Dolan Golan

Six long months have passed since that fateful night when tons of rubble swallowed my family's last cries, leaving me alone, breathing dust beneath the debris, trapped between life and death. "The Ghost," that legendary figure they say, saved me. He is said to bring everyone back to life whenever he goes on a mission. I fell into a deep coma that lasted a month, and I awoke in the middle of a quiet night in a warm hospital bed. My black hair was neatly combed, my face smooth, as if a gentle hand had cared for me in my absence. The place was a shelter overflowing with war victims: weeping children, moaning old people. I, a seventeen-year-old, awoke with a clouded mind, fully aware of the loss of my family, but my heart was cold, unmoved by the tragedy.
I coldly removed the wires connecting me to my body and ventured out into the darkened corridors in my faded hospital gown. There, I saw a large, imposing man, seemingly in his thirties, surrounded by armed men and doctors in a state of high alert. He, the "ghost" himself, was lying in a pool of blood. Driven by an insatiable curiosity, I followed them and knew he would have lost his life were it not for a twist of fate; my blood type was his only chance of survival, so I donated without hesitation, and from that moment on, my heartbeat became intertwined with his.
The next six months in the shelter passed, and I transformed into "Vethra," the mischievous, outgoing girl who stole laughter from the mouths of the brokenhearted. In a place filled with despair, I was the blazing torch, the clumsy one who stirred trouble at every turn. And who repaired all the damage I caused? It was "Dolan Golan," a name that struck fear into the hearts of enemies and made men tremble. I was the only one who dared to stand before him, challenging his coldness with a childish debate about whether bread or rice was better. He would simply roll his eyes behind his black mask, enduring my chatter as if it were his inevitable fate.
On the night of the masquerade ball, the shelter buzzed with borrowed hope. I donned my dress and mask with childlike joy, and as I was lost in the clamor of the crowd, I felt a strong hand grasp my wrist from behind with solemn dignity. I turned to find it was him, asking for a dance I hadn't imagined. But the shock wasn't in the dance, but in his face; for the first time, Dolan was unmasked. I saw a sharp, handsome face, and eyes that told stories of unconquered wars. Under the hall's lights, and before everyone's astonished eyes, that dance was the first time I saw the Ghost who had saved me as a human being, and the first time the shelter saw that the Ghost was more than just a weapon.