Miles Morales Mask Moving Eyes Novels & Stories

The ballroom was filled with music, but inside my head, everything went completely quiet. Julian Moretti stood right in front of us, wearing a soft black mask that did not hide the dark cruelty in his eyes. The light from the gold chandeliers caught the small scar across his jawline. His smile was cold and relaxed, like a cat playing with a mouse before killing it.

Zen said calmly and carefully as he knew his boss's niece is not someone anyone could trifle with "Hmph, learn your places, cross my path again, and I'll gladly make you disappear," He coldly stated and went to Dr. Zen's side. "I'm sorry about this incident," Dr. Zen said calmly as he noticed his boss's niece started walking away. "Dr. Zen, who is that guy? How can he waltz in here?" An employee asked curiously "He is the boss's niece," Dr. Zen said while looking at Midnight's figure fading away towards the shadow. "He's Midnight Hidalgo," said Dr. Zithea, who appeared out of nowhere. To be continued

The guy pulled off his sunshade, blonde brows slightly pinched. “I need that girl from three months ago.” His brows burrowed further, quite puzzled, “what girl, Mr. Carter? You’ve had different girls three months ago.” “She was wearing a mask. A white mask with gold dots on them. Only her eyes and lips which were painted red were exposed. I…I don’t know her features that well.” I did my best to explain all I saw that night. “She’s slim, kind of small with nice curves and shapely legs.”

The silhouette wavered in the distance before he came into view. He was tall. Too tall. Black hair framed a face half-hidden by a mask across his mouth, as though he was smiling so wide it needed to be contained. But it wasn’t the mask that made my breath catch. It was his eyes. One was green while the other was violet, deep and unnatural, like staring into a bruise.

I leant forward, bracing my hands on the table’s edge. She shook her head. “No. No, he was wearing a mask. But I saw his eyes. Does that help?” “Everything helps,” said Marla gently. “They were brown.” Raina blinked. “Or maybe green. No…” She bit her lip. “Definitely not green. Shit. Sorry, Alpha. I can’t – I can’t remember.” I wanted to punch something. Instead, I shoved a hand under the table and pinched my thigh. Hard. “It’s okay, Raina,” I said, and it almost sounded like I meant it.

The colored contacts and mask were doing their job, I supposed. Ms. Morrie, just as oblivious as Audrey, greeted me at the podium with a beaming smile from behind her cat mask. The mask covered her upper lip, making her appear even more catlike. “Congratulations to our mysterious man in the blue mask!” she announced, flourishing her hand toward me. I nodded in acknowledgement, keeping my head slightly turned to avoid direct eye contact with anyone—especially Audrey who, thankfully, had her head bent at her table to look at something her friend was showing her.

He smiles and replies, “Just call me Greg, and please do keep it a secret. ” He nods and says to him, “I understand, it seems you are a secret yourself. Why all the secrecy? You have not committed any crimes have you?” He doesn’t speak rather he nods and walks towards the room, this time, he doesn’t stop him. After the long sentences, he allows him to enter the room, he walks toward her slowly and he looks down at the sleeping beauty. He is about to remove his mask but he sees her stir in her sleep so he stops and walks closer to her. She opens her eyes and stares right at him, he looks down at her and says to her,

I remember Buenos Aires. The van. The feeling of being nothing but cargo. I am not that girl anymore. My hand shoots toward his face, fingers finding fabric. Mask. I yank. The cloth rips halfway down. For a split second, his features flash in the emergency glow from the exit lights. Cold eyes. Crooked nose. Definitely not the boss. One of his wolves. He swings his free hand toward my head. I duck. His fist grazes my temple instead of breaking my nose.

I say, leaning down to meet his tear-streaked gaze. The hours drag on, each moment filled with Marcello’s screams and pleas. I cut him up slowly, meticulously, carving pieces from him like an artist sculpting clay. Every time he begins to fade, when the monitors show his heart faltering, I stop. A bit of morphine, a splash of water, and he’s dragged back from the brink, his body trembling as he realizes the reprieve is temporary. He hates it—hates that I’m watching his stats, keeping him alive just so I can do it all over again. The defiance in his eyes flickers, but it never fully dies. It’s infuriating.

The hollow, pitch-black eye holes seemed like an abyss, reaching out with claws and fangs to devour her. It rendered her unable to move. When the dance ended, Marisol was drenched in cold sweat. Her back was somewhat clammy. When she realized the man with the pale mask was leading her away from the dance floor, she immediately snapped back to her senses. Her sweat-dampened hand struggled forcefully as she tried to pull back. Whether it was him or not, she absolutely couldn't go with him! The man stopped and looked back at her. Marisol's face was equally pale under her mask, but she endured it without looking away, staring straight at those pitch-black eye holes. She forcefully suppressed the