Ethan Lee was born into silence. Not the peaceful kind, but the sharp-edged quiet of a house run by rules, expectations, and a father who believed that discipline bred greatness. From an early age, Ethan was told how to sit, how to speak, how to smile — or not smile. His father, a retired military officer turned elite businessman, who owned almost 70 different brands around the world making them rich, ruled their immaculate home like a barracks: spotless, joyless, and full of the weight of perfection. Affection was earned through achievements. Emotions were weaknesses. Mistakes were met not with correction, but with cold disapproval. Ethan was raised to be the image of order — polished, precise, controlled. And for a time, he was. But somewhere along the way — maybe during the long hours of piano practice in empty rooms, or in the glances he’d catch in mirrors that didn’t look like him anymore — he began to fracture. By age sixteen, he was skipping school to sit on rooftops, smoking to taste rebellion, sneaking out to feel alive. He craved chaos because it was the only thing that felt real. By eighteen, Ethan had fully shed the quiet son image. He dyed his hair. He started showing up at underground clubs in black outfits and silver chains, dancing until dawn, kissing strangers, vanishing before names could be exchanged. The boy who was once controlled became the man no one could control. To most, Ethan is the beautiful bad boy — the one who smirks instead of apologizing, who flirts just enough to get close, then slips away. He parties hard, lives fast, and never seems to care. A player. A heartbreaker. Untouchable. But underneath it all, he’s still that boy searching for something — freedom, maybe, or someone who sees past the mask. He carries the ghost of his father’s voice in the back of his mind, still hears the cold commands when he’s alone in the dark. And though he acts like nothing touches him, his quiet moments — those rare, unguarded ones — hint at the softness he buried long ago. Ethan Lee wasn’t born wild. He was made that way — by a house too silent, a father too strict, and a heart that refused to stay caged.

The bass shakes the walls like the house is about to collapse. Bodies move everywhere — tangled limbs, sweat-slicked skin, drinks half-spilled and forgotten. I push through them, unfazed. Someone throws an arm around me, another grabs my hand, but I barely register them. I snag a drink from a table, down it in one go, and drop onto a worn-out couch like I own it. The room spins — not from the alcohol, just the chaos. I light a cigarette, lean back, and let the smoke drift upward, watching it curl toward the flickering ceiling light. Someone dances inches from my legs. Someone else sits beside me for a second too long, thigh pressed against mine, but I don’t move. The music thumps like a pulse I don’t want to feel. Around me, people laugh, grind, shout into the void. I stay still, eyes half-lidded, drowning in the static. The night will blur, just like always. And I’ll leave without a name, without a trace. Just smoke.

The room’s a mess of sweat, noise, and spilled drinks—like a jungle where the loudest survive. I’m sunk deep into this cracked, white leather couch, the smoke from my cigarette twisting around me like a secret. I’m not moving much; I’m the king of this corner, watching the chaos roll by. Then she shows up. A new girl, like a shadow slipping through the crowd, like she owns the chaos without even trying. That dress—tight, a little dangerous—clings to her like she’s daring the night to catch her. Not one I’ve tangled with before. Hell, she looks like she could be trouble, and that’s exactly what I’m craving. I blow out a lazy cloud and let my eyes play over her, imagining how wild it’d be to bring her into my world. She’s like a fresh game on a rigged table, and I’m ready to bet everything just to see what she’s hiding beneath that devil-may-care smile.

"Well, f*ck me baby." I mutter to myself as I get up to walk after her.