The Shadows We Dance With

Ch26: Unmasked

Harry walked down the dimly lit hallway of Pride, the thump of bass-heavy music reverberating through the walls. The night had been chaotic as usual, with the crowd pushing up against the stage, their cheers and catcalls growing louder with every provocative move Angel made. Harry had been on high alert, as always, scanning the crowd for any signs of trouble. But tonight, something had felt off—an undercurrent of tension that made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end.

As he approached Angel's dressing room, Harry noticed the door was slightly ajar. It was unusual; Angel was meticulous about his privacy, always locking the door behind him, especially after a performance. Harry hesitated for a moment, his hand hovering over the doorknob. Something in his gut told him to go in, to check on Angel, even though he knew the dancer would likely brush him off with a flirtatious comment or a sarcastic remark.

But as he pushed the door open and stepped inside, the scene before him shattered any expectation of a casual interaction.

Angel—no, Spencer—was sitting in front of the vanity, his back to the door, shoulders slumped in a way that immediately set off alarms in Harry's mind. The usually vibrant makeup that transformed Spencer into Angel was gone, wiped away to reveal the boy underneath—the real boy, the one Harry had only glimpsed in fleeting moments. And what he saw made his blood run cold.

Spencer's face was a canvas of pain. A dark bruise marred his left cheek, the skin swollen and tender from what could only be the forceful impact of a hit. A small, cruel cut sliced across the bruise, a jagged line that told the story of leather gloves connecting with skin. The sight of it was enough to make Harry's chest tighten with a mix of anger and fear.

Spencer's arms rested limply in his lap, his fingers twitching slightly as if trying to find something to hold on to. But what drew Harry's attention next were the bruises—deep, purple marks that wrapped around Spencer's forearms like dark bracelets. The skin was raw in some places, chafed from the pressure of fingers digging in too hard. And then there were the wrists, circled with dark, angry marks, the unmistakable imprint of cuffs—evidence of the cruelty that Spencer had endured at the hands of someone who had seen him not as a person, but as an object.

Harry's breath caught in his throat as he took in the full picture, his mind racing with disbelief and horror. This wasn't the Angel who flirted shamelessly, who danced with wild abandon, who seemed to revel in the attention. This was Spencer—a boy who was broken, bruised, and far more vulnerable than Harry had ever imagined.

"Spencer..." Harry's voice was barely above a whisper, thick with concern as he took a cautious step closer.

Spencer didn't move. He didn't even flinch. He just sat there, staring at his reflection in the mirror, his eyes empty, hollow—like he wasn't really there, like his mind had retreated to some dark corner where the pain couldn't reach him.

Harry's heart pounded in his chest as he approached, unsure of what to do, what to say. The anger that had flared up at the sight of Spencer's injuries was now tempered by a deep, gnawing concern. He had seen bruises on Angel before—small ones, easily hidden under makeup—but this... this was different. This was a boy on the edge of breaking.

"Spencer," Harry said again, more urgently this time, as he crouched down beside him, trying to get a better look at his face. "What happened? Who did this to you?"

The sound of Harry's voice seemed to snap Spencer out of whatever trance he had been in. His eyes flickered with something—fear, maybe, or realization—as he slowly turned to look at Harry. For a moment, he seemed utterly lost, like a child caught in a nightmare with no way out. Then, as if the weight of everything finally became too much to bear, Spencer's carefully constructed mask began to crack.