Beneath The Mask

The first lie I heard that morning came wrapped in Gustavo's cheerful baritone, tied with a bow I didn't ask for. "Rise and shine, young master. Brand-new, beautiful day." Beautiful. Right. His voice dragged me out of sleep the way a fisherman hauls in a catch that doesn't want to be caught — slow, relentless, utterly indifferent to my suffering. I groaned into my pillow, bought myself three seconds of denial, then blindly launched the pillow in his direction. He caught it. Of course he did. Gustavo always caught things. Except hints. "As much as I'd love to grant you those five minutes, you're resuming at your new school today." He delivered it with the placid calm of a man who had long since made peace with my terrible moods. I already knew what was coming. I shut my eyes anyway — because pretending costs nothing, and sometimes nothing is all you have left. The curtains tore open. Sunlight hit my face like a personal insult. "Aish—!" I sat upright, squinting, betrayed by my own window. "Now that's the spirit," Gustavo said, entirely too pleased with himself. I glared at him with everything I had. He remained unmoved. "Bathroom. Breakfast. You do not want to be late on your first day of senior year." "Yeah, yeah," I muttered, dragging myself upright like a prisoner walking toward a sentence I hadn't finished reading yet. • • • The bathroom mirror, at least, was honest. I stood in front of it longer than necessary, toothbrush moving on autopilot, staring at my reflection like it owed me an explanation. Searching for something I couldn't name. An answer, maybe. A reason. Or just proof that the girl underneath the performance hadn't gone completely silent. My name is Silver Adams. But that's not the name I'll be using today. To the outside world — to the students I'm about to face, the teachers who'll assess me the moment I walk in, the strangers who'll whisper behind my back — I am Sylvester Adams. My father is James Adams. The James Adams. The kind of man whose name makes doors open and mouths shut. The kind of man who can enroll a ghost into a prestigious school with zero records and zero questions asked, and everyone will smile and pretend it's perfectly normal. My mother, Serena Adams — she's gone. That's a story for another time. And then there's my twin brother. The real Sylvester Adams. I know exactly how that sounds. You'll get the full story. Just — not yet. I've been homeschooled since I was seven. No classrooms. No classmates. No unnecessary human interaction. It was quiet. Controlled. Exactly the way I needed things to be. Then my father decided to detonate it. "You need to experience the real world," he'd said. Translation: he'd made a decision and called it fatherly wisdom. I set down my toothbrush, took my bath, and studied my reflection one last time. This was the last time anyone would see this face for a while. My fingers moved with quiet precision — adjusting the compression bandages across my chest until the discomfort became familiar. Manageable. The kind of ache you stop noticing after the hundredth time. On the vanity: two items. A wig. Dark, short, structured. Nothing like my real hair — long, and currently tucked away like a confession. A demi mask. Matte black. Clean lines. Designed to obscure exactly the parts of me that might give everything away. I put the wig on first. Then the mask. I looked in the mirror. The girl was gone. In her place stood someone colder. Sharper. Someone the world could look at without looking too closely. "Sylvester Adams." My voice came out lower. Steadier. The version I'd practiced until it felt like a second skin. Almost perfect. Almost. • • • "Ah. You're done," Gustavo said when I appeared in the dining room. The table held eggs, toast, fruit — arranged with the kind of care that costs money and produces guilt. I grabbed a bottle of milk and an apple instead. "Where is he?" "Master Adams had something important to attend to. He won't be available for the week." Of course. "My father misses my first day," I said flatly. "Impressive track record." I turned for the door. "And where exactly do you think you're going?" Gustavo's voice cut across the room. "To the farm," I said. "Go back to that table—" I was already out the door. The morning air was cool and indifferent. I crossed to the garage, grabbed my motorcycle keys, and paused just long enough to acknowledge what was waiting for me. New school. New people. New lies to keep straight. "Great," I muttered, pulling on my helmet. I revved the engine and shot out into the city. • • • Elysium Academy. The name alone should have been a warning. The gates were tall, polished, quietly intimidating. I parked near the edge of the lot and sat for a moment with my helmet still on, watching. Students moved in clusters. Laughter, gossip, the low-grade performance of people who had known each other long enough to be both comfortable and quietly competitive. I pulled off my helmet and stepped off the bike. Something shifted. Not dramatically. No gasps. But the rhythm of the courtyard changed. Eyes moved. One by one, then in pairs. "Is that him?" "Adams' son?" "Why is he wearing a mask?" I kept walking. Controlled. Unhurried. Let them wonder. Speculation was always more useful than certainty. • • • The principal was waiting at the entrance, smile already positioned. "Sylvester Adams. We're honoured to have you." I walked toward him at my own pace. No entrance exam. No records. Just my father's name rearranging the rules. "Liam!" A boy froze mid-step. Regret traveled through him in real time. "Show Sylvester around." Liam looked at me — really looked. Deliberate. Like he was trying to read something beneath the surface. "Sure," he said after a noticeable beat. The principal disappeared, leaving us alone. "So," Liam said, falling into step. "New school. Big reputation. Mysterious mask. You always this dramatic, or is today special?" I said nothing. "I'll take that as a yes. I'm Liam, by the way." Most people fill silence with apologies. Liam didn't. He kept walking, relaxed, as if my silence was simply part of the conversation. "You know, most people at least pretend to be friendly on their first day." I stopped. "I'm not most people." "Yeah," he said softly. "I'm starting to see that." Another student clapped Liam on the back. While Liam dug through his bag, I walked away. "Hey — wait, I'm supposed to show you around!" I didn't look back. • • • Ten minutes later, I regretted it. Three identical hallways. The same noticeboard twice. Officially late for a class I hadn't found. I'd spent years memorizing floor plans and escape routes, yet one private school had me circling like a lost satellite. I turned into a quieter corridor. That's when I heard it — a small, muffled sound. The wrong kind of quiet. A scuffle. A strained exhale. The janitor's closet. I considered walking away. The rule I'd made for myself was simple: get in, get through, get out. No attachments. No risks that weren't mine. The sound came again. I pushed the door open. Liam. Tied to a chair. Bruise darkening on his cheekbone. Tape across his mouth. He blinked at me. Recognition, then relief. "Well," I said, stepping inside and closing the door. "This wasn't on the tour itinerary." I peeled the tape off. "Who did this?" "Don't know. Came from behind." "Did they take anything?" "No." "Then it wasn't random." I worked the knots quickly. "Someone wanted you out of the way." I untied the last rope and stepped back. "Thank you," he said, meaning it. "You don't owe me." I was already in the hallway. I told myself it was nothing. Clean. Impersonal. I almost believed it. • • • I found my classroom twenty minutes late. The teacher stopped mid-sentence. "And you are?" "Sylvester Adams." "Ah. The one who got in through connections." "I don't tolerate lateness. Especially not from students who believe money substitutes for discipline." "Then don't tolerate it," I said. The room went quiet. "Would you like to explain why you're late?" "I had something to handle." "Something more important than my class?" "Fixing your school's security problem. A student was tied up in the janitor's closet. During school hours." I held his gaze. "You might want to look into that instead of me." The students were watching me now. The teacher had lost the room. "...Right. We'll discuss this after class." "Of course. Please, continue." • • • By lunch, my name had traveled through the school. I sat in a corner of the cafeteria to observe. Elysium was full of children of powerful people. Useful to understand. A shadow fell across the table. Liam, tray in hand, bruise darkening, smile intact. "Hi," he said, sitting down as if invited. "I never invited you." "Oh, I know." He took a bite of his apple. I stared. He stared back, unbothered. "Thanks for earlier." "Don't talk while chewing." "My mum tried. Didn't stick." I looked across the room. A composed boy sat at a center table, eating alone. "That's David," Liam said. "Family in the top twenty most powerful. Brothers sent away. Sister in rehab. David is the straightforward one — which probably means he's hiding things better." Liam talked. I listened. I hadn't planned to find any of it useful. • • • The school day ended with a new problem. I was almost to my bike when a red car clipped it with a sharp metallic crunch. "Hey — I'm so sorry." The driver got out quickly. Young. Polished. "Completely my fault. I'll cover everything." "Never mind." "I insist. Let me drive you home." I studied him. The offer was too eager. He was curious. "Fine," I said. "Ryan," he offered on the road. I didn't respond. "You're Sylvester Adams. The mask — fashion statement or—" My stomach growled loudly. "You're hungry. Let me take you somewhere. Call it compensation." The restaurant was expensive but understated. We ordered. I planned to eat quickly and leave. Then the crash. A waiter had spilled food on a woman's dress. She slapped him sharply. "You absolute i***t. Do you have any idea what this dress costs?" The manager appeared, apologizing. The woman demanded the waiter be fired. "Please — don't take my job," the waiter begged. It was Liam. I stood up. Ryan watched with curiosity. "Interesting scheme," I said to the woman. She turned. "Excuse me?" "You walked into him deliberately. That dress is a replica. Your family hasn't been able to afford the real version for some time, Mrs. Smith. Extorting staff is a new low." The room went still. She grabbed her bag and left quickly. The manager exhaled. "You're not fired." Liam looked at me, eyes bright. "Thank you." "I'm done," I told Ryan. "Let's go." • • • He dropped me at my father's company building. Before I got out, he spoke. "You're not what people think you are." I paused, then stepped out without looking back. • • • Back home, I stood in front of the mirror and took it all off — mask first, then wig, then bandages — until Silver Adams looked back at me. Tired. Carrying the weight of spending all day as someone else. Two things happened today that I hadn't planned for. I helped Liam. Twice. And Ryan noticed something. Neither was supposed to happen. "How long," I whispered to my reflection, "can I keep doing this?" The mirror gave me nothing. The answer was the one I already knew and couldn't afford to say out loud: Not as long as I need to.