Six months ago
Los Angeles, California

The woman stumbled, barefoot and shaking, her breath fogging in the cold night air. Rain blurred her senses, her hands reaching out like she could grab salvation from the dark.

"Help..." she whispered, her voice collapsing in her throat. "Please..."

No one answered.

Then the voice came—
"There she is! Get that bitch!"

Her stomach dropped. Every instinct screamed run, but her feet barely moved. She turned blindly—no direction, no idea where she was and bolted, only to fall, hard. The gravel tore into her skin. She tried to stand, but hands found her first.

They didn't yell anymore. They didn't need to. They were here.

She screamed when someone yanked her hair, dragging her across the pavement like a rag doll.

"Let go—please—don't—" her voice cracked like brittle glass.

"Shut up, blind whore," one of them snarled.

She sobbed, trembling. She hated her eyes. Hated this night. Hated that her brother wasn't there.

The hands came all at once.

One pinned her arms. Another forced her legs apart. She couldn't tell how many there were. She didn't want to know. Someone tore at the fabric of her blouse and sari until the cold soaked into her bare skin.

Her screams were swallowed by the rain.

"Don't fight," one said, breath hot and close. "You'll get used to it."

She turned her head, teeth clenched, trying to disappear inside herself. But her body betrayed her, shaking and tense beneath their weight.

One of them leaned down, lips near her ear.

"We should take her with us. Blind and beautiful—she'll be a hit."

"Fuck, this blind bitch is hot. We should definitely take her home. They'll love her," another one laughed, sending her further into despair.

They tied her wrists with a belt. Her arms burned against the leather. She thrashed, and another slap hit her cheek so hard her ears rang.

Then something hard pressed against her lips.

"Hahaha, that's a good way to shut her up," someone sneered.

"Suck it... you whore."

She cried harder.

This wasn't just crying. It was breaking. A kind of grief no one survives. Her voice shattered with each scream that dissolved into the rain.

And then—
A voice. Sharp. Female. Unafraid.

"Hey! Get the fuck away from her!"

Everything froze. The men turned, stunned by the sound.

A girl stood just beyond the light. Soaked to the bone, fists clenched, voice steady.

"I said back off."

One of them laughed — low and twisted.

"Well, well... another little slut in the storm."

"Two blind bitches for the price of one," another grinned. "Tonight's getting better and better."

"Come here, baby," the third one sneered. "You can keep her company. Let's see how loud you scream."

They moved toward her.

The young woman didn't flinch.

Her hand slid into her bag, pulled out a switchblade — click. Sharp steel gleamed in the rain.

In her other hand — her phone lit up.

Dialing 911.
Call in progress.

She held it high. Her voice didn't shake.

"Touch me, and you'll be explaining it to a judge."

One of them lunged toward her.

And then — sirens. Distant. But growing louder.

"Shit," one of them cursed. "She really called—"

"Let's go. Let's fucking go."

A final shove to the gravel. Boots slipping in the mud.

Then they vanished into the dark.

The woman stood there, still holding the knife. Her hands trembled.

Then she dropped it and ran to the sobbing girl.

She untied her wrists, wrapped her in a shawl, and pulled her close.

"You're okay now."

The girl collapsed into her, not out of trust—but because there was nothing left to hold herself up with.

"Thank you... oh god... thank you..."

The stranger didn't say much. Just held her tighter.

"Let's get you home," she whispered.

And she did.

Later, as the car slowed outside the mansion gates, the blind girl turned. Her hands reached out, touching the woman's shoulder, then her arm—like she was trying to memorize her in pieces.

"What's your name?" she asked, voice trembling. "Please... I need to know who you are."

The woman paused. Rain tapping softly on the car roof. Then she answered, barely above a whisper

"Ashira... Ashira Verani."

The name didn't echo.

It sank—deep and certain, like a secret that wasn't meant to be spoken out loud.

🥀

Ashira

Sterling Hill, Pennsylvania — Six Months Later

We moved across the country to forget what happened.
New town. New school. Same weight on my chest.

And right now, all I want is five more minutes of sleep.

"Get your ass up before I dump water on you."

Riya's voice slices through my dream like a buzzsaw. A second later, something, probably her elbow  jabs me in the ribs. I groan, dragging the blanket over my head, clinging to the last seconds of quiet.

"Five more minutes."

"It's already nine." Her voice sharpens. "Class starts at nine-forty-five. First day. New school. You swore we'd be early. Inspirational and punctual, remember?"

That gets me moving. Sort of. I peek out from the blanket and squint at her. "Why didn't you wake me earlier?"

"I tried. Twice. You told me to screw off both times and threw a pillow at me."

I sigh and sit up, my hair a mess and my face definitely not ready for the outside world. "Okay, fine. I'm up."

"Finally." She tosses a t-shirt at my face. "Hurry up, Ash. We're not walking in late like sad little transfer kids."

Fifteen minutes later, I'm speeding down the road with damp hair, mismatched socks, and toast clenched between my teeth. Riya sits shotgun, effortlessly put together like she didn't just roll out of bed fifteen minutes ago. Her phone's already in her hand, music low, lip gloss perfect.

"You nervous?" she asks, glancing over at me.

I shrug. "A little."

"You're gripping the steering wheel like it owes you money."

I loosen my hold and exhale. "It's just... new place. New people. It's a lot."

She doesn't say anything right away. Just nods and gives me a look that's all understanding and quiet strength.

"We've done harder things," she finally says.

And she's right.

After our parents died last year, everything changed. We couldn't stay in that house. Couldn't walk past their empty bedroom every day. Couldn't listen to the silence that used to be filled with their laughter. So we left. Moved to the city. Enrolled in a new college. Started over, just the two of us.

Now we're here.

We pull into the parking lot just as the place starts to buzz. Students everywhere—laughing, rushing, shouting across the quad. It's overwhelming. I kill the engine and just sit there for a second, staring at the campus.

"Okay," I say, more to myself than to her. "We've got this."

Riya leans across the console and gives me a quick, sideways hug. "Let's go make a mediocre impression."

We check in at the principal's office—a man in his fifties with wire-rim glasses and a kind smile. He welcomes us, hands over our timetables, and says the head deputy, Mary, will walk us to class.

I glance down at my schedule. "History, English, Psychology, Photography," I say, nudging Riya.

She's already comparing. "We've got three out of four together," she grins. "No Psych."

"Well, at least I get a break from your constant commentary."

"Rude."

A woman in a sharp navy suit enters the office—confident stride, no-nonsense energy. Mary. She gives us a brief smile and gestures for us to follow.

When she opens the door to our first class, the noise inside cuts off like someone hit pause. She walks in without hesitation. "Good morning, students. We've got two new additions today—Ashira Verani and Riya Verani . Please treat them with the same respect you'd expect."

I keep my eyes low, doing everything not to shrink under the weight of the room's attention. Riya stands taller beside me, like she's done this a thousand times.

Mary turns us over to the teacher, a kind-looking woman named Mrs. Fennah with soft eyes and streaks of silver in her bun. She smiles and points Riya toward an open seat next to a boy with thick glasses and a bright, overeager smile.

"And Ashira, you can take the empty seat next to Mia."

I glance toward where she's pointing and immediately regret it.

Mia looks like she stepped out of a catalog for apathetic cool girls—legs crossed, hoodie oversized, gum popping between her teeth like she's trying to annoy the air itself. Her gaze doesn't lift from her phone.

I walk over slowly, trying to steady my heartbeat. I sit beside her and clear my throat softly.

"Um. Hi. I'm Ashira."

She doesn't look up.
Just keeps scrolling with her thumb and blows a bubble.

Okay....

I wait a few seconds before trying again. "It's my first day. So... yeah. Just trying to figure everything out."

Why do I keep talking, just shut it Ashira

Another bubble pops. She finally turns her head just enough to glance at me, eyes sharp and uninterested.

"Cool."

That's it. One word.

I blink. "Sorry, I didn't mean to bug you—"

"You didn't." She shifts in her seat, adjusts her hoodie sleeve, and goes right back to her phone.

My cheeks flush with secondhand embarrassment. I sink into my chair and silently pull out my notebook. The rest of class blurs into background noise. I try to focus, but I can feel Mia's disinterest radiating off her like static. Not mean. Not shy. Just... cold. Closed off like a locked door no one's allowed to knock on.

When the bell finally rings, I gather my things and walk out fast.

Riya's already waiting in the hall, arms crossed. "So... Mia?"

I sigh. "About as warm and welcoming as a cactus."

"She didn't talk to you?"

"Oh no, she talked. Said one word. 'Cool.'"

"Ouch." Riya winces. "Well, Adam wouldn't shut up. He told me about his cat's Instagram. His cat, Ashira."

I can't help it—I laugh. "At least we're both dying slowly."

We head toward the cafeteria, trying to shake off the awkwardness. Just as we round the corner, I walk straight into someone, hard enough to knock the drink right out of his hand.

I stumble back. "Shit, I'm so sorry—"

The drink hits both of us. Sticky. Cold. He doesn't flinch.

I reach for a napkin, automatic and panicked, but before I can touch his shirt, a hand closes around my wrist.

Hard.

Not aggressive, but not gentle either.

Commanding. Cold. Possessive.

"Touch me again and I'll break your fingers."

The words are low. Controlled. Spoken like violence in a suit.

I freeze. I look up.

And that's when I see him.

He's not just good-looking, he's the kind of beautiful that breaks things. All sharp lines and quiet fury. Hair that looks like he sleeps through alarms and still owns every room. A jawline that belongs in handcuffs. Storm-coloured eyes that don't look at you—they size you up like a threat or a toy.

People like him don't walk in halls. They haunt them.

"You always crash into people," he says, eyes narrowing, "or am I just the lucky one?"

His tone is bored. Rude. Like he doesn't care who I am, just that I'm in his way.

I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.

Then she appears—girl by his side. Pretty. Sharp. Jealousy pouring out of her skin.

"Reyanth," she snaps, grabbing his arm like a leash.

He doesn't even blink.

"You're in my way," he says again. No smile. No warmth.

He steps around me, brushing close enough to set my nerves on fire. His energy doesn't warn. It dares.

And then, just as he passes—

"Pretty face," he murmurs like a threat. "Shame you won't survive here."

And then he's gone.

"Okay damn," Riya mutters. "That was... intense."

I don't speak. I just keep staring where he stood.

Not because of what he said.
But because of the way it felt.

Like the beginning of something I'll regret surviving.