She spotted him the moment she walked into the gallery.
Tall. Broad-shouldered under his black tailored suit, the fabric hugging his strong frame like it was made only for him. He stood still, hands in his pockets, mask obscuring part of his face but not hiding the firm line of his jaw, the faint stubble on his chin, or the quiet intensity burning in his dark eyes as he stared at the painting before him.
He looked like he belonged there — the man and the painting, cut from the same shadowed world. There was something deeply masculine about the way he held himself. Like nothing could shake him. But there was also something… raw. As if beneath that strong composure, something was breaking quietly.
She felt her pulse pick up.
Beautiful…
She walked closer, heels silent on polished marble. His scent reached her first — something dark and clean, like rain on stone and faint woodsmoke. Her chest fluttered. She wanted to bury her face against his throat and just… breathe him in.
"Beautiful, isn't it?"
He turned to her, and their eyes met. Steady. Alert. No flicker of embarrassment or awkwardness — just guarded curiosity. He looked at her directly, like he wasn't afraid of anything she might say. Her stomach flipped.
She shifted her gaze to the painting — blood-reds, bruised purples, streaks of violent silver slicing through darkness. Even if she hadn't memorised his entire portfolio before coming tonight, she would have known this was his. It bled the same silent desperation she saw in his eyes now.
"The painter… I've always wondered what kind of person they were," she said softly. "This piece feels… lonely. But it's still alive. Like whoever made it poured everything into it. Even the parts of themselves they didn't want anyone to see."
His jaw flexed. She noticed the faint vein on his neck twitch. His shoulders, broad and strong, rose with a slow inhale.
"Yeah," he said finally, voice low and calm, edged with roughness. "He… they probably did."
She heard his slip and smiled faintly behind her mask. Her chest felt tight with a quiet, fierce thrill.
"You speak as if you know them."
He shrugged, the movement rolling over the powerful line of his shoulders. A lock of his dark, wavy hair fell over his brow, and her fingers itched to brush it back.
"Maybe I do."
Oh, she wanted him. Wanted him in a way that made her stomach twist with something hot and possessive. She wanted his hands covered in paint. She wanted his eyes, heavy with exhaustion and focus, looking only at her. She wanted him cracking open all that darkness inside just for her to see.
"Whoever they are…" she said softly, her voice trembling with emotion she didn't bother to hide, "I hope they're okay."
Because she needed him to be okay. Needed him alive. Needed him painting and burning quietly from the inside out.
She lingered for a moment longer, letting herself soak in the sight of him. His silent strength. His guarded pain. The man was a living canvas — carved from shadows, holding his own brokenness together with stubborn pride.
Rey Mysterio.
She repeated his name in her mind as she turned away, disappearing into the mass of masked strangers, her heart pounding with a single obsessive thought:
You're going to be mine.