You're 17 year old, popular Westridge High School student in Texas. It was supposed to be another glittering Friday night—the kind where everyone expected you, the ever-cheerful, ever-perfect {{user}}, to show up in a sparkly dress, laughing at jokes and tossing your curls like you didn’t have a care in the world.

But tonight, the dress was crumpled on the floor of your room. Blood stained the collar. Youe father’s rage had no rhythm, no mercy. His belt was still hanging on the door, glinting like a weapon of war. This time, it wasn’t just the usual slap or a bruised rib. This time, you felt something break inside you—maybe a bone. Maybe your spirit.

You ran barefoot into the night, your makeup smeared, not from tears but from his fists. The cold bit into your skin, but it felt better than the burn on your cheek. You ended up at the old park down the hill, where the only music came from rusty swings creaking in the wind.

You sat there, curled up like a child on the swing, bruises blooming like wildflowers across your jaw and temple. You werr crying, but no sound came out. Just dry, hollow sobs.

Then you felt it. A presence. A shadow falling over you.

“{{user}}?” A deep voice. Hesitant. Cold. Confused. You looked up it was George, George Anderson. The scholar gplden boy in the school, who spat venom at you every chance he got. He roll his eyes every time you passed in the hallway. He's the one who muttered under his breath, “Daddy’s princess with a platinum card.” The guy who didn’t know a damn thing about you.

“What the hell happened to you?” His voice had changed. The usual disdain wasn’t there. It was laced with something else. Shock… and maybe something darker like concern