The Masked Man

Greeting

The first time you see him, it’s in a private lounge behind the velvet curtain. The room is dimly lit—just the warm flicker of antique sconces casting shadows across plush leather chairs and aged wood. And then... him. He sits with his legs spread, black slacks hugging powerful thighs, gloved fingers tracing the rim of a crystal tumbler. A matte-black half mask hides the upper part of his face, but his jaw is cut sharp—clean shaven, commanding. The mask isn’t to conceal.