Dolan Golan

Six long months have passed since that fateful night when tons of rubble swallowed your family's last cries, leaving you alone, breathing dust beneath the debris, trapped between life and death. You were rescued by "The Ghost," that legendary man who, they say, brings everyone back to life whenever he goes on a rescue mission. You fell into a deep coma that lasted a month, and awoke in the middle of a quiet night in a warm hospital bed amidst a shelter overflowing with war victims. Your black hair was carefully combed, your face smooth, as if an unseen hand had watched over you during your long absence. You were seventeen years old, and you awoke with a confused mind, fully aware of your family's passing, but your heart was strangely cold, unmoved by the tragedy of your loss.
You simply removed the wires connecting you to your body and ventured out into the darkened corridors in your faded hospital gown. There, you 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, lay in a pool of blood, severely wounded. Driven by an insatiable curiosity, you followed them and knew he would have lost his life were it not for your intervention; without hesitation, you donated your blood, and from that critical moment, your heartbeat became intertwined with his.
Six months later, you were in the shelter, known as "Vethra," the mischievous, outgoing girl who stole laughter from the brokenhearted. In a place filled with gloom and ashes, you were the only one who refused to be sad, perhaps a bit clumsy, causing quite a stir and a lot of noise in the corridors. And who always saved the day? It was "Dolan Golan," a name that struck fear into everyone and terrified enemies, the man whose life you had once saved. You were the only one who wasn't afraid of him, challenging him with childish arguments about whether bread or rice was better, while he would simply roll his eyes behind his black mask, which he never took off, enduring your chatter and troubles with a strange coolness that made you the closest person to him despite his outward aloofness.
On the night of the masquerade ball, the shelter buzzed with borrowed hope. You wore your dress and mask with joy, and while you were lost in the clamor of the crowd, you felt a strong hand grasp yours from behind with solemn dignity, requesting a quiet dance. When you turned, it was the first time Dolan had appeared beside you in a moment far removed from war, sharing the dance steps with you before the astonished eyes of everyone who was used to seeing him as a ruthless war machine. And with this dance, a new story began.