The banquet hall smells of roasted pork and damp wool. You sit at the long table, your plate untouched. The room is crowded. Men in grey uniforms laugh too loud. They eat. They drink. The air is thick. You watch the chandelier. It sways. A drop of wax falls. It lands on your sleeve. You do not wipe it off.

Across the room, a man stands. He is tall. He wears a coat of black velvet. His face is pale. His eyes are cold. This is Master Vane. He holds a glass of red wine. He looks at you. He smiles. It is a thin smile. It does not reach his eyes.

"You look tired, Sergeant," Vane says. His voice is soft. It cuts through the noise. "Is it the cold? Or is it guilt?"

You do not answer. You look at your hands. They are large. They are rough. They are shaking. You grip the edge of the table. The wood splinters under your nails.

"Answer me," Vane says. He leans forward. "Why do you wear that glove? The old one? The torn one?"

Your heart beats fast. It hits your ribs. You want to speak. You want to scream. But your throat is dry. You say nothing.

The other men stop laughing. They look at you. They look at Vane. The room goes quiet. The silence is heavy. It presses against your ears.

Vane stands up. He walks toward you. His footsteps are slow. They sound like a drum. He stops in front of you. He looks down. His shadow covers you.

"I know what you are," Vane says. "I know what you carry."

You look at him. You see fear in your own eyes. You see the old world. You see the fire. You see the smoke.

"I am only a man," you say. Your voice is low. It is rough. "I serve."

"Serve?" Vane laughs. It is a dry sound. Like leaves crunching. "You do not serve. You hunt. And I am the prey."

He reaches out. He grabs your collar. He pulls you up from the chair. You stand. You are taller than him. But you do not move. You do not strike. You hold still.

"Take it off," Vane says. He points to your hand. "The glove. Take it off and show me what is under it."

You look at the glove. It is brown leather. It is worn thin. The fingers are stretched. The palm is cracked. It has been with you for years. It is your skin. It is your secret.

"I cannot," you say.

"Why?" Vane asks. His eyes are wide. "What is under there? A mark? A brand?"

You shake your head. "It is just leather."

"Is it?" Vane steps closer. He smells of wine and perfume. "You think I do not know? I have seen others. I have seen what the old blood does. I have seen the marks. I have seen the eyes."

You feel a heat in your chest. It rises. It burns. You remember the night. You remember the door. You remember the sound of the scream. It was your father. It was not a scream of pain. It was a scream of release.

You push Vane away. He stumbles back. He hits the table. The wine spills. It flows across the wood. It is red. It is thick.

"You are a monster," you say.

"I am a survivor," Vane says. He straightens his coat. He looks at the other men. "Gentlemen, this man is unstable. He has lost his mind. The strain of the work is too much for him."

The men look at you. They do not see a monster. They see a tool. They see a weapon. They see a thing that can be broken.

"Leave," Vane says to you. "Go to your room. Do not come out. Do not speak. Do not move."

You turn. You walk out of the hall. The door slams behind you. The sound echoes in the corridor. The floor is cold. It is stone. It bites your feet.

You walk. You do not know where you are going. You walk until the lights go out. You walk until the sounds stop. You walk until you are alone.

You find your room. It is small. It is dark. There is a bed. There is a chair. There is a mirror. You sit on the bed. You breathe. The air is stale. You pull the glove off.

Your hand is white. It is pale. There are no marks. There are no brands. There is only skin. Smooth skin. Unmarked skin.

You look at your other hand. You pull off the other glove. It is the same. Smooth. Pale. Clean.

You cry. You do not know why. The tears fall. They hit the floor. They make a small sound. Plip. Plip. Plip.

You remember your father. He was not a monster. He was a man. He was kind. He was gentle. He loved you. He taught you to read. He taught you to play the piano. He died in the fire. He died because of you. He died because you did not run. He died because you stayed.

You closed the door. You locked it. You waited for the fire to take him. You waited for the end. You wanted to die with him. But you did not. You lived. You survived. You became what he was not. You became the enforcer. You became the hand that strikes.

You wear the glove to hide the truth. The truth is that you are nothing. You are empty. You are a shell. The glove is the only thing that holds you together. Without it, you are dust.

You put the glove back on. You pull it tight. You flex your fingers. The leather creaks. It sounds like a bone breaking.

You hear a knock at the door.

"Open up," a voice says. It is Vane.

You do not move. You sit in the dark. You wait.

The door bursts open. It flies into the wall. Wood splinters. Vane enters. He is not alone. Two men follow him. They hold clubs.

"Get up," Vane says. He walks to the mirror. He looks at his reflection. He adjusts his hair. "You see, I told them. You are weak. You are broken. You cannot do the job."

You stand up. You face him. You do not speak. You do not beg. You look at him. You see the fear in his eyes. It is the same fear you felt. It is the same fear that drives you.

"I am not weak," you say.

"You are a child," Vane says. "You do not understand. We are not men. We are machines. We are parts of a greater whole. If you break, we replace you. If you fail, we discard you."

He raises his hand. He points at you. "Strike him."

The men move. They swing their clubs. You do not dodge. You do not block. You stand still. The clubs hit you. They hit your head. They hit your ribs. They hit your face.

You feel the pain. It is sharp. It is bright. It is real. You bleed. The blood runs down your face. It is warm. It is red.

You do not fall. You do not cry out. You look at Vane. You smile. It is a small smile. It is sad.

"You are afraid," you say.

Vane steps back. His face is pale. "What?"

"You are afraid of me," you say. "You are afraid of what I am. You are afraid of what I will become."

You step forward. You take his arm. You twist it. It cracks. You hear the sound. It is loud. It is final.

Vane screams. He drops to his knees. He clutches his arm. He looks at you with horror.

You grab him by the throat. You lift him up. He dangles in the air. His feet kick. His face turns purple.

"I am not a machine," you say. "I am a man. I am your son."

Vane’s eyes widen. He gasps for air. He looks at you. He sees the truth. He sees the mark. He sees the blood.

He dies in your hands. His body falls. It hits the floor. It makes a wet sound.

The other men freeze. They look at you. They look at Vane. They look at their clubs. They drop them. They run. The door slams again.

You are alone. You stand in the room. The blood drips from your hands. It drips onto the floor. It pools around your feet.

You look at the mirror. You see your face. It is bruised. It is swollen. It is yours.

You look at your hands. You pull off the glove. You look at the skin. It is unmarked. It is clean.

You realize the truth. The glove was never a shield. It was a cage. You kept yourself in it. You kept the pain inside. You kept the guilt inside.

You walk to the window. You open it. The night air blows in. It is cold. It is fresh. It smells of rain.

You look out. The town is dark. The streets are empty. The lights are out. You are free.

You step out of the window. You fall. The air rushes past you. The ground is far below.

You do not close your eyes. You watch the ground come up. You watch the world blur. You watch the end come.

You do not scream. You do not pray. You just watch.

You hit the ground. It is hard. It is final.

The story ends. The wheel turns. The cycle begins again. Somewhere, a child is born. Somewhere, a glove is made. Somewhere, a man looks in the mirror. He sees his father. He sees his future. He sees the end.

The night is quiet. The rain falls. The world continues. It does not care. It does not stop. It just goes on. And on. And on.