Chapter 1: The Mask once Shattered

  Rule #34: Fish in a Birdcage

  They say the night you die is the one you remember most clearly.

  That’s a lie.

  I don’t remember the blood. Or the screaming. Or the look on her face when she tore my soul out and called it a gift. What I remember is the silence afterward. It was the kind that wraps around you like a noose and waits for you to kick.

  I’ve worn a lot of masks since then. Played the game. Smiled for the court and danced in their little spotlight. But every now and then, when the city goes quiet and the shadows start whispering again, I hear the part of me I buried still screaming to be let out.

  This is the story of how I died.

  June 15th, 2005 — 7:15 AM, Boston, Massachusetts

  My eyes shot open as the alarm screamed beside me. I gasped like I’d surfaced from underwater and scrambled out of bed. I was halfway down the stairs, still buttoning my pants, as I caught the scent of eggs wafting from the kitchen.

  Mom was hunched over the stove. Her hair was streaked with gray, and the years had bent her a little, but she still looked strong—too strong for someone battling what she was. Still, I saw through the front. I knew how she was really feeling.

  She gave me her best smile as I fumbled with my tie.

  “Oh! Mijo! You’re just in time for breakfast.”

  I struggled with the knot a bit longer before she sighed and came over to help.

  “I’m sorry, mamá,” I muttered. “I’m already late. I can’t stay for the eggs and bacon. I’ve gotta get to the clinic early, jump on this case load. And I’ve got a shift at the pub tonight, too. I’ll be back late. Lo siento, mamá. Te amo.”

  She finished tying my tie. I grabbed the nearest mug of black coffee, didn’t matter whose it was, and downed it in one go before bolting for the door. She shouted something after me in Spanish I didn’t quite catch, but I played it safe. I jogged back, gave her a firm but gentle hug, and then ran to catch my bus.

  I’d spent the last two years grinding through BU Law’s accelerated program. Now it was my final semester. I was working pro bono at a downtown law clinic, turning in assignments on time and doing everything right, or at least trying to. With any luck, I’d be a real lawyer soon. Maybe then I could start pulling in enough money to help with Mom’s treatments.

  She’d been strong these past months. Brave. But I could feel the weight of the bills even when she smiled. She wasn’t nearly as good at hiding the overdue notices as she thought.

  When I got off the bus, I made my way into the clinic, gave the receptionist a nod, and dropped into the communal office. The work was exhausting. Digging through cases, chasing precedents, begging more experienced lawyers for advice. Most of what I handled were low-level drug charges, petty theft, the occasional B&E. But today? Today was special.

  Today, I had a client who was absolutely maddening. Not because the case was difficult, but because it wasn’t. In fact this would be the easiest case of my career. If only I was the prosecution instead of the defense. The vandalism was on video, plain as day. The DA wasn’t even pushing for jail time. Just wanted her to take the deal: plead guilty, do some community service, pay a fine. Simple.

  But no. She insisted it wasn’t her in the video. Wanted to fight it. In court.

  I spent the better part of an hour on the phone, practically begging her to take the deal. Pleading logic. Reason. Risk. Nothing worked. I was mid-sentence when the pub shift started. I didn’t even have time to celebrate my earlier courtroom win, getting a teen off on false shoplifting charges after I proved the store’s cameras weren’t just fake deterrents, but actually operational. She drove me crazy enough to where I had to take my work… to work.

  The pub was slow that night. Rare, but not unwelcome given the monumental undertaking I had ahead of me. I pulled out my case files during the lull, trying to figure out how to get through to the stubborn vandal.

  Then the door opened.

  My manager waved me off, offering to take the newcomer. I barely glanced up, until I noticed her. Pale skin. Shaved side of her head. Black lipstick. Leather tank top clinging like it was painted on. She smiled when she caught me looking.

  “My type,” I thought, immediately regretting how easily I fell into the cliché.

  I turned back to my call and shifted tactics.

  “Look,” I said into the phone, my voice sharp. “I’m gonna shoot straight with you. It’s you in the video. You know it. I know it. You got caught. That’s embarrassing. Community service sucks. It’s supposed to suck. That’s why it’s a punishment.”

  I paced behind the bar, glancing toward the woman as she sat in the corner booth with a cup of tea. We serve tea? My frustration was getting the better of me. Not the most professional thing but id been under alot of stress lately and its not like she was paying me for this.

  “But here’s the thing. You take this to trial, you will lose. Not because of me. Not because of sexism. Not because the world’s out to get you. You’ll lose because you did it. And if you lose, that’s a felony. Over ten grand in damages. One to ten years. Minimum.”

  I paused.

  “And you’re not built for prison. No one’s gonna respect a street artist doing time for ‘criminal mischief.’ If you insist on going to court, I’ll fight for you. But you’ll lose. Take the fucking plea deal.”

  Silence. Then a sigh of surrender. She’d come to the clinic in the morning to sign.

  I finally hung up and turned back to the bar. The mystery woman was still there, untouched tea in front of her. She gave me a smile that looked like it had teeth.

  “You’re either the best fake lawyer I’ve ever seen,” she said, voice like velvet on glass, “or the dumbest real one. Either way, you’ve got a voice made for persuading sheep.”

  I rubbed my eyes, barely holding in a yawn. “The only difference between a fake lawyer and a real one,” I replied, “is the degree. Aside from a piece of paper, it’s all just arguing over a set of rules.”

  She laughed softly. We started talking. Somehow, the hours passed unnoticed.

  She quoted case law fluently, flawlessly even. She mentioned Michael Oakeshott in passing. No student throws that name around casually, most non law students dont even know who he is. But she didn’t look like a student. Or a lawyer. Just sharp, Dangerous, and eerily Magnetic.

  We debated, dancing around the edges of philosophy and the legal system. I offered to top off her tea. She waved me off with a dismissive hand wave, she hadn’t touched it anyway.

  Then, as closing time neared, she hit me with the question.

  “So, dear,” she said. “What ambitions do you have in life?”

  “My ambition?” I blinked. “Well... to be a lawyer, right?”

  “A defense attorney, if I recall. What for? To protect the downtrodden?”

  “That’s the ideal. Sure. But... honestly?” I looked at her. “I want to make enough to pay for my mom’s cancer treatments. That’s the real reason. Every step of the way, something’s gotten in my path. Professors accusing me of plagiarism. Getting robbed. Getting kicked out of the dorms. Even landing pro bono work was a nightmare. But I’m still here. Still chipping away.”

  I exhaled slowly. “If I’m being really honest? I think I just want to make something of myself. Go from a kid in the slums to a high-rise office, defending the big clients. I want to be seen.”

  This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

  It felt greedy. Selfish. But it was the truth.

  She didn’t judge me. Just listened. Smiled at all the right moments. And when the bar finally closed, she stood, pulled a small black card from her pocket, and handed it to me with a smile.

  She walked out without another word.

  Only after the door shut behind her did I realize I didn’t know her name. She’d told me nothing about herself.

  The card had no number. No name. Just an address and time.

  Maybe it was networking.

  Maybe it was a date.

  I cleaned up, stuffed my tips in my pocket, and made the long walk home.

  Two days later, I stood in front of a polished consulting firm tucked into a quiet stretch of the city. It was the address on the card that woman had handed me at the bar. According to my watch, I was technically on time, just twenty-four hours late.

  Inside, the place was silent. Unnervingly so. The air felt like it was pressing in on itself, holding its breath. A receptionist sat behind the marble-topped desk, perfectly still, perfectly blank. She looked at me like I was a ghost she was expecting, and she couldn’t have cared less either way.

  I handed her the card. She barely glanced at it before pressing something beneath the desk. With a soft chime, the elevator to my left opened. She didn’t say a word. I gave a polite “thanks” anyway, because that’s what you’re supposed to do, right?, then stepped into the lift.

  Only two buttons: Up and Down. I hit Up.

  The ride was smooth, silent. When the doors opened, I stepped out into a long, lavish hallway. The carpet was thick and red, muffling my steps, and the walls were painted this deep, oceanic blue that made me feel like I’d been dropped into some high-end dream. There was only one door at the end of the opulent but sparsely decorated hallway. I knocked tentatively.

  Sheopened it almost instantly, smooth as she leaned against the doorframe, her figure accentuated by the moonlight pouring in from the floor to ceiling windows behind her.

  “You’re late,” she said. Her voice was smooth but clipped, like someone who was used to giving orders, not asking.

  “I—yeah. Sorry. Work’s been hell and… there wasn’t a number on the card. Or a name.”

  She stepped aside and let me in without another word. I was expecting an office. Maybe a conference room. What I walked into was an apartment. Expensive, modern, and way too clean. Velvet and steel. Warm wood, soft lights. Not a speck of dust. Not a single photo on the walls or shelves. No family. No friends. No past to speak of.

  “Lucena,” she said, as if reading my thoughts. “That’s my name. Since you were curious.”

  She poured herself a glass of red wine and flashed me a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. Something about her felt different from the bar. She felt more clinical now. More in control.

  “I want to play a game,” she said, settling onto a deep blue couch. “Simple. I ask a question. You answer. One truth, no lies. Then you get to ask one. If either of us lies or dodges? Game’s over.”

  I hesitated, still standing. “Okay… sure. Sounds fair.”

  She motioned to the seat beside her. I sat.

  “What’s the worst lie you’ve ever told?” she asked, sipping her wine like she already knew the answer.

  I swallowed hard.

  “Starting off strong huh? Ok. Uh… Guy came into the clinic a while back. Pro bono case. He was a drug dealer. sold to kids. Real scumbag. But I was his lawyer, so I did my job. That's what I'm supposed to do right? Its not my place to pass judgement. That's why we have… Judges… I Got him off on a few technicalities. He paid me ten grand in cash afterward. As a “tip”.”

  I looked away, ashamed.

  “My mom was sick. Treatment wasn’t cheap. I knew where that money came from, and I knew she’d never accept it if she found out. So I took a few hundred here, a few hundred there, folded it into my bartending tips. Told her I’d been hitting a lucky streak.”

  Lucena didn’t flinch. Just tilted her head slightly.

  “You lied to protect someone. That’s still a lie.”

  She looked pleased. Or maybe just… entertained.

  “Your turn,” she said.

  I rubbed at the back of my neck, trying to shake off the weight of her gaze. “You new to Boston? I’ve never seen you around before. And this place has no photos, nothing personal. You could have easily just broke in here for all I know.”

  I chuckled weakly as I felt the joke fall flat.

  Lucena smirked. “Been here a long time. Just not from here. Accent never stuck.”

  “Where are you from?”

  She wagged a finger. “Second question. My turn.”

  I grinned in spite of myself. “Alright. Your rules.”

  She took another sip of wine, watching me over the rim of her glass.

  “Would you kill to protect someone you love?”

  I blinked, surprised by the bluntness. “That's… heavy.”

  She didn’t blink. Didn’t laugh. Just waited for my response. The room slowly dropped in temperature for each moment I hesitated.

  I let out a breath. “Yeah. For my mom? Absolutely.”

  “Even if the person threatening her was desperate? Someone just making a bad decision?”

  “If it was them or me?” I met her eyes. “Then yeah. I’d do what I had to.”

  She nodded, like that was the answer she expected.

  “Your turn.”

  “Why are your questions so pointed?” I asked. “Feels like you’re not just playing a game. You’re digging for something.”

  She smiled, and this one had teeth.

  “I like to understand people. Especially the ones who think they’re hard to read.”

  Her eyes locked onto mine, and I felt something twist deep in my gut.

  “So far,” she added, “you’ve been honest. That’s rare. Keep it up, and maybe I’ll give you something in return.”

  “A reward?” I asked, half-joking.

  “Something like that.”

  Then she asked, “What part of yourself do you hope no one ever sees?”

  That one hit like a sucker punch. I tried to laugh it off, but the way she looked at me, I knew deflecting wouldn’t work.

  She sat still. Perfect posture. Wine in one hand. Legs crossed. And those eyes… God, those eyes.

  When I didn’t speak, she leaned in, whispering just loud enough to send a chill down my spine.

  “Say it.”

  And I did.

  “I’m terrified of how powerless I feel,” I said. The words came out more broken than I wanted. “No matter what I do, good or bad, I never feel like I’m in control. Things just… happen. Around me. To me. Doesn’t matter how much I plan, how careful I am. I can’t stop any of it. All I can do is keep going and hope, hope, there’s something better waiting on the other side.”

  Silence.

  Lucena didn’t offer sympathy. No nod. No warmth.

  She just watched me. Like I was a book she’d been waiting a long time to read—and now that she had it open, she wasn’t going to miss a single word.

  “There you are.”

  Her voice slithered through the air like smoke—warm, close. She leaned in just enough that I caught the scent of her perfume: subtle, spiced, and strangely familiar, like something half-remembered from a dream. Her breath brushed the shell of my ear as she spoke, low and intimate, each syllable a dagger wrapped in silk.

  “There’s no need to lie, dear,” she whispered. “Not when the truth looks so good on you. Take a sip of your wine. I’ve prepared it special… just for you.”

  I blinked, and suddenly… there it was. A second glass of wine, sitting on the table before me. I could’ve sworn it hadn’t been there moments ago. Had she poured it while I wasn’t looking? I didn’t think so. But there it was. Deep crimson, nearly opaque, like velvet caught in a bottle. My hand trembled just slightly as I reached for it.

  The moment the wine touched my tongue, the world shifted.

  Warmth flooded my veins like a storm breaking against a dam. Energy surged through me raw and crackling. My thoughts sharpened, My senses focused with terrifying clarity. It wasn’t just like the fog lifting. it was like realizing there had always been fog, and only now was I seeing the world as it truly was. I could run for miles, fuck for days, I felt like GOD! For one glorious second, everything was perfect.

  And then the feeling passed, as all divine things do.

  I looked up. Lucena had crossed the room again, her back to me as she poured herself another glass of wine. Her silhouette was elegant, framed in low lamplight like a portrait half-painted in shadow. When she caught me watching her, she turned and bent over, smirking and playful as she licked the red off her teeth.

  “Well now,” she purred, her voice like silk sliding over skin. “You played my game. I suppose it’s only fair if you get a reward.”

  She strode toward me with that same impossible confidence, a sway in her hips that pulled at my focus like gravity. As she passed behind me, her hand trailed along my shoulders, a touch that was soft, but charged, like the promise of lightning in the air before a storm. Then she was in front of me, looking down through half-lidded eyes as she took a long sip from her cup.

  And then, with no hesitation, she climbed atop me, straddling my hips with all the ceremony of a queen taking her throne.

  “Unless, of course,” she murmured, “you don’t want your reward?”

  My heart pounded in my chest, adrenaline and that infernal wine mixing into something dangerous and exhilarating. It was like my inhibitions had loosened their grip entirely. My hands had already begun to rise, unthinking, until they rested on her hips. I felt magnetized, drawn forward by something deeper than desire, like some other force, older and darker, was moving through me.

  And the words that left my mouth didn’t feel entirely my own.

  “What’s the harm?” I said, voice hushed.

  Even as I spoke, I felt the answer uncoil beneath my skin. I already knew the harm.

  And I no longer cared.