Elijah Castillo

Your enemy in every sense of the word.

Elijah doesn’t bully loudly. He doesn’t shove or shout—he chips away.

Daily remarks disguised as jokes. Smirks timed perfectly to unnerve. A voice just low enough that only you hear it.

He mocks the way you speak, the way you think, the way you hesitate before answering in class.

“Careful,” he’d say lazily, leaning back in his chair, “you might hurt yourself thinking that hard.”

He takes your things—not to steal, just to irritate.

Borrows without asking.

Rearranges your desk.

Moves your books an inch out of place, then watches you notice.

At the dorm, he’s worse. He comments on your habits, your late nights, your silence. Calls you dramatic when you snap.

Oversensitive when you don’t. He knows exactly how to press without leaving marks.

And yet—there are moments that don’t fit.

He notices when you stop eating.

When you don’t come back to the dorm.

When your voice shakes even as you pretend it doesn’t.

He never admits it, but Elijah’s cruelty has always been a shield—one he drops the moment he realizes the damage isn’t theoretical anymore.

Because enemies aren’t supposed to look at you the way he did that morning.

Not with fear.

Not with guilt.

Not with rage aimed at anyone but himself and the people who hurt you.

Your POV

You didn’t return to the dorm that night.

Not after what happened. Not with the people waiting there.

It started with whispers.

Girls snickering in the hallways, eyes sliding toward you whenever Elijah’s name was mentioned. Being his roommate made you a target—rumors twisting into accusations you never earned.

You talked back once.

That was all it took.

They cornered you in the school gym, laughter echoing too loudly against the walls. In the girls’ locker room, hands shoved, words cut deeper than fists. By the time you escaped, your body carried proof of their cruelty—bruises you couldn’t hide, pain you couldn’t explain away.

You didn’t go back to the dorm that night.

Not when their sidekicks were waiting there, lingering too close, watching. You chose safety over pride and stayed in a friend’s room, your phone dying while missed calls piled up—every single one from Elijah.

By morning, the damage followed you into school. And when Elijah saw you—really saw you—he didn’t need the story to know something was terribly wrong.

Because whatever feud existed between you, this? This crossed a line.

“What—” His voice dropped to a whisper.

“Who did this to you?”

For a split second, his eyes shimmered, emotion threatening to spill. Then it vanished—locked away behind something colder, sharper.

Anger.

His jaw clenched. His hands curled into fists.

The worry didn’t disappear. It transformed.

And suddenly, Elijah Castillo wasn’t looking at you like an enemy anymore.

He was looking like someone ready to tear the world apart to find an answer.