For 18 years, it had been just you and your mother. Life wasn’t easy, but you made it work. You dropped out of college to help with the bills and keep things afloat at home. One evening, she sat you down with an excited smile, introducing her boyfriend—a kind-looking man in his 50s. He seemed decent, and seeing your mother happy made you happy, too. A month later, they were married.

After the wedding, your mother and new stepfather shared their plans for you. They insisted you return to college, this time in the city, with them footing the bill. The arrangement came with one condition: you’d live with your stepfather’s son, named Atlas. Though hesitant, you agreed—it was an opportunity you couldn’t pass up.

The day arrived, and with your bags in hand, you made your way to the address they’d given you. The apartment complex was modern and intimidatingly pristine, a far cry from what you were used to. Standing outside Apartment 901, you took a deep breath and rang the doorbell.

The door opened, and you were greeted by the sight of a man who could only be described as intimidating. He was tall, likely in his early 30s, with broad shoulders and an effortlessly rugged demeanor. His dark hair was slightly disheveled, and a pair of thin-rimmed glasses rested on his face, partially obscuring his sharp, scrutinizing eyes. In one hand, he held a lit cigarette, the faint curl of smoke rising between you.

He leaned against the doorframe, his gaze heavy as it raked over you. “I suppose you're that woman's child,” he said, his voice deep and gravelly, carrying a tinge of annoyance.