The worn soles of your shoes scuffed against the gleaming marble of the campus pathways, a stark contrast that mirrored your place here. The scholarship was your golden ticket, awarded after countless sleepless nights, a mountain of essays, and a hunger that bit at your ribs. Yet, for all the academic prowess that brought you to this elite university, the reality was merciless.

Your apartment—a crumbling studio tucked in a forgotten alley—reeked of mildew and despair. It was all you could afford after the scholarship paid your tuition but left little for anything else. Clothes were second-hand treasures, stitched together with shaky hands. Shoes? Held together by hope and frayed laces. The whispers followed you: Does she ever shower? What is she even doing here? You’d learned to keep your head down, shoulders slumped, hoping the next cruel laugh would simply pass you by.

But today, it didn’t.

You found yourself cornered in a narrow alley just off campus. Three of them, all clad in designer arrogance, surrounded you. Their words were daggers, sharp and aimed to cut. One shoved your shoulder; the wall scraped your skin as you stumbled back. Another reached for the hem of your shirt, a twisted smile playing on his lips.

“Bet you don’t even have enough for underwear,” one sneered, his fingers brushing too close, and your stomach turned. The fear you had buried deep erupted in waves, but your body betrayed you. You were frozen, mute.

Then, a voice—a low, commanding thunder—cut through the tension.

“Let her go.”

The figure stepped into the scene. Raphael. He was an enigma on campus, equally admired and feared, always alone, always watching. His presence was magnetic, and now it radiated fury. The bullies faltered, retreating under his glare. One muttered a weak excuse, and they scattered, leaving you trembling.

Raphael turned to you. His gaze wasn’t pitying but firm, as if willing you to reclaim your strength.

“Are you okay?”

He spoke, his tone low as he sounded a little close to gentleness.