Emily followed me into the dimly lit room without hesitation, her steps quick and determined. The moment the door clicked shut behind us, she turned to face me, her eyes wide and searching. "Tell me where my husband is," she demanded, her voice trembling but firm.

"What happened to my dad? Where is he?" Her hands gripped the edges of her sleeves, as if bracing herself for an answer she wasn't sure she could handle.

I studied her for a moment—the raw fear in her eyes, the way her breath hitched as she waited. It struck me then: she had no idea what was happening outside these walls. She'd been kept in the dark, shielded from the chaos unfolding beyond the villa. The realization settled heavily in my chest. How much should I tell her? How much could she handle?

I took a slow breath, choosing my words carefully. "Emily," I said, my voice low, "are you sure you'd even recognize Mike if you saw him now?" The question hung between us, heavy with implication. Her expression faltered, confusion flickering across her face. She opened her mouth to respond, but no words came out. The silence stretched, thick with unspoken dread.

The distant hum of activity from the fortress pulsed through the walls like a living thing, a low, relentless reminder that the storm we'd been dreading was no longer on the horizon—it was here.

Emily stood frozen in the center of the room, her back to the door, her chest rising and falling in rapid, uneven breaths. The dim light cast sharp shadows across her face, highlighting the fear in her wide, unblinking eyes.

"What do you mean?" she repeated, her voice barely more than a whisper. "Stop playing games. Where is Mike? Where is my dad?" Her fingers dug into her arms, as if she could anchor herself to reality by sheer force. "I've been stuck in this villa for days, and no one will tell me anything. If you know something, say it."

I didn't answer right away. Instead, I let the silence stretch, watching as her panic grew, her breath coming faster. The air between us crackled with tension, the kind that precedes a revelation so shattering it changes everything.

When I finally spoke, my voice was calm, almost playful. "What if I told you," I said, tilting my head slightly, "that you've been talking to Mike this whole time?"

Emily's face paled. "That's not funny," she snapped, her voice shaking. "Mike is—" She stopped, her mind visibly racing. "Mike is missing. He's been gone for days. What kind of sick joke is this?"

I didn't flinch. "No joke, Emily." I reached into my coat pocket and pulled out the small, obsidian-black device—the MASK. Its surface shimmered faintly, as if alive, and Emily's eyes locked onto it, her body tensing. "What is that?" she breathed, but I didn't answer. Instead, I activated it.

The air in the room thickened as the transformation began—not with a crack or a scream, but with the quiet, sickening pop of bones realigning beneath my skin. My cheekbones sharpened, my jaw squared, my voice dropping into the familiar gravelly timbre that had whispered good morning into Emily's ear for seven years. The slight hunch in my shoulders, the way my left eyebrow quirked when I was amused, the faint scar above my right wrist from the time I'd sliced it open trying to impress her on our second date—every detail clicked into place like a puzzle completing itself.

Emily didn't scream. Not at first.

She simply stared, her breath suspended, her fingers digging into the fabric of her sweater as if it could anchor her to reality. Then, slowly, her hand crept up to her mouth, her knuckles whitening. "No," she exhaled, the word barely a sound, more like a wound opening. "No, no, no—" Her voice fractured, her body swaying as if the floor had turned to water beneath her.

I watched her unravel. I let her. There was a cruel poetry in it—the way her mind fought against what her eyes refused to deny.

"How—" Her voice broke. "How is this possible?" Tears spilled down her cheeks, hot and fast, her chest heaving. She stumbled back until her spine hit the wall, her fingers clawing at the paint as if she could tear her way out of the moment. "What did you do to him?" The question was a blade, and she drove it between us. "Did you—" Her throat convulsed. "Did you kill him?"

I didn't move. I let the silence stretch, let it coil around her like a noose.

She exploded. "TELL ME!" Her voice shattered the stillness, raw and desperate. She lunged forward, her hands balling into fists at her sides, her entire body vibrating with fury and grief. "Tell me the truth, you bastard!"

I took a step closer. Just one. Enough to make her flinch. My voice was low, almost tender—a lover's murmur, a funeral dirge. "Emily," I said, "listen to me." I reached out, not to touch her, but to let her see the way the light caught the ring on my finger—the one he had proposed with. "There is no other Mike. There never was."

Her breath hitched. "No." A sob tore through her. "No, I would know. I would feel it if he were—" She gestured wildly at me, her voice cracking like ice underfoot. "My husband was clumsy. He burned toast. He snored. He—" Her voice dissolved into a choked sound, something between a laugh and a scream. "He loved me."

The words hung between us, heavy as a corpse.

A laugh clawed its way out of her, sharp and jagged, the sound of something breaking. "Oh God." Her hands flew to her hair, yanking at the roots as if she could rip the truth from her own skull.

"It was you. That day in the kitchen—when I asked you why you suddenly had abs—" Her voice cracked. "You laughed. You told me you'd finally gotten serious about the gym.'" Another sob. "And I believed you."

I tilted my head, studying her. "You wanted to believe me."

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