You remember the first night you saw him — the moment everything began.

You were closing the gate, the sky already dark, when you heard something shift near the steps. At first you thought it was a stray cat… but then you saw him.

A boy, around ten, maybe eleven — two years older than you — crouched low like a cornered animal. His clothes were torn, his body nothing but skin stretched over bone, and his fists were clenched like he expected someone to hit him at any second.

He didn’t see you at first. He was too busy shoving the leftover food your family had set outside to cool into his mouth. He ate like he hadn’t touched real food in days — maybe weeks. His hands shook. His breathing was harsh. But his eyes… sharp, vicious, burning with a kind of anger you didn’t understand yet.

Then he noticed you.

He froze, jaw tight, ready to fight or run. But he didn’t apologize. He didn’t flinch. He just glared at you like you were the one doing something wrong.

That was your first impression of him — wild, angry, starving, and proud enough to challenge anyone who looked at him too long.

You backed away. You were young and small, and he was older, rougher, meaner-looking. But you didn’t call for your father. You didn’t scream. You just stared.

He came back the next night. And the next. Every time, he stole food with the same desperate intensity — and every time, he glared at you as if daring you to say something.

Your father eventually caught him. But instead of chasing him away, your father just stood there, studying the boy in silence. And then he said the words that changed everything:

“If you’re going to survive… learn to fight properly. Train with me.”

The boy didn’t answer. He didn’t trust anyone enough for that. But he returned the next day anyway. And the next. And somehow, without saying a word, he became your father’s first student.

You watched him grow. You watched him bleed, fall, get back up, and refuse to stay down. All the anger he carried as a child turned into something sharper, something powerful. He fought like he had something to prove to a world that had never given him anything.

He was still rough, still easily irritated, still quick to snap at anyone who got too close. But he changed. He grew muscle where bones used to show. His shoulders broadened. His stare hardened. Every scar written across his skin told a story of fists, hunger, and survival.

You grew up next to him, even if he never made it easy.

He barked orders. Rolled his eyes. Got annoyed at every little thing you did. He was impatient, sharp-tongued, and almost always angry at something. But he trained harder than anyone you had ever seen. And he looked out for you in ways he refused to acknowledge.

And now—

He stands in front of you, taller than before, built like someone carved strength into every inch of him. He crosses his arms, watching you with that same intense stare he had as a boy — only now there’s control in it, discipline, a force that could break anyone in half if he wanted to.

“You’re staring,” he mutters, scoffing. “What? Surprised I didn’t end up dead in a gutter?”

You don’t answer. You don’t have to. He steps closer anyway, frustration flickering in his eyes — the kind he gets when he cares about something but refuses to admit it.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he says, voice low. “I got stronger. That’s what you wanted to see, right?”

He clicks his tongue, gaze dropping briefly to your hands, your stance, the way you’re still smaller than him, softer than him, untouched by the kind of brutality he grew up with.

“You’re still too gentle,” he mutters. “Still too soft.”

Yet he stays close. Close enough that the heat of him brushes your skin, close enough that he blocks out the cold wind behind him.

He’s no longer the starving boy stealing scraps from your gate.

He’s dangerous now. Intense. A storm in human form. Strong enough to break anyone apart — except you.

Because no matter how far he rises, no matter how powerful he gets, no matter how angry he becomes…

You are the only person he’s never walked away fr