Miles Morales Mask Moving Eyes Novels & Stories

I told the cabby, who was wearing a nose mask and a baseball cap. “Nice to see you too, Angela Jackson,” the cabby said in a hoarse, terrifying tone that made me tremble. My heart leaped to my throat when he took off his cap, revealing the bloodshot eyes of Alberto Miles Lucas. I opened my mouth several times, but no words could be formed.

This was the very Milo who ranked first among the ten toughest people! He was the leader of Firebrand Base, a man who was said to have reduced his own base down to nothing but the last few survivors. When he heard Liam's voice, the man in the mask reached up and pulled off the black face cover. A tan, sun-darkened face appeared. Milo's face was lean, with a hint of foreign blood. His features were sharp and rugged, his brows heavy, his nose high and straight, and his eyes a clear amber color. Everything about him looked hard and unbreakable.

“I can’t… He’s the glue, Xiomar. He keeps us together. If he goes…” Xiomar slammed his fist against the wall, the sound echoing down the hall. “Don’t say it.” His voice shook, low and rough. “Don’t you fucking say it.” The silence stretched, thick and suffocating, until the door finally creaked open. Morales stepped out, his gloves stained red. My heart stopped. “Well?” I demanded, stepping forward, my voice sharp with fear. “Tell me!” Morales let out a slow breath, pulling the mask from his face. “He’s alive. For now.”

Okay, ma’am, he replied almost immediately. “Let’s go home, Sophy,” I said. She nodded, and we headed back to the car. “Where are you going, ma’am?” a voice suddenly asked. I froze. The voice was unfamiliar—old and rough. “Where is the driver?” I asked, my voice trembling. “I’m here, Elena,” he said. He removed his mask and turned toward me. My heart stopped. “Mr. Morales…” I whispered, instinctively pulling Sophy close. He quickly waved something in front of my face. The world spun, and everything went dark.

She said that she hoped it would be enough of an excuse for Regor. "Sure. Maybe. Thanks for your number, I'll just call you tomorrow where we'll meet at the mall." Mariposa smiled beautifully and Regor smiled back as well. They stared at each other for a moment, eye to eye. Regor wouldn't know it was her because she wore a contact lens to change the color of her eyes. "Wow, your eyes are beautiful Mariposa, it's glittering!" He praised her eyes. Mariposa just smiled. Her cell phone suddenly rang so she left Regor's side first and answered the call.

My brow arched. But I forced my features back to neutral. The male's eyes, however, followed me with slow appreciation. His was a face I did not recognize. “Whoa. I expected you to be beautiful, but The Whisperer of Gold said nothing about you being drop-dead gorgeous," the male said in a deep, guttural tone. The head bobbing on Revandrel’s dick snapped up and glared poisoned daggers at me. Of course it had to be Moira, the blue mask.

The car beeps softly, unlocking. Just as John had described him, dressed in all black complete with a face mask and baseball cap, he is completely hidden behind the thick black dressing. “There he is,” Marsh mutters, eyes narrowing, focusing on his every move. The man slides into the driver’s seat, adjusts the mirror, then sits still for a moment. He exhales. A visible sigh fogs the inside of the windshield briefly. Then, with a brief pause… he reaches up. And removes the mask. Marsh’s hand flies to the keyboard. He slams the space bar and the footage freezes mid frame. The screen blurs for a split second before adjusting and clarifying.

Or was it the eerie way he moved—fluid, confident, yet silent, like a phantom materializing out of the dim glow of the chandeliers? Now that he stood close enough, Evelyn could study the details of his mask. It was an intricate piece, covering his entire face, adorned with black and gold gemstones that glinted under the light. But it was the mouthpiece that truly sent a chill down her spine—carved with sharp, exaggerated teeth, as though mocking the very notion of civility.

He is putting on a fucking typical black mask, his eyes and lips were the only visible facial feature, I look around and notice everyone is putting on the same mask, “what the actual fuck,” I say to myself, We were all faced towards the laptop screen; it reads ‘connecting’, Fuck! I close my eyes in pain and sorrow, it’s not just Christians parents on this call, I see my mum and dad they look absolutely devastated, my mum looks out of it, all my life I have never seen my mum look this disheveled, her hair tied in a messy bun, not an ounce of makeup evident on her face, her eyes swollen and blood shut red, what have I done?.

I wanted to rip the mask off, to let him see the monster and the woman, and to lose myself in the heat of his embrace. But as his fingers moved toward the silk ribbons at the back of my head, a cold splash of reality hit me. I am a murderer, I reminded myself. I am an impostor in a dead girl's palace. He is a man of the South, a man of secrets. If I let him see me—truly see me—I would lose the only armor I had left. The power of my eyes was my greatest weapon, but my mask was my greatest shield. Just as his fingers brushed the knot of the ribbon, I grabbed his wrist. My grip was unnaturally strong, fueled by the desperation of a cornered animal.