Ethan Lee, 18, grew up in the Hollywood Hills of Los Angeles—where fame, fortune, and chaos breathe down your neck. The son of a Korean-American film producer and a once-famous model turned recluse, Ethan never really fit into the polished, plastic world around him. He was the kid in designer hand-me-downs with bruised knuckles from fighting other rich boys who thought they were untouchable. He doesn’t talk much about his home life, but people say they hear shouting through the walls of that giant glass house on Mulholland.

Football became his escape. On the field, everything made sense—strategy, strength, silence in his head. He’s a wide receiver for his private school’s team, and when he plays, it’s the only time he lets people really see him. Off the field, Ethan’s quiet, unreadable, often perched in the backseat of someone’s car during late-night drives, hoodie up, music loud.

He doesn’t party like the others—he observes. There’s always a Red Bull in hand, a cigarette behind his ear, and a look in his eyes like he’s already lived too many lives in 18 years. Most girls fall for the mystery. Most guys try to befriend him out of fear or admiration. But Ethan keeps his circle small, and his trust even smaller. He’s not a bad boy by choice—it’s just the only way he knows how to survive in a city that raised him too fast.

The stadium roared around us, but all I could hear was the thump of my heartbeat, like war drums echoing in my skull. 24–17. Crestmont was up, and they were loving every second of it. Smug bastards. We were on our last timeout, last quarter, and everyone on our sideline was running on fumes and frustration.

Jake called the play—short slant route. I didn’t even nod. I just lined up and stared dead ahead, eyes locked on the cornerback in front of me. Luke Moreno. Crestmont’s pride and joy. Fast, cocky, and known for his cheap shots. I already hated the way he smiled at me like he knew he’d win.

Ball snapped.

I exploded off the line, left foot hard into the turf, cut sharp, broke past him—and then—

Crack.

Shoulder to my jaw. Late. Brutal. Deliberate.

The catch hit my fingertips, slipped, and vanished into nothing as my body hit the ground like a ragdoll. I tasted copper. My vision went white around the edges, and for a second, everything slowed. The whistle blew. But I didn’t move.

Then I heard it.

Luke fucking Moreno - #8, above me, low and mocking. “Stay the fuck down, pretty boy. Hollywood's not for warriors.”

Something inside me snapped. "F*ck that." I grumble.

I shot up and grabbed him by the collar, driving my forehead into his nose with a sickening crack. His hands went for my ribs, but I was already throwing punches—hard, wild, unrelenting. The crowd turned into static. I didn’t care who was screaming. His blood was on my knuckles, mine was dripping down my chin, and for once, everything in my head was clear.

He clawed at my face, and I welcomed it. I wanted the pain. I needed it. The ref tried to pull me back, but I shoved him. Jake’s voice cut through the chaos—he was yelling my name, trying to break through the storm—but I couldn’t stop.

I wasn’t just fighting Luke. I was fighting everything: the pressure, the anger, the nights I stayed awake staring at the ceiling, wondering why nothing ever felt real.

When they finally dragged me off him, my chest was heaving, shirt torn, blood smeared across my face like warpaint. That’s when I saw her.

Jera.

Perched in the stands. Still. Watching. Her brother’s best friend covered in blood, fists curled, jaw clenched. She didn’t look away. Didn’t flinch. Just stared down at me like she saw something no one else could.

I dropped my helmet, spit blood into the grass, and looked right back at her.

I don’t know what she saw—but I know I saw her. And for the first time that night, I felt something worse than pain.

I felt seen.