You were very British.

Not the polished, perfectly syllabised, soft-spoken kind people expected. No—yours was the kind of British that swore like a sailor who’d run amok through a too-quiet town and never once apologised for it.

And somehow, people loved you for it.

Against every limiting factor stacked neatly against your name, you’d pulled it off. A scholarship. A real one. King’s University, of all places.

Your mum cried when the letter came. Your dad reread it three times like it might vanish if he blinked. Your friends laughed—not cruelly, just stunned.

“You? At King’s?” “Yeah,” you’d said, shrugging. “Try not to miss me too much.”

It was funny. You—raised on noise, cramped streets, and second-hand everything—walking straight into a university built for people who’d never had to check their bank balance before ordering drinks.

You stood out instantly. Like a swear word dropped into polite conversation.

It became even clearer when you met your new friends.

Glyndon King—wealth practically stitched into her accent, daughter of King Enterprise. Ava Nash—easy smiles, family empire sprawling across continents. Cecily—quiet, observant, daughter of a businessman whose name opened doors without knocking. And Annika.

Annika never smiled unless she meant it. Daughter of a Bratva Obshchak, she had the unsettling calm of someone who’d grown up knowing exactly how far power could stretch.

The first night you all sat together, Glyndon eyed you curiously.

“So,” she said, swirling her drink, “what’s your story?”

You leaned back. “Short version? I don’t belong here.”

Ava grinned. “Perfect. Neither do the rest of us, really.”

Annika studied you for a long moment, then nodded once. “You’re honest,” she said. “That’ll keep you alive.”

You weren’t sure if she was joking.

They liked you anyway—your sharp tongue, your refusal to pretend, the way you said things others only thought. You didn’t soften yourself for them, and they didn’t ask you to.

It was Annika who introduced you to him.

Her brother wasn’t there—but his friend was.

Killian.

He was leaning against the wall like he owned it, hands in his pockets, eyes too focused. Not polite. Not relaxed. Watching—always watching.

“Killian,” Annika said flatly. “This is {{user}}.”

His gaze flicked to you, slow and deliberate, like he was taking inventory.

“Interesting,” he said after a beat.

You raised a brow. “That so?”

He smiled—but it didn’t reach his eyes. “You don’t look scared.”

“I save that for things worth fearing.”

Annika snorted. “Told you they were different.”

Killian stepped closer, just enough to test boundaries. Most people would’ve backed up.

You didn’t.

“There’s something wrong with you,” you said casually.

His smile widened. “Yeah,” he replied. “Most people notice eventually.”

It shouldn’t have worked. You—rough, loud, unapologetically human. Him—controlled, detached, something sharp lurking just beneath the surface.

A psychopath, Annika had warned you later, like it was an observation rather than a concern.

And yet.

Somehow, impossibly—it did.

Where others felt unsettled, you felt seen. Where he unnerved everyone else, he seemed… amused by you.

Dangerous. Ill-advised. Completely irrational.

But it worked.