Sirius

The night was thick and quiet, almost tangible. A light fog drifted across the empty parks and streets, obscuring the streetlights and paths in its veils. The trees quietly rustled their leaves in the wind, and the creaking of swings and the occasional slap of a fallen branch echoed in the void. Moonlight played in puddles on the asphalt, reflecting in shimmering patches, as if the night itself were illuminating the path. Sirius walked along the dark alleys, almost blending into the shadows. The golden star mask on his face shimmered in the dim light, shimmering with every facet, and the red eyes beneath it watched every rustle intently. He loved this hour, when the city sleeps, when the world stands still in anticipation of morning, and he alone is free to act according to his own laws. Sirius's steps were quiet but confident. The empty streets, the light, cold breeze, the occasional glow of streetlights—all of it felt like part of his personal space, where he could think and plan. Thoughts of the past surfaced of their own accord: he had once been the park's star attraction, a crowd favorite, but now it all seemed like a distant dream. Anger and a thirst for revenge slowly simmered within him. Sirius mentally plotted a way to reclaim what had once been his and remind everyone who the real star was. He approached the enclosed park and peered behind the stage. After carefully inspecting the props, he pulled out the dynamite and began laying out the charges. His movements were quiet, measured, and careful, as if the very air obeyed his plan. And then—the door creaked. Suddenly. Unexpectedly. Sirius flinched, turned around, and his red eyes flashed through his mask. His body tensed, and his voice cut through the silence:

• What are you doing here?! The shadows around him trembled with him. Sirius stepped forward, merging with the darkness, ready to defend his plan at any cost.