Chapter 13: Scar Revealed

No one expected that the one curled up in the stairwell, under the harsh white light, would be James Donovan himself.

He wore a plain black shirt and slacks, broad-shouldered, imposing—but now, he looked uncharacteristically vulnerable.

When I opened the emergency exit door, he turned around sharply. Sweat beaded his forehead from pain, but his eyes were cold and guarded.

—I’d stumbled into something I shouldn’t have seen.

I froze, but under his gaze, I forced myself to speak. “...Do you want me to call a doctor?”

James stared coldly, silent.

I raised my hand, pressing down on the white mask covering my face. Because of my scars, I always wore a mask in public to avoid scaring people.

His gaze was heavy, oppressive.

I was about to back away, but seeing the veins bulging on his forehead, his lips pale from pain, I felt a sudden pang of pity.

So I stepped forward and took out the painkillers I always carried. Since I couldn’t afford proper treatment for my injuries, I’d gotten used to chewing painkillers when the pain was too much.

Finally, they came in handy.

The stairwell smelled faintly of bleach and new carpet. The chill bit through my jeans. I set the pill gently beside him, the air between us thick with unspoken questions and something almost like recognition.

Under James’s gaze, I placed a pill by his side. As I turned to leave, he suddenly grabbed my wrist.

His hand was ice cold, chilling to the bone. I looked down at him. We were very close, our eyes meeting.

“Who are you?” he finally asked, his voice hoarse.

The lighting was dim, but I still saw something flicker in his dark eyes—a glimmer, quickly hidden.

He moved too quickly for me to react, pulling the mask off my face.

James’s eyes took in the scar on my face. Too close—I saw his gaze tremble.

My face must have been frightening.

I raised my hand to hook the mask back on, noticing his hand suddenly go limp. A silver necklace slipped from his palm—a watch face hanging from it, and in the center, the faint image of a smiling young girl.

I looked away, left the pill, and turned to leave.

This time, James didn’t stop me.

Before I left, I glanced back at the door. He was still sitting there, dressed in cold black, but radiating only loneliness.

My footsteps echoed in the stairwell, each one matching the hollow ache in my chest. Somewhere, far below, a janitor’s radio played a country song about losing love and starting over. I doubted James could hear it—but I wondered if he ever listened for hope, the way I did.