Page 8 of Whispers of Ruin

And, like a fairy tale’s cavalier on his black horse,heappears.

One second later, the guy is yanked away from me with a force that leaves me stunned. The next moments blur together. An imposing figure stands over the guy, his appearance obscured by his black hood and the flickering lights.

Without a word, he lands a punch so powerful that he sends the guy stumbling back on the floor. Another follows, and another, and another until I can’t follow the count anymore. The mass parts slightly, gasps rippling through the air, although no one dares to step in.

I stand frozen, a soft tear rolling down my cheek, my chest heaving as I watch the scene unfold. The man is controlled, precise, and terrifyingly calm as he delivers one final blow. The other guy lies on the floor in a pool of his own blood, almost lifeless. His nose is completely broken, and there is a tooth lying next to his disfigured face.

Around him, shattered glass from a fallen drink scatters across the floor, while the bar’s neon lights flash, casting shadows over the damp ground.

People gather around, some watching with curiosity, others indifferent, as if scenes like this are just part of the club’s usual atmosphere. The music still thumps loudly, almost drowning out the murmurs rising.

The badly beaten man slumps to the ground, groaning in total agony, and the stranger straightens, rolling his neck, finally turning toward me.

Our eyes lock for the first time.

His face is hidden behind a black leather mask, the soft light reflecting over its edges. Yet, his presence is absolutely overwhelming. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t move—just watches me, his heavy breaths the only sound I can hear.

There is something utterly magnetic about him, something dangerous. My pulse races, a caged bird in my chest. I feel trapped under his gaze, unable to move or look away, mesmerized by the unsettling mystery of the man before me.

And, just like that, he’s gone.

He disappears into the night as quickly as he appeared, leaving me standing there, breathless and trembling.

Who the hell was that?

It is as if he completely vanished, leaving behind only the memory of his presence: sharp, dominating, and absolutely terrifying. I stumble backward, my fingers digging into the corner of the bar for support, struggling to catch my breath. Zoey rushes to my side, her face pale even for her dark skin, her brown eyes wide.

“What the hell was that, Mira?” she whispers, shaking, barely audible over the chaos.

“I… I don’t know,” I stammer, still scanning all around, hoping—or maybe dreading—that I will catch another glimpse of him. “He just… appeared out of nowhere!”

Zoey’s hand wraps around my arm.

“Do you think he knew that guy? Or you? Why would he do that?”

“I don’t know, ok!” I say loudly as my stress stumbles dangerously close to its breaking point.

Something deep inside me feels like I know. Or at least, like I should. The intensity of his stare, the way he looked at me before disappearing—it was not random.

The room feels suffocating and I am about to scream, agonizing. A panic attack erupts, stripping away my ability to bring air into my lungs. I break down, tears flowing endlessly like a relentless stream on a stormy night.

“Let’s get you out of here, poor thing.”

Zoey pulls me into a warm embrace, pressing my head against her to shield me from the curious stares surrounding us. The warmth of her body offers a fleeting solace in the suffocating strain, and I cling to the familiarity of her scent, my fingers curling into the fabric of her shirt. Her steady, but quick heartbeat offers a rhythm to cling to. Even in her arms, I can’t put away the feeling that my mind is slipping out of control.

Unaware of where I am going, I follow Zoey, the oppressive music from the bar fading more and more with each step.

Ireturn home, barely conscious of my surroundings as I make my way to bed. I am not really sure how I got here, but I am so thankful Zoey was with me. Without bothering to change, I collapse into the sheets, exhaustion taking over, and I fall into a deep sleep almost instantly.

I wake up with the heavy feeling of a hangover, even though I did not drink a single drop last night. My head is pounding, my limbs weighty. As far as I know,Iwasn’t the one throwing down like some shirtless wrestling deity yesterday.

The atmosphere in my room is invading and stifling, as if time itself hesitates to intrude. For a moment, I stay still, staring at the ceiling, my mind tangled in the haze of sleep. But then—flashes.

The club. The fight. Thestranger.

My pulse rises and I feel the panic attack taking control of my body once again. I can still sense the ghost of hands touching my arms, the press of unfamiliar bodies, flesh meeting flesh—the sound of his knuckles colliding with that guy’s jaw.

It was not just a dream; it was a horrifying nightmare.

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