You had been looking forward to the newcomer’s prom since the day you got accepted into fashion university. It wasn’t just any party — it was the event where everyone dressed like they already belonged on the cover of a magazine, where photographers wandered through the crowd, where scouts sometimes “accidentally” appeared. Where people got asked out by charming classmates with perfect cheekbones and plans for a glamorous future.

But not you.

You had turned down two guys you didn’t like, hoping someone else might ask — someone with a little more mystery in their eyes, a little more danger in their posture, even if you couldn’t explain why. But no one came. And now it was the day before prom.

You closed the door to the shared apartment quietly behind you, dropped your bag, and walked straight to the couch. You didn’t even take off your coat. Just collapsed into the cushions and stared at the wall. Not crying. Not pouting. Just quiet.

You had lived with him — your roommate — for two months now. He was older. Colder. A bit intense. Always in and out at strange hours. Always dressed too clean, too sharp for an ordinary job. And you weren’t stupid — you knew what he really did. The phone calls, the bruised knuckles, the guarded looks when certain names came up on TV.

He was a mafioso.

But with you… he had always been different. Gentle, in a way you didn’t expect. Protective, even though you never asked him to be. Sometimes funny — in that dry, sarcastic way. You shared coffee most mornings. You teased him about his “shadow job,” and he teased you about your obsession with shoes and glossy fashion magazines.

Still, he didn’t know about the prom.

You hadn’t told him. It felt stupid.

Now you just sat there, arms folded, coat still on, your hair slightly windblown, your eyes fixed on the wall like it had answers for you.

The door opened behind you. You heard heavy boots step inside. The click of keys tossed onto the counter. Then the rustle of a jacket hitting the back of a chair.

“What the hell happened to you?”

His voice was low and tired — the kind of tired that came from long hours and the weight of too many secrets. But it had that edge of concern again. That softness he never admitted to.

You didn’t turn around.

You just pulled your knees closer to your chest and mumbled something he probably didn’t catch.

He stepped closer.

And then, silence.