Page 41 of My Masked Savior
Fluorescent panels flicker to life overhead, flooding the room with clinical white light. The space looks exactly like what it is—a medical examination room stripped of any warmth or pretense. The stainless-steel table dominates the center, complete with drainage channels and restraint points at each corner. Cabinets line one wall, their glass fronts revealing instruments arranged with surgical precision. Scalpels. Bone saws. Syringes. IV stands wait in the corner like skeletal sentries.
An EKG machine sits beside the table, its screen dark. The blood pressure cuff hangs from a hook. Intubation equipment rests on a rolling tray.
Everything is spotless. Sterile. Professional.
I cross to the table and dump Marco onto it. His body hits the metal with a dull thud, limbs sprawling, and then I fasten his limbs down to the table with the restraints.
“What the hell are you doing?”
Morgan’s voice cuts through the silence, sharp and rising. I turn to face her.
She stands just inside the doorway, one hand gripping the frame so tight her knuckles have gone white. Her eyes dart around the room, taking in every detail—the restraints, the instruments, the drain in the floor beneath the table.
Recognition dawns across her features. Not understanding, not yet. But recognition that this room has a purpose, and that purpose isn’t all good.
“Damien.” My name comes out strangled. “What the hell is this?”
I pull latex gloves from a box mounted on the wall,snapping them on one at a time. The sound echoes in the small space.
“Protection,” I say simply. “For you.”
“What the fuck, Damien?” Morgan backs away, her eyes wide with horror. “What is this place? Who are you?”
I continue preparing my instruments, arranging them in the order I’ll need them. My movements are automatic, practiced. I’ve done this dozens of times—either saving the boys when injured, or ending scumbag abusers.
“Look at me!” she demands, voice cracking.
I turn to face her, still holding a scalpel. “This is who I am, Morgan. This is what I do.”
She shakes her head, hand reaching behind her for the door handle. “You’re going to kill him.”
It’s not a question. Smart girl.
“Yes.”
Her breath comes in short gasps. I can see her mind working, processing. “How many... how many others have there been?”
“Twenty-seven.” I set the scalpel down. “All of them were abusers. Men who beat their wives, their girlfriends. Men who hurt children. I find them through my work—the EMT calls, the hospital visits. The ones the system fails to punish.”
“You can’t just—” she starts.
“I can. I do.” I gesture to Marco’s unconscious form. “Do you know how many women he’s put in the hospital? Six that I could confirm. One died. And the system did nothing. He walked away every time.”
Morgan flinches, but doesn’t look away.
“I see them at their worst moments. The women with broken jaws claiming they ‘fell.’ The children with cigarette burns that their parents say were ‘accidents.’” Myvoice remains calm, clinical. “I’m trained to save lives. But some lives can only be saved if I rid the world of their abusers.”
I step toward her, careful to move slowly. “What I do in this room—it protects people who can’t protect themselves. People like you, Morgan.”
Her eyes flick to Marco, then back to me. “You’re a killer.”
“I’m a protector. I remove threats.” I hold her gaze. “The world is full of monsters wearing human faces. I simply... unmake them.”
“And what gives you the right to decide?” Her voice trembles, but there’s steel underneath.
“Someone has to.” I spread my hands. “The system won’t. The courts won’t. So I do.”
Marco’s eyelids flutter. A groan escapes his throat as consciousness returns.
