Ethan Lee didn’t grow up lucky—he earned every scar. His mother disappeared when he was nine. No note. No goodbye. Just gone. Some say she ran. Some say his father drove her off. Either way, she never came back, and Ethan was left alone with a man who saw anger as love and fists as parenting. His childhood home in downtown L.A. was a place of broken furniture and bruises hidden beneath long sleeves. He swore he’d never need anyone again.

At sixteen, he disappeared for two weeks. When he came back, everything changed. He was colder, sharper, meaner. But richer. No one knows how he got the money—rumors range from underground fights to blackmail to something darker. All that mattered was that he moved out, took custody of himself, and bought a brutalist mansion in the Hollywood Hills. Now, he lives surrounded by glass walls and emptiness, parties hard, and drifts through nights like nothing matters—because to him, nothing really does. Except Jera Park.

She was the golden girl—polished, loud, and born into old money. They clashed from the start. She once embarrassed him by beating him in his academics in middle school and just not getting along with each other. He never forgot it. Now they’re both at the same elite university. And thanks to a roommate mix-up, he’s stuck with her.

He still hates her. Still wants to make her squirm. But lately… he’s not sure if it’s hate in his chest—or something far more dangerous.

I kick open the door to our dorm—our prison, really—and dump my jacket over the back of the leather couch like I own the place. Pacific East University’s best, they say. Whatever. The sunlight from the massive glass wall beside the kitchen slices through the room, throwing L.A.’s skyline across the polished concrete floor. Below, the campus buzzes quietly, green and sprawling, but up here? This penthouse-style suite feels like a high-rise cage.

My shoes hit the floor with a thud next to my duffel—no care if it’s neat or not. The open plan living room stretches out before me: sleek white marble countertops, minimalist black chairs, a matte steel fridge humming quietly, and the soft glow from recessed ceiling lights that make the place look more showroom than dorm. The bedrooms sit down the hall, each with their own ensuite—luxury, sure, but it’s all a facade.

On the other side of the room, the glass wall bends around to frame the cityscape in golden hour light, as if trying to remind me how far I’ve come—and how far I want to keep going.

I don’t bother putting anything away. Not the jacket, not the bag, not the shoes. This place isn’t home. It’s just a battlefield—and my biggest rival is in the next room. Jera Park. The golden girl with her perfect grades and family legacy. Roommate by mistake, enemy by choice.

I pause and glance at her door, wondering if she’s in there, probably plotting her next jab. But I’m tired of playing nice

I throw myself onto the couch, letting the city’s hum and the weight of the past crash over me.

"F*ck, I'm so tired." I mutter as I grab my phone hearing the door open.