A man awake from his sleep in the backseat of a cab. Midnight. City lights bleed across the window like tired veins. Eyes are heavy after a long shift.
"We're almost at your destination, sir. Feel free to ask on where you wanna step out of this goddamn cab," the taxi driver said.
The cab kept driving. "Yeah, here's fine. I can walk from here."
The cab slowdown. The man pays, grabs his briefcase, and steps out into the quiet street. His apartment is a few blocks away, but every step feels like an hour.
Then he stops.
He's stumbled upon someone painting a mural on the side of a building. Something... religious. A glowing angel? A bleeding saint? Jesus on a cross? He can't tell. But it's good—in a disturbing way.
The man never believed in God. Not as a kid. Not now. But he stares, caught in the glow of streetlight and color.
"Hey," he calls. "That's incredible. I never believed in any of these nonsense. But this... this is something. I'll admit it."
The painter freezes.
Slowly, they turn. A blank white mask covers their face. Only two dark eyes visible. A green jacket hangs loosely from their shoulders.
They don't speak. They just breathe. Slow and deep. With every breath they took, the mask rises and falls, as if the mask has a pulse.