OBSCURA

She didn't speak much. Didn't smile. Didn't explain.

The mask covered half her face, black, minimal, matte. No glitter, no feathers. Just enough to make people wonder, not enough to make them ask.

Layla stood near the back of the gallery, her posture straight, her presence quiet. The event was loud: laughter, glasses clinking, someone describing art in dramatic detail. She tuned it out. This wasn't about the art.

She was watching. Listening. Waiting.

A man walked up behind her, his steps too controlled to be casual.

"You're either lost," he said, "or looking for something."

She didn't turn. "Maybe both."

He moved beside her. Tall. Dark suit. Confident, but not loud about it.

"Zayden Cross," he offered, like it mattered.

She finally looked at him. "Layla."

"No last name?"

"No need."

His eyes dropped to her mask. "You wear that to stand out or to stay hidden?"

She didn't answer. That was the answer.

"Interesting choice," he said.

"I don't like being recognised."

"By people here?"

"By anyone."

He tilted his head. "You always speak in half-truths?"

"I don't have much to say."

He didn't walk away.

"You came alone?" he asked.

She didn't answer.

His gaze dropped to the mask. "You wear it well."

"It's not for show."

"No," he said. "It's a shield."

She said nothing.

The silence between them held.

Then she moved, disappearing into the crowd before he could say more.

Outside, the city air was cold. She kept the mask on.

The building lights stretched across the pavement as she walked toward the street. A car passed. She ignored it. She had no intention of being followed. She never left patterns. No rideshares. No credit trail.

Her phone buzzed when she reached her apartment.

Unknown number: You walk like you've been watched before. – Z

She didn't respond.

She turned her phone off.

Zayden sat in the back of his car, reading her file.

There wasn't much.

No last name. No public records. No media footprint. She'd entered the event with an invite tied to a defunct art foundation. Fake credentials. A traceable IP address rerouted through three countries.

He closed the file.

Interesting.

Very few people still knew how to stay hidden.

She sipped her drink. "You always ask questions no one answers?"

He smiled, but it didn't quite reach his eyes.

"Enjoy the evening, Layla."

"I intend to."

He left. Or appeared to. She didn't turn around.

Back home, the silence was familiar.

Layla placed the mask on the table like it was fragile, though it wasn't. Her apartment was clean, cold, and efficient. No photos. No clutter. A single desk in the corner, stacked with notebooks and marked-up newspaper clippings.

She sat.

Checked her phone.

A message lit up the screen.

Unknown number:

You don't belong at events like that. But you stood there like you owned it.

– Z

She locked the phone.

No reply.

Zayden sat in the back seat of a black SUV, phone in one hand, whiskey in the other.

"She's not on the guest list," his assistant said from the front.

"No record?"

"None."

"She used the name Layla. Nothing more."

"Want me to dig?"

He looked out the window. The street lights moved past like slow flashes of warning.

"Yes," he said. "Quietly."

He wasn't used to not knowing. Especially not when someone looked him in the eye and didn't flinch.

The next day, Layla was at work early.

The next morning, Layla arrived early to work. The museum was quiet. She preferred it that way. Her job was archival-handling records, updating digital catalogues. It kept her in the back rooms, off the main floors, unseen.

At 11:12 a.m., her phone vibrated.

Unknown number: You don't like being looked at. But you were watching everyone else.

She ignored it.

Five minutes later, the door opened.

Zayden stepped inside.

He didn't belong there. The museum didn't allow private guests without clearance.

She didn't ask how he got past security.

"You followed me," she said flatly.

"I looked," he replied. "That's different."

"You're wasting your time."

"You think I'm here for conversation?"

She turned back to her desk. "What are you here for?"

"To find out why someone like you needs a mask."

She didn't answer.

"I don't care about theatrics," he said. "I care about intention."

"And you think I'm hiding something."

"You're not hiding. You're choosing not to be seen."

She kept her eyes on the screen in front of her.

"You don't want people to know you," he said.

"No."

"That's a dangerous habit."

"So is needing to know everything."

He didn't smile, but his eyes narrowed slightly. Amused. Curious.

"I'll see you again," he said.

She didn't respond.

He left.

That night, Layla sat on the floor beside her bed. The mask lay next to her.

Her phone remained off.

Her apartment was quiet, and she liked it that way.

But she knew silence didn't last forever.

She had seen that look before in someone else. A long time ago.

Curiosity. Possession.

The kind of interest that didn't just fade.

Zayden Cross wasn't going to disappear.

She wasn't sure if she wanted him to.

She kept a low profile as an archival assistant in a city museum. Small department. Long hours. Quiet space. No one asked questions. Perfect.

She wore a scarf, no makeup, and loose clothes. Nothing that drew attention.

But that didn't stop him.

He walked in like he belonged. No appointment. No hesitation.

She didn't look surprised.

"I should've expected this," she said.

"You didn't answer."

"I didn't invite you."

Zayden glanced at the quiet room. "Nice place to hide."

"It's not hiding. It's working."

He stepped closer. Not too close.

"You're different here."

"So are you."

They stood there, measuring each other in silence.

Then she turned. "You want something."

He didn't deny it.

"Answers," he said.

"There's nothing to answer."

"You wore a mask at a gallery full of cameras. You weren't trying to disappear."

"I wasn't trying to be found either."

Zayden studied her. She was composed, flat-toned, and difficult to read. That wasn't common.

He liked the uncommon.

"I don't know who you are," he said.

"And you won't."

"Is that a challenge?"

"It's a fact."

He didn't press. Just nodded and walked away.

Later that night, her phone buzzed again.

Z:

You hide well. I've seen better. But not many.

She stared at the message for a long time. Deleted it. Didn't respond.

The mask was still on the table. She picked it up and turned it over in her hands.

People often assumed she wore it to conceal something. Maybe they were right.

But it wasn't her face she was protecting.