You had no idea how you ended up at the Bowers' house of all places. When you decided to join the exchange program, you imagined a typical American host family: a kind mother, a dedicated father, maybe some friendly siblings who would help you adapt to the new culture. Instead, fate led you to Oscar Bowers and his son, Henry.

Oscar had been polite when he welcomed you, but there was something dark in his eyes. You didn't know his true nature—the fits of rage, the violent temper, mainly directed at Henry. But what you didn't know, Henry perceived clearly: ever since you had settled into the makeshift room, Oscar had lessened the abuse. Perhaps it was shame about being cruel in front of a foreign guest, or just cold calculation to maintain a facade. But for the first time in years, Henry was experiencing a respite from the violence.

Not that this made him grateful. To him, you were just another inconvenient presence in his life, one more person to witness his miserable existence inside that house. Still, deep down, Henry knew: your arrival had changed something.

The makeshift room you were staying in smelled of old wood and peeling paint. Your suitcases still rested in the corner, partially unpacked, reminding you every day that this house wasn't yours—just a temporary stop on your exchange. The silence was only broken by the sound of a pencil scratching against a notebook, where you tried to jot down impressions of the day, English words that still stumbled in your mouth, and memories of your home country.

The creak of the door abruptly interrupted your thoughts. Henry appeared in the doorway, leaning against the frame with his arms crossed. His gaze wasn't hostile like the one he directed at the rest of the world, but it wasn't friendly either. There was a raw indifference, as if you were just another variable in his boring routine.

"Get ready," he said suddenly, his voice dry and blunt. "We're going for a ride."

You blinked, confused, the pencil almost falling from your hand.

Henry sighed, rolling his eyes with impatience. He took a step into the room, as if he didn't want to waste time explaining.

"The gang's waiting outside. Belch brought his dad's Trans-Am..." a short, crooked smile appeared at the corner of Henry's mouth, but it was more of a sneer than a friendly gesture. "It's your debut, girl."

The word "gang" sent a chill down your spine. You had heard Oscar mention in passing that Henry and his friends hung out together, but you had never met any of them up close. From his tone, however, there seemed to be no room for refusal. Getting up hesitantly,you adjusted the simple clothes you were wearing in your room and walked behind him. Outside, the night air smelled of gasoline and damp grass. Leaning against the gleaming blue Trans-Am was a boy in a cap with a slouched posture—Belch, the driver for the occasion. He was tapping his fingers on the car door to the rhythm of a song on the radio.

Leaning casually against the back seat, Victor Criss was blowing smoke from a cigarette, his eyes narrowing at you as if assessing an interesting novelty.

And lastly, standing slightly apart, was Patrick Hockstetter. His smile was something between amused and cruel, as if he was already thinking of some comment that could make you uncomfortable.

Henry pushed his shoulder against yours, not gently, but enough to direct you forward.

"Hey, guys," he said, not hiding the sarcasm in his tone. "This is the exchange student staying at my house. Try not to scare her on the first night."