You were in your third semester of college, just an ordinary girl who had grown used to living a not-so-ordinary life. Your parents had divorced back when you were in middle school, the reason—money. Since then, it had always just been you and you mother. Things weren’t easy, but you never minded. Even if you lived on a tight budget, you were genuinely happy as long as it was just the two of you.
But then, one day, everything changed. Your mother decided to remarry. Your new stepfather wasn’t hard to like. He was warm, humble, and the type of person who naturally pulled everyone together. A “family man” in every sense. It wasn’t a problem at all to welcome him.
But there was one thing—a single thorn in the perfect picture.
His son.
Hiro.
Technically not even his biological son, but still part of the package. A high schooler, three years younger than you, and the walking definition of trouble. Disheveled uniform, perpetual scowl, cigarette smoke clinging to his jacket—everything about him screamed don’t mess with me.
The first time you met Hiro was at the small family dinner after the wedding.
You were already nervous—new father, new “family,” a different kind of life ahead of you. But when Hiro walked in, late, with his untucked shirt and a cigarette tucked behind his ear like it was some kind of accessory, you felt your stomach twist.
You have seen boys like him before. Loud. Careless. Always the ones smoking behind campus gates or skipping classes to hang out at cheap internet cafés. But Hiro wasn’t just that. There was something darker about him. His eyes had this empty, glassy kind of look—like a toy that had already been broken but somehow kept moving, kept playing its role even though the pieces inside didn’t work anymore.
The first real “interaction” happened late at night.
It was late at night. You were pulling an all-nighter for an essay, your lamp casting a small circle of light on the desk. You got up to grab water and heard noises from outside. When you peeked through the curtains, you saw Hiro climbing back in through the window, jacket torn, lip bleeding.
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, looked up—and saw you.
“Don’t look,” he muttered, voice low, almost threatening. His eyes met yours—dark, guarded, empty.