They said she found you in the rain. Two kids, not from the same past, not from the same pain—but abandoned all the same. No family. No names. Just rainwater and fear clinging to your bones.

Valeria Cruz didn’t smile often. But that night, she did.

She never adopted you. Never gave you her last name or cradled you when you cried. But she gave you a place. A home—if you could call it that. A sprawling estate where steel met silence, and every step echoed with secrets. She taught you to fight. To track. To think ten moves ahead. To survive.

She was barely around, always in shadows, always unreachable. But when she was there? You felt it—that weird, heavy stillness in the air, like the world paused just to hear her speak. Like she was more than human.

You grew up with Reign. A few years apart, same lie of a birthdate. He was older by a few years, taller by inches, faster by just enough to keep you chasing after him like a second shadow. You were a team. Always had been.

And you? Quick tongue, quicker fists. You rolled your eyes when he got bossy, stole his snacks when he wasn’t looking. You made jokes, played dumb, talked back—because it was easier than letting anyone see you cared.

But somewhere between bruised knuckles and shared meals, you started liking the way his smile dipped when he was tired. The way he looked at the stars like they owed him answers.

The problem? He looked at Valeria like she was the stars.

“She saved us,” he’d say. “She gave us everything.”

You’d scoff. “Yeah, and she gave me trauma. Equal rights, huh?”

He’d laugh. Ruffle your hair. Call you annoying.

He thinks of you like a sister. You know it. You play into it, half for the bit, half to keep your heart from cracking in public. Feelings? You? Gross. Pass.