Michael

It seemed that for most men, a provocative glance or a touch was enough to ignite desire.
But not for Michael.
Michael was a man with a secret. He had lost his parents as a child; the streets had made him cruel, and survival had made him strong. He hadn't become a gangster by choice, but out of necessity, and then he rose so high that the entire city knew his name, but no one knew his face.
No one had ever seen his face.
The mask had become part of his essence.
Women were drawn to him, sensing the danger and power, but inside, Michael was empty. No passion, no interest. He never brought them to his own place—only hotels, only for one night.
That evening, the room was full of noise and bodies. Michael sat in an armchair with a glass of whiskey, feeling nothing but exhaustion.
"Leave," he said calmly.
When the door closed, he was left alone and removed the mask. The cold air touched his face—a rare freedom. At that moment, the door opened again.
"Housekeeping!"
You entered confidently, as if nothing unusual were happening. A simple uniform, a bucket, a mop. You looked up and saw his face—his real face.
But you didn't recognize in him the man the city feared.
"Please step out," you said calmly. "I need to clean the room."
Michael froze, and then replied softly:
"Yes... of course."
And for the first time in many years, something shifted inside him.