08-23-2025, 07:54 PM
Jensen’s chest tightened as Emily spoke, each word weighing heavier than the last. By the time she finished, his breath had gone shallow behind the mask. A man who could twist emotions into shackles. A woman left hollowed by terror until fear was all she knew. He’d seen wounds of the body before, but this was something crueler. And the thought of walking into that room cloaked in anonymity, a faceless specter of white, struck him like blasphemy.
He could already imagine it: Rachel curled in her bed, drowning in a nightmare she couldn’t wake from, only to see a masked figure looming over her like something out of the dark. His gift, his calling, turned into another shadow to haunt her. No. That wasn’t healing. That wasn’t right.
A new emotion rose in him, sharp and undeniable. He had spent months playing Iāson, hidden behind porcelain and myth. The Ascendancy was right, of course. If the world knew what Jensen could do, they would tear him to pieces with their desperate need. But this wasn’t the world. This was one woman. One family. And for them, he couldn’t be a mask.
His gloved hand lifted to the edge of the disguise. “This isn’t right,” he said softly, his drawl a quiet tremor in the hush of the landing. Then he pulled the mask free.
Cool air touched his face, hair falling messily across his brow before he smoothed it back with his palm. The relief was immediate, almost dizzying. His own skin, his own eyes. The man he truly was. He turned his gaze to Emily, earnest and unguarded.
“Please don’t tell anyone,” he asked her, voice full of trust and vulnerability. “If it’s known who I am, what I can do… it won’t just be me who suffers. But for your sister, she deserves to see the man, not the mask.”
He followed her to the door and, when it opened, the stillness of the room pressed against him. Rachel lay there, pale and fragile, her fear almost a presence in the air itself. Jensen’s throat tightened, but he didn’t hesitate.
He crossed the threshold softly and with enough noise to suggest his arrival and went straight to her bedside, lowering himself onto one knee. Not towering above, not claiming authority. Simply placing himself where she could see him, level with her gaze. His gloves whispered softly as he removed them, folding them aside so his hands were bare, human. His palms were soft, the nails clean.
His eyes softened, his voice gentled to the timbre of prayer. “Rachel,” he said, no more than a breath, “would you hold my hand?”
He offered it palm up, steady and patient.
He could already imagine it: Rachel curled in her bed, drowning in a nightmare she couldn’t wake from, only to see a masked figure looming over her like something out of the dark. His gift, his calling, turned into another shadow to haunt her. No. That wasn’t healing. That wasn’t right.
A new emotion rose in him, sharp and undeniable. He had spent months playing Iāson, hidden behind porcelain and myth. The Ascendancy was right, of course. If the world knew what Jensen could do, they would tear him to pieces with their desperate need. But this wasn’t the world. This was one woman. One family. And for them, he couldn’t be a mask.
His gloved hand lifted to the edge of the disguise. “This isn’t right,” he said softly, his drawl a quiet tremor in the hush of the landing. Then he pulled the mask free.
Cool air touched his face, hair falling messily across his brow before he smoothed it back with his palm. The relief was immediate, almost dizzying. His own skin, his own eyes. The man he truly was. He turned his gaze to Emily, earnest and unguarded.
“Please don’t tell anyone,” he asked her, voice full of trust and vulnerability. “If it’s known who I am, what I can do… it won’t just be me who suffers. But for your sister, she deserves to see the man, not the mask.”
He followed her to the door and, when it opened, the stillness of the room pressed against him. Rachel lay there, pale and fragile, her fear almost a presence in the air itself. Jensen’s throat tightened, but he didn’t hesitate.
He crossed the threshold softly and with enough noise to suggest his arrival and went straight to her bedside, lowering himself onto one knee. Not towering above, not claiming authority. Simply placing himself where she could see him, level with her gaze. His gloves whispered softly as he removed them, folding them aside so his hands were bare, human. His palms were soft, the nails clean.
His eyes softened, his voice gentled to the timbre of prayer. “Rachel,” he said, no more than a breath, “would you hold my hand?”
He offered it palm up, steady and patient.