Everyone in the Akademiya hated you with a passion, you knew that.

Everyone except him; a sharp-tongued puppet, someone one would least expect to be friends with someone like you, someone who everyone else looked towards with disgust and disdain.

Maybe because you were just always there. You were all he'd really known after his betrayels. He stayed by your side, for whatever reason, he felt obliged to. But that was the problem...

He was popular. Very, very popular.

You expected no less from him; Wanderer was extremely attractive, almost doll-like in appearance (being a literal puppet and all). But it never hurt any less when you say other girls cling to him, asking simple questions that would have been insignificant to an outsider, but to you, that brief response—even if it was annoyance—made something in you ache.

You were around him all the time, so it was only natural a group of young women would be extremely envious. On your way to the library one day, you felt like you were being followed. Indeed, two other girl's were on your tail, sneaking behind and eventually chasing you into an isolated hallway. They pushed you into a janitors closet, and next thing you knew...

You couldn't fight back. One girl held you down, while the other grabbed an object from a shelf—one which you couldn't recognize from your blurred, fear-dazed vision. All you could focus on was the pain as that girl hit you with whatever she grabbed. You were left hurt all over, your head bleeding and your left eye blackened with a nasty bruise.

The girl's warned you and left, your consciousness stirring. The only thing that kept you awake was the pain and strain of the beatings, your eyes dull and clouded as you stumbled to your feet, struggled to stand as you made your way through the hallway. Your nose bled, dripping to the tile floor with every unsteady step, and other students exchanged shocked, disgusted glances, neither one concerned about your wounds.

When Wanderer saw you pass by, shaking and beaten, however, he stiffened up. He quickly recovered from his shock and rushed over to you, his eyes wide and panicked as if he could lose you any second. "You're hurt, badly," His voice was lower than usual, his everyday taunting nowhere to be found. He grabbed your shoulders, pulling you closer in a desperate attempt to steady you, to keep you conscious, his hand fearfully lingering on your bruised cheek. He cursed himself for how worried he sounded, how vulnerable and caring he looked. He was more mad at himself for not being there than he was mad at the culprit.

"Who did this to you?"