"Seven years later, in Toronto…"
The darkness pressed in from all sides.
Zain found himself sinking into the depths of an endless ocean, the cold water pulling him down with merciless weight. He wore a simple white shirt, the fabric clinging tightly to his skin as he struggled. From below, black shadowy hands emerged, thin and twisted like the roots of an ancient tree, wrapping around his arms and legs, dragging him deeper.
But then—there was another hand.
A hand that glowed like pure light, reaching for him, holding on. For a heartbeat, he felt the comfort of being saved. Yet the shadows multiplied, faster, stronger, wrapping around his body until the light slipped away. The last thing he saw before darkness claimed him was his own reflection in the water—two piercing eyes, wolf-like in shape, brimming with a fear he could never outrun.
Zain's eyes shot open.
His chest rose and fell heavily, breath ragged as if he had truly been drowning. He sat on the edge of his bed, his bare feet pressing against the cold wooden floor. Both hands rested behind him on the mattress, as though he still needed its weight to steady himself.
It's always the same… he thought. The light never wins.
It was the hour before dawn, when the world held its breath. A thin stream of silver light leaked through the curtains, soft and ghostly. His room was silent, scattered with canvases—half-painted faces, broken figures, storms of color frozen in time. Some stood uncovered, staring back at him with unspoken stories, while others were hidden under white cloths, like secrets he refused to share.
He rose slowly, his movements heavy yet deliberate, and walked to the window. From behind, only his silhouette could be seen, broad shoulders tense as he gazed at the sleeping city outside.
For a moment he wondered, Is this what I am? Just shadows, dressed in human skin?
His fingers moved to his white shirt, unfastening the buttons one by one. The fabric slid from his shoulders and dropped soundlessly onto the floor as he stepped away from the window, heading towards the shower room. The door closed behind him, and a moment later the sharp rush of water echoed through the quiet house.
When he emerged, damp hair clinging to his forehead, he stopped before the fogged mirror. For a second, only his eyes were visible—dark, sharp, almost wolfish, carrying both allure and dread. Slowly, as the mist cleared, his full face came into view.
High-bridged nose, pale skin almost glowing under the dim light, lips finely shaped with a faint mole above them, and just beneath his left eye—two moles, one small, one slightly larger, marks that gave his beauty a haunting depth. His irises, large and black, held a strange pull—like an abyss you could fall into and never return.
Zain raised a trembling hand, pressing it against the mirror. His reflection stared back at him, flawless yet tainted, beautiful yet untrustworthy.
No matter how far I run… this is the face they'll always see. The one they'll never believe. The one I can't escape.
For a heartbeat, the mirror didn't show a man at all—it showed the shadow from his dream, smiling back at him.
By the time he left his apartment, the streets of Toronto were alive with the chaos of morning Students spilled through the campus gates,
Their laughter sharp against the morning cold,
Echoes snapping like brittle glass in the air.
Zain walked among them,
But the world bent around his silence.
He moved like a shadow wearing skin,
Untouched, unreachable—
As if the distance he carried
Was carved into his very breath.
Inside the lecture hall, the noise swelled—
Chairs scraped, papers hissed,
Voices clattered in restless harmony.
And yet, within the crowd,
He remained an island,
His solitude heavy, unbroken, absolute.
He shut his eyes.
The noise dissolved.
Only the weight remained—
Words pressing into his chest like chains,
Tightening with every breath.
He had friends once.
He had faces that drew close.
But none endured.
He never allowed them.
And when he did…
They broke.
He broke them.
The clock ticked at the front,
Gentle, patient,
Yet to Zain every second struck like thunder,
Each one louder, crueler,
A whisper blooming into a scream:
"Change the place.
Change the age.
But you cannot change
The shadows that own you."
Then—bang!
A desk slammed.
The world snapped open,
Ripping him from his abyss,
Dragging him back beneath the sterile glare
Of white lights and shuffling pages.
The professor entered briskly,
His voice slicing the air with order.
Students stiffened, pens lifted,
The noise folding into obedience.
But not all eyes obeyed.
Across the rows,
A cluster of girls watched him.
Their stares lingered too long,
Drawn to the quiet storm that clung to him—
His pale skin,
His wolf-etched eyes,
The stillness in his body
That spoke louder than movement.
They wanted to touch what they couldn't name.
They wanted to break his silence.
But Zain never turned his head.
He didn't need to.
He knew their whispers,
Their secret names for him—
Silent Features.
Half reverence. Half dread.
To them, he was fascination.
To himself, only exile.
A mask of beauty stretched over something
No one here could fathom.
No one knew him.
Not truly.
And no one ever would.