**Noah’s POV**

Pain woke me up. It shot through my head, sharp and throbbing, like someone was hammering nails into my skull. I groaned, my eyes fluttering open, and the world came into focus slowly. I was still on the floor, sprawled out in our dingy living room. My school bag lay a few feet away, zipper busted, books spilling out. Broken glass glittered around me—shards of the bottle my dad had smashed over my head. I touched my scalp, wincing. My fingers came back sticky with blood.

I couldn’t believe it. My own dad hit me with a bottle. Knocked me out cold. My chest tightened, not just from the pain but from the betrayal. He’d always been a monster, but this? This was new.

I tried to stand, my legs shaky, but a noise stopped me—low voices, urgent, coming from the kitchen. I squinted through the light, my head pounding. Two or three blurry figures stood near the doorway, talking to someone. My dad. His voice was different, not the usual drunken slur. He sounded… scared. Begging.

“Please, I’ll get the money,” he was saying, his words fast and desperate. “Just give me more time.”

I pushed myself up, ignoring the dizziness, and stumbled toward them. My heart raced as I got closer. Two guys in dark suits stood over my dad, their faces hard. One had a scar across his cheek; the other was bigger, built like a wall. Dad was on his knees, hands clasped like he was praying. I’d never seen him like this. Weak. Pathetic.

“What’s going on?” I demanded, my voice cracking. I stepped into the kitchen, my fists clenched, though I knew I couldn’t do much. Not after the beating from Jake and now this.

The scarred guy turned, his eyes locking onto me. They were cold, like he was sizing me up. “This your kid?” he asked, glancing at my dad.

Dad didn’t answer, just kept his head down. I felt a surge of anger. “What do you want?” I said, stepping closer. “What’s this about?”

The big guy smirked, folding his arms. “Your old man owes us. Big time. But he’s out of chances.” He leaned down, his voice dropping. “Unless he’s got something valuable to trade.”

Valuable? My stomach twisted. “What the hell does that mean?” I grabbed the scarred guy’s collar, my hands shaking with rage. “What are you talking about?”

He didn’t flinch, just smiled, slow and cruel. Before I could react, my dad yanked me back, his grip hard on my arm. “Noah, stop!” he snapped, his voice sharp with panic. Then he slapped me, hard, sending me stumbling to the floor. My cheek burned, and I tasted blood again.

“Don’t make this worse!” Dad shouted, his eyes wild. “Just shut up!”

I stared at him, my chest heaving. He’d hit me again. After everything. I wanted to scream, to hit him back, but the scarred guy crouched down, whispering something in Dad’s ear. I couldn’t hear it, but Dad’s face went pale. He looked at me, then back at the guy, and after what felt like forever, he nodded. Like he was agreeing to something.

“What’s happening?” I yelled, scrambling to my feet. “Dad, what did you do?”

Nobody answered. The big guy grabbed my arm, his grip like iron, and the scarred one took my other side. I thrashed, trying to break free, my bag falling to the floor again. “Let go!” I shouted, kicking at them. “Dad, say something!”

But he didn’t. He just stood there, head down, not even looking at me. My own father, selling me out. My heart broke right there, sharper than the pain in my head.

They dragged me outside, my sneakers scraping the pavement. A black car waited, its engine running. I fought harder, twisting in their grip, but they were too strong. “Where are you taking me?” I screamed, my voice raw. No answer. The scarred guy opened the car door, and they shoved me inside. I lunged for the handle, but something sharp pricked my neck—a needle, fast and cold. My vision blurred, my limbs went heavy, and the world faded to black.

When I woke, my hands were tied behind my back, tight enough to bite into my skin. A rough bag covered my head, scratching my face. I couldn’t see anything, just darkness, but I heard the low hum of the car, the creak of leather seats. My head throbbed, my body ached, and panic clawed at my chest. Where were they taking me? What did Dad do?

The car stopped. Doors opened, and rough hands yanked me out. I stumbled, my knees hitting the ground, but they pulled me up, dragging me forward. “Where am I?” I asked, my voice muffled by the bag. “What do you want?”

No one answered. My sneakers scuffed against what felt like stone, then wood, as they pulled me inside somewhere. The air was cooler, heavier, like a big house. I heard footsteps, distant voices, but no one spoke to me. Then they stopped, and someone shoved me down. My knees hit the floor hard, and I bit back a groan.

The bag was ripped off my head. I blinked, the light stinging my eyes. The room was huge, all dark wood and leather, like some rich guy’s office. And standing in front of me was… him. A guy, tall and broad, shirtless, his muscles tight under tanned skin. He held a glass of something dark, probably whiskey, and his eyes—sharp, almost glowing—locked onto mine. He didn’t say a word, just stared, his jaw tight, like he was trying to figure me out.

I stared back, my heart pounding. Fear twisted in my gut, but there was something else, too. Something I couldn’t name. A pull, deep inside, like I knew him, even though I’d never seen him before. His eyes narrowed, and he took a slow sip of his drink, never looking away.

Who was he? And why did I feel like this?

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