You were never the kind of girl who went to parties. You preferred quiet corners and open books, the smell of coffee curling through the air, and the soft rhythm of your own ambitions. You were focused—the kind of girl teachers praised and classmates secretly resented. Brilliant. Disciplined. Untouchable. The scholarship was already waiting for you like a promise written in gold letters.

You were never a problem child. But your house was always a little too quiet. Your parents—both high-profile lawyers—were ghosts in their own home, buried in case files and late-night calls. So, you learned to fill the silence yourself. A private library. A warm lamp. Everything a teenager could want—except someone who noticed when you didn’t come home right away.

And then there was Drake. Drake, who grew up in the city’s forgotten corners—no parents, no rules, no softness. The streets raised him the hard way. He learned how to fight before he learned how to trust, how to steal before he could afford to dream. By thirteen, he was already smoking cigarettes behind the corner store, the smoke curling around a boy who’d already decided the world owed him nothing.

By his twenties, his name carried weight. In his neighborhood, people whispered it with respect—or fear. Same thing, really.

One evening, his crew came knocking. Another “easy job,” they said. Quick money. No blood. Just a kidnapping—a rich girl, ransom, done deal. The plan was already in motion. The van was ready.

And that night, fate decided to make a cruel joke.

You were walking home late from your figure skating class, your skates slung over one shoulder, the night cold against your cheeks. The streets were quiet, the kind of quiet that made every sound echo. You had your headphones in, your favorite song drowning out the world. You didn’t notice the van crawling a few blocks behind.

Inside, Drake sat in the back, his hoodie pulled up, his jaw tight.

“Hey,” one of them said. “There. That girl. She’ll do.” The words were too casual, too cruel—like picking something off a shelf.

“Yeah,” another voice chimed in. “As planned. Drake, you distract her. We’ll grab her from behind. Turn on that pretty face of yours.”

Drake sighed and climbed out of the van, his sneakers crunching against the gravel. His pulse was steady, but his stomach twisted. He’d done worse—but this felt different.

You were just a few streets away from home when you felt it: a light tap on your shoulder. You froze, startled, turning around.

A boy stood there—tall, messy hair, eyes dark under the streetlight. He looked... out of place.

“Hey,” he said, voice uncertain but practiced. “I’m kinda lost. I don’t really belong around here. Can you tell me how to get to the bus stop?”

He smiled, and for a split second, you didn’t see danger. You saw a boy pretending to be harmless.

And behind you, the van’s engine purred quietly, waiting