Reyanth

Waking up felt like punishment.

My head throbbed, my mouth was sandpaper, and the stranger next to me was breathing like we'd just exchanged vows.

Kill me.

My head was pounding like someone was taking a sledgehammer to my skull.
The sharp tang of tequila still clung to the back of my throat, mixing with the stench of smoke, sweat, and whatever perfume this girl had drowned herself in.

Last night had been a blur of bass, bodies, and too much liquor.
We'd all partied too hard. Shots poured like water. Music loud enough to shatter bones. I remembered dancing. Laughing. Vicky trying to do body shots off some senior girl.

And then...
Her.

Somewhere between my fourth drink and complete blackout, I'd taken her home.
What happened after that was just noise. Touches. Skin. Moaning.
The usual.

The forgettable.

I felt something warm pressed against my side — soft skin, a leg curled over mine. Fuck. Not again.

I didn't even remember what she looked like. Didn't care to. Just that she moaned a lot and begged me to call her "baby."
Desperate type. The kind that hears what they want, not what I actually say.

I grabbed her arm and shoved it off me.

"Mmm... baby..." she murmured, voice low and syrupy. "Last night was... wow."

Jesus.

I sat up, rubbed my hands over my face, then stood in nothing but my boxers. My back cracked as I stretched, muscles still sore from the weight of too much liquor and too little patience.

She sat up behind me, dragging the sheet over her tits like she just remembered modesty was a thing. "Can I stay a little longer?"

I turned, looked her in the face. Brown hair. Lip gloss smudged. Love bite on her throat I didn't remember giving.

"I don't do sleepovers. You can go."

She blinked, caught off guard. "Wait... what?"

"I said," I repeated, walking toward the dresser to grab a cigarette, "get the fuck out."

"But we—last night you said I was different."

I lit the cigarette, leaned back against the wall, exhaled slow. "Yeah, I also said I'd call. I lied. Welcome to the real world."

"You're an asshole."

"No shit."

She looked like she wanted to cry. I didn't care. I was still trying to remember if I actually finished with her or if I just got bored halfway through.

"I'm not like those other girls," she whispered, voice breaking.

"Sweetheart," I said, stepping closer, "you're exactly like them. You moaned, you came — maybe — and now you're clinging to a guy who didn't even bother asking your name."

Her face fell. One tear slipped.

I flicked my ash into the tray and gave her a half-smile. "But thanks for the free fuck."

She slapped me.

Hard.

I didn't react. Just looked at her, stone-cold.

"I hope one day," she seethed, "you fall in love with someone who ruins you."

I chuckled. "Can't ruin what's already broken, sweetheart."

She stormed out, blanket barely covering her dignity.

Good riddance.

🥀

The rain hadn't stopped by the time I pulled into Sterling Hill's lot. Grey skies. Wet pavement. Students rushing around like rats in a maze.

I parked, stepped out, hoodie half-zipped, cigarette between my teeth.

Fake smiles. Pretend laughs. Everyone here was pretending to be something.

Except me.

"Yo, Rey!" Vicky called, already grinning like a jackass as he jogged over. "Last night's kill — was she decent?"

I smirked. "She was loud. I think she thought faking orgasms would earn her a relationship."

"Oof. One of those."

"Yeah. Clingy as fuck. Talked about meeting her mom after round two."

Vicky made a gagging noise.

Sunny caught up next. "You guys are disgusting."

"You're just jealous because your dick's been in quarantine for two weeks," I fired back.

"Because Rose is a psycho!" he cried. "She put an AirTag under my seat last month. Said if she couldn't have me, no one could."

Vicky choked. "Wait, Rose? Isn't she the one who slashed your tires?"

"And keyed 'cheater' on his hood," Sona added, smirking.

"She poured red paint on my windshield," Sunny muttered. "On Valentine's Day."

Sona raised a brow. "You dated her for what, like... two months?"

"Two months of sex and hellfire," Sunny groaned. "She was hot though. Like crazy eyes, knife-under-the-pillow hot."

"And you still went back?" I scoffed. "Let me guess. She let you choke her and called you 'sir'?"

Sunny threw his hands up. "Exactly! You get it."

"She needs an exorcism," Sona muttered.

I grinned. "He needs a helmet."

"Also stop sticking your dick in red flags," I said. "Problem solved."

Sona turned, that sharp edge in her voice like she was done letting me enjoy myself.

"You say that like you don't chase red flags—you raise them, hand them a lighter, then watch them burn from a distance."

That earned her a beat of silence, even Sunny shut the fuck up.

I looked at her, slow smirk curving at the edges of my mouth.

"Yeah," I said darkly, "and while they're burning, they're still on their knees choking on my name."

Sunny choked on his juice. Vicky doubled over laughing.

Sona stared at me, mouth open, then shook her head like she'd had enough. "Do you ever shut the hell up?"

"Not unless I'm choking on thighs."

"Jesus Christ," she muttered, storming off.

I laughed. Vicky laughed harder.

Aliya caught up with us by the entrance, hair in a loose braid, oversized hoodie hugging her figure like a second skin.

She slipped her hand into mine like it belonged there.

"Rough night?" she asked.

"Same shit," I said, flicking ash from my smoke. "Different hole."

She didn't even blink.

That's the thing about Aliya — she knew who I was and didn't try to fix it. She just stayed close enough to feel important, without ever asking for more.

Comfortable. Disposable. Safe.

Sometimes I wondered if she even liked me, or if she just liked being close to the chaos.

Ashvik was already at the table when we got to the cafeteria, nose in his textbook like finals were tomorrow.

I slid into my usual seat, stole his water, and glanced around at the rest of the group.

We'd all grown up in the same neighborhood — same busted-ass streets, same corner shops, same scars. From scraped knees to heartbreaks, we'd seen each other at our worst before we ever knew what "best" looked like.

They weren't just friends.

They were the kind of people who knew your middle name, your mom's cooking, and the shit you never said out loud.

And yeah, we were fucked up. But we were ours.

"You're gonna give yourself a stroke," I said, stealing his water bottle.

"Don't talk to me," he muttered. "I missed the bus, my car died, and I have three hours of sleep."

"So... usual Tuesday," Farhan smirked.

Ashvik finally looked up, dark circles under his eyes and pure murder in his stare. "You assholes laugh now, but when I'm out here getting into med school and you're still failing basic ethics, don't beg me for help."

"Bro, we already plan on faking seizures to get your attention," Vicky grinned.

Ashvik rolled his eyes, but the edge of his mouth twitched like he wanted to laugh.

He was the golden boy of the group — tall, clean-cut, unfairly handsome in that quiet, academic way. The kind of guy girls hovered around like flies to honey, but never got close enough to touch.

Too focused. Too disciplined. Too fucking decent for this place.

He didn't party. Didn't screw around. Always had a textbook in one hand and self-respect in the other.

Ashvik was the guy who'd carry your drunk ass home at 2 a.m. without ever mentioning it again.

Too good for most people.
Maybe too good for all of us.

🥀

I barely heard Farhan talking. My eyes had locked onto something else — or more accurately, someone.

She was sitting two tables away, tray untouched, talking quietly to her sister. Same traditional kurti. Same doe eyes. Same soft, demure posture like she didn't belong in a place like this.

Ashira Verani.

The name didn't match the way she looked.

That face... fuck. It wasn't fair. Delicate features, the kind sculptors pray for. Full lips that looked like they'd never been kissed the way they should. Eyes too big, too trusting. Too fucking unaware.

She looked like a goddamn fever dream someone dressed in decency.

And all I could think about was ruining it.

I leaned back in my chair, letting my gaze drag over her slowly. Her hair caught the light, strands sticking to her skin from the leftover drizzle. Her hands moved when she talked — soft, elegant, like she was afraid of taking up space.

That shit made something violent twist in my gut.

Innocent girls like her? They didn't belong at Sterling Hill.
They didn't walk these halls untouched.
They got swallowed whole.

And I didn't mind being the one to do the swallowing.

She looked up once — not at me, just scanning the cafeteria and I watched her eyes pass over me without recognition.

Not scared. Not intrigued.

Oblivious.

That pissed me off.

I tapped my cigarette on the edge of the table, watching the ash fall.

She had no idea what this place would do to someone like her.

But I did.

And I was going to make sure she learned.

Aliya said something beside me. I didn't catch it. Didn't care.

My head was already replaying that moment when she bumped into me earlier — the way she stuttered, the way her hands trembled trying to wipe the spill off my chest. Like touching me burned.

It should've.

That soft little gasp when I grabbed her wrist... fuck. The tension in her body, the way her eyes darted up, scared but steady?

It was the kind of look that haunted you not because it begged you to stop, but because it dared you to continue.

I wanted to know what she'd look like crying.

I wanted to know what she'd sound like if I backed her against a locker, got real close, whispered filthy things in that tiny ear of hers just to watch her blush and squirm.

I wanted to watch that sweet mouth fumble for words as I made her drop her books, her composure, her pride.

I wanted to break her.

Piece by piece.

Slow enough that she didn't even realize it was happening until it was too late.

Until she looked in the mirror one day and didn't recognize the girl staring back.

Yeah. That was the fun part.

I lit a cigarette, still staring. Still thinking.
Then—

"You good? You look like you're plotting a murder or about to cum in your pants. There's no in-between."

I smirked. "Maybe both."

He turned to look at where I was looking, and his face lit up. "Damn. New girl's got that virginal librarian vibe. Bet she tastes like sweet tea and regret."

He paused, grinning wider. "And her sister? Equally hot. Like—accidentally-step-on-me hot."

"Bet she's never even kissed a guy without saying sorry afterward," Sunny added, grinning.

I didn't laugh.

Sunny leaned in, a mischievous look in his eyes. "You into her or what?"

"Not my thing," I muttered, eyes still on her.

Lie.

My fingers twitched. My jaw clenched.
She was exactly my thing...

Because good girls like her? They crack the hardest. They fall the worst.

And the best part?

When they shatter, they always look to the same person who broke them to help put them back together.

Spoiler: I don't fix things.

"Can you, for once, not turn a girl into a goddamn project?" Sona snapped, clearly overhearing.

I didn't even turn.

"Project?" I scoffed. "Nah. Projects are long-term. I'm just looking for entertainment."

"Wow. Classic Rey," she scoffed. "Always the asshole."

I laughed — low, careless, unapologetic. "And somehow, still your favorite kind."

She rolled her eyes, but the corner of her mouth twitched like she was trying not to smile.

Ashira looked up again.

And this time, she saw me.

Our eyes met.

And for a second — just a second — her face froze. Not fear. Not recognition.

Something in between.

Her mouth parted, just barely. Then she blinked and looked away.

She looked like she felt it.
That flicker of wrongness — of a wolf watching from the trees.

Too late.

My smirk spread slow and easy, like smoke off a fire I hadn't even started yet.

She doesn't know it yet.
But this is how it begins.
Not a love story.
Not even close.

It will be fun breaking her.