a reply. The orphanage was just as he remembered it—bright, cheerful, and full of life. Alex barely stepped through the gates when a chorus of voices rang out.

"Uncle Alex!"

A small horde of children rushed toward him, their laughter like a balm to his frayed nerves. Alex crouched down as they swarmed him, their tiny hands tugging at his jacket and shirt.

"Did you bring snacks?" a boy asked, his wide eyes brimming with hope.

"Or toys?" a girl added, clinging to his arm.

Alex chuckled, ruffling her hair. "No snacks, no toys. Just me."

The groans of disappointment were short-lived as another voice called out, "Uncle Alex! Look what I drew!"

A girl no older than eight shoved a crayon drawing into his hands. It was a mess of colours and lines, but he could make out a figure with a big smile—him, surrounded by the kids.

"Not bad," Alex said, grinning. "But you made me too handsome."

The children erupted into giggles, and for a moment, Alex felt lighter, as though the weight of the world had lifted off his shoulders.

Margaret, the orphanage's headmistress, watched from the porch, a soft smile on her face. "They adore you, you know."

Alex glanced at her, his expression softening. "Yeah, well... they're the only ones who do."

"You could stay," she offered, her voice gentle. "These kids need someone like you."

Alex shook his head, slipping his hands into his pockets. "I don't think someone like me belongs here, Margaret. But I'll always come back."

She sighed but didn't argue. "Just don't forget what you mean to them, Alex."

As Alex walked back to his apartment that evening, his phone buzzed. Pulling it out, he saw a blocked number.

He answered on the third ring. "Yeah?"

"You're late, Alex," a gravelly voice said.

"I told Ian to handle it," he replied, his tone sharp.

"Ian's not you. The client requested you."

Alex's jaw tightened. "Fine. Send me the details."

The line went dead.

Alex stared at the phone, then at the mask resting in his pocket.

"Back to work," he muttered.

Sliding the mask over his face, Alex stepped into the night. The warmth of the orphanage was already a distant memory, replaced by the cold steel of who he needed to be.

And with that, the man behind the mask disappeared.