The moment I saw him at the front of the classroom, everything inside me froze.
The cold man in the black mask.
The blood on his hands.
The lifeless body at his feet.
The way he looked at me like I was a problem he needed to erase.
And now… he stood calmly in a neatly ironed shirt, sleeves rolled just enough to show his strong forearms, a black watch on his wrist, and no trace of blood.His dark eyes scanned the room as he introduced himself—"Professor Zahid Ali."The same name he told my father on the phone.
I sat at the back, my fingers clenched together so tightly they hurt. My breath felt shallow.Was I dreaming again? Was this another nightmare?
No. It was real. Too real.
Zahid Ali. The man I saw last night. Covered in blood. Holding a body like it was nothing. He had looked at me like a threat… and yet, he picked up my phone. He lied to my father. He carried me home.
Why?
My head was a storm of questions and fears. My childhood trauma had already made me afraid of blood, of violence, of darkness. And now, this strange man who reminded me of all three… was going to be in my life every week. Right in front of me.
I tried to look away from him, but my eyes kept returning.His face was unreadable. His eyes sharp, calm, emotionless.He spoke clearly, confidently—but his words felt distant to me.I wasn't in that classroom anymore. I was still trapped in that alley last night. Frozen. Watching. Bleeding inside without a single drop of blood leaving me.
"Miss Rida?"
His voice snapped me back to the present.
The whole class turned to look at me. I had no idea what he asked.
I blinked. "Sorry, sir?"
"You seemed distracted. Should I repeat myself?"
I quickly shook my head. "No, sir."
His gaze lingered on me a little longer. "Distraction can be dangerous. Especially when you're not used to facing darkness."
My breath caught.
He wasn't talking about class anymore.
He remembered.
He knew who I was.
He was warning me.
The rest of the lecture blurred in and out. I couldn't focus. I kept my head down and tried to breathe evenly. I gripped my pen so tightly it almost snapped. He went on speaking about the human brain, about how people hide trauma, how masks are not always physical—but emotional too.
Was he speaking to the class?
Or directly to me?
After the lecture, students began filing out. I stayed seated, unsure whether to run or confront him. My feet didn't want to move, but my heart pushed me forward.
I walked up to him, one step at a time. My voice trembled.
"Sir… have we met before?"
He didn't answer right away. His eyes locked with mine again. Cold, unreadable. Then he shook his head slightly.
"No," he said. "I don't think so."
A lie.
I could feel it. His voice was calm but forced. He remembered me. He just wasn't ready to admit it.
I wanted to scream. I wanted to cry. I wanted to tell him, "I know what you are."But instead, I turned away, humiliated and confused.
Just as I reached the door, his voice came again. Lower. He wasn't talking to the room anymore. Just me.
"You should be careful at night, Rida. Not everything you see is meant to be seen."
My knees went weak.
I walked out without replying.
That night, sleep refused to come. I kept thinking about him—his voice, his eyes, his warning. I kept asking myself: why didn't he hurt me? Why lie for me? Why carry me home safely when he was clearly a man who had killed?
Was I in danger now?
Or was I… protected?
And what scared me most—more than the blood, more than the memory—was that a part of me wasn't just afraid of Zahid.
A part of me was curious about him.
Drawn.
What was behind that mask he wore—not the one on his face, but the one he kept over his soul?
And why did I feel like… maybe, just maybe, he was as broken as I was?