Chapter 1

Charssein's POV

Mornings are a scam.

This is a universal truth.

But you know what's worse?

Waking up to the undeniable feeling that someone is watching you.

I don't mean in a vague, oh, maybe I forgot to close the curtains kind of way. No. This shit feels real. Like a cold breath on my neck. Like a thousand invisible eyes pressed into my skin, waiting for me to fuck up.

My body reacts before my brain does. I jolt up—

BANG.

"Motherf—!"

Pain explodes through my skull.

I groan, curling in on myself like a dying cockroach. My vision goes white for a second, and my fingers automatically reach for my forehead. Sure enough, when I pull them away—

Blood.

Great. Another wound to add to the collection.

I shift, trying to sit up properly, and—

CRACK.

The unmistakable sound of my glasses being crushed under my own goddamn elbow.

I freeze. Processing.

Then, very quietly:

"I should just fucking die."

After several seconds of mourning my shattered glasses (RIP, you will be missed), I finally force myself up, wincing as fresh pain spikes through my wrist. Right. That's already bruised. So are my knees. And my ribs. And basically every part of my body because apparently, I am a magnet for disaster.

The worst part? I have no idea where half of these injuries even came from. Some of them, sure—I walked into a door last night, tripped on my own foot at least twice, and might have stabbed myself a little just to feel something. But the others? Who fucking knows.

I exhale, rubbing my temples. My fingers brush against an old cut on my wrist, a thin scab from the last time I let minor inconvenience win.

Focus, Charssein.

The feeling is still there. The sensation of being watched. I scan my apartment, which looks like a crime scene but is actually just a depressing artist's den. Clothes everywhere. Empty ramen cups. A half-finished sketch on the floor—

The fuck?

The sketch isn't mine.

The lines are familiar. The style is mine. But I don't remember drawing this.

Dark, faceless figures. Hollow eyes. Shadows stretching further than they should.

A chill runs down my spine.

I stare at it for a second longer before saying, "Nope. Not dealing with this shit today."

I pick up my ID from the desk, ready to shove it in my pocket—

And then I see it.

Another ID.

Not mine.

The name stares back at me.

Neil Varian.

My stomach twists.

Who the fuck is Neil Varian?

And why the fuck is his ID in my apartment?

I glance around again, paranoia creeping back in. My fingers twitch, itching for my lighter. I grab my pack of cigarettes from the desk—

My lighter is missing.

"Are you fucking kidding me?"

I groan, shoving the ID into my pocket along with my own, and stomp toward the door.

By the time I make it to the kitchen, my headache has evolved into a full-blown existential crisis.

I open the fridge. Stare inside. Close it. Open it again, hoping food has magically appeared.

It hasn't.

The only things in there are:

A sad bag of lettuce.

A half-empty bottle of expired milk.

A container labeled "DON'T FUCKING EAT THIS." (I don't know who wrote that, but I assume it was me. I don't remember why.)

Several bottles of prescription medication.

I sigh. Fine. Salad it is.

I grab the lettuce, rip open the bag, and dump the whole thing onto a plate. No dressing. No effort. Just plain-ass, raw, depressing lettuce.

I slide into my chair, pop open the bottle of anti-depressants, then the anti-psychotics, then whatever else my psychiatrist decided I needed to function like a somewhat stable human being. I down them with a swig of water.

For dessert, I light a cigarette.

Or at least, I try to.

My lighter is still missing.

I grind my teeth. "Fucking hell."

Out of sheer spite, I eat the lettuce with the energy of a man ready to commit arson.

---

The moment my foot hits the sidewalk, I know something bad is about to happen.

And sure enough—

There it is.

A fucking bicycle.

Speeding toward me like it has a personal vendetta.

I react in the only way my sleep-deprived, anxiety-ridden brain knows how:

I SCREAM.

Like I'm being murdered. Like I'm a damsel in distress. Like this is the end of my miserable, art-student life.

The cyclist yells something—probably "Move, dumbass!"—but it's too late.

I trip over my own fucking foot.

My cigarette flies out of my pocket. My bag nearly follows.

I hit the pavement, my knee taking the brunt of the impact.

Pain.

Immediate. Sharp. Soul-crushing.

"FUCKING HELL—"

The cyclist skids to a stop, looking deeply traumatized. "Dude, are you okay?"

No.

No, I am not okay.

I am internally dying. Physically suffering. Emotionally done with this fucking world.

But outwardly? I just groan. "Do I look okay?"

The guy hesitates. His eyes flick to my scraped hands, my bruised knees, my general 'I am not built for survival' energy.

"Uh..." He looks uncomfortable. "Should I call someone?"

"Yeah, call God," I mutter. "Tell Him He fucked up."

The guy stares at me for a long moment. Then, slowly, he pedals away.

Probably to go touch grass.

I sigh, rubbing my temple. My cigarette is gone. My knee is throbbing.

And then—

A shadow looms over me.

"You scream like a dying cat," a voice comments.

I freeze.

Turn my head.

A guy stands there. Hands in his pockets. Dressed way too put together for someone who willingly attends this godforsaken school. His uniform is crisp, his tie actually knotted instead of barely hanging on for dear life like mine. The kind of person who probably never gets hit by bicycles because he actually watches where he's going.

I don't know him.

But something about him makes my stomach twist.

I narrow my eyes. "Who the fuck are you?"

He tilts his head, smiling like I just asked the wrong question. "You really are clumsy, huh?"

I groan, dragging a hand down my face. "I swear to fucking God—"

"Swear to me instead."

I pause.

Blink.

What.

The way he says it—light, teasing—but with something else underneath. Something sharp.

I scowl. "What kind of Batman villain bullshit—"

DING DING DING!

The school bell saves his ass before I can finish that sentence.

"Shit—" I spin on my heel and bolt. No way I'm getting another tardy slip.

I don't bother looking back, but I can feel him watching me.

Creepy bastard.

I barely make it to class before the teacher starts roll call. I'm still catching my breath, rubbing at the fresh bruise on my arm from my latest encounter with gravity, when the door slides open—

And the same fucking guy walks in.

The teacher smiles. "Class, we have a new student. Please introduce yourself."

The guy glances at me before looking back at the class.

"Neil Varian. Nice to meet you."

My brain short-circuits.

This is so fucking cliché.

I bury my face in my arms.

God, just kill me now.

"Neil, you could sit to that empty chair on the corner right next to that dead looking student over there"

The class erupted with laughter as they stare right at me.

Yah. I am that dead looking student.

I refuse to look up.

If I ignore him, maybe he'll disappear. Maybe he's just another stress-induced hallucination.

I hear footsteps. Slow, deliberate.

And then—

The chair next to me scrapes against the floor.

Fucking hell.

The universe really woke up today and chose violence.

I glance sideways, just to be sure.

And there he is.

Neil Varian.

Sitting right the fuck next to me.

I stare. He smiles.

Like this isn't the worst thing to ever happen to me.

The professor keeps talking about some pretentious art theory bullshit, but I can't hear a single word.

Because Neil—this absolute menace of a human being—is just sitting there, watching me.

I clear my throat. "Do you need something?"

Neil hums, tapping his fingers against the desk. "No."

I wait.

He doesn't elaborate.

I resist the urge to stab my pencil through my own hand.

"What," I take a breath, "the actual fuck do you want?"

He tilts his head slightly. "You ever get the feeling you're being watched?"

My pencil snaps between my fingers.

I whip around so fast my neck nearly breaks. "What did you just say?"

Neil doesn't blink. Doesn't waver. His eyes are dark, unreadable.

"Nothing," he says smoothly, spinning a pen between his fingers. "Just wondering."

Fucking liar.

I force myself to look away, my grip on my sketchbook tightening.

This isn't happening.

I refuse to let this happen.

I flip the page, pretending I didn't just have the most unnerving conversation of my life.

The class drags on.

And on.

And on.

Until, finally—

The bell rings.

I grab my bag like my life depends on it.

I need to get the fuck out of here.

---

I skip my next class.

I don't even pretend I give a shit.

Instead, I take the emergency staircase straight to the rooftop.

The second I push open the door, the wind hits me. Cold, sharp. The city sprawls out below—distant, busy, untouched by my bullshit.

I take a deep breath.

This is fine.

Everything is fine.

I reach into my pocket, fingers brushing against my cigarette pack. I pull one out, holding it between my lips.

Then—

Fuck.

My lighter.

Where the fuck is my lighter?

"Are you actually fucking kidding me?" I groan, smacking my forehead.

That's right. I never found it.

Because, of course, my life is a goddamn joke.

I'm about to start screaming into the abyss when—

A flicker of orange.

A tiny flame.

Right next to me.

I turn my head—

And there he is.

Neil.

Standing right next to me, holding my fucking lighter.

I stare at him. He stares back.

The flame flickers between us.

"…Were you planning to give that back?" I ask slowly.

Neil grins. And raises the lighter just out of reach.

I swear to god.

I swear to every god in existence.

"Dude," I warn.

He tilts his head. "Come take it."

Oh, you absolute motherfucker.

I go for it.

Neil leans back slightly, keeping the lighter just out of reach.

I try again.

He lifts it higher.

I narrow my eyes. "Are you five?"

He doesn't answer. Just keeps smirking like the insufferable bastard he is.

I lunge for it.

And in the process—

We end up way too close.

I should just punch him. Right here. Right now.

His breath is steady, his eyes sharp. There's something about the way he looks at me—like he's already seen this happen before. Like he expected this.

And it pisses me off.

I grit my teeth. "Dude. Give. It. Back."

Neil smirks. Slow. Smug. Infuriating.

Then, with that same lazy, knowing look—he says something twisted.

Something so fucking wrong that my brain short-circuits before I even process it.

"I wonder," Neil muses, tilting his head, voice light, teasing—but laced with something dark underneath.

"How many versions of you have stood here before me—begging for the same thing?"

My breath catches.

My fist flies.

Knuckles collide with his face.

His head jerks. The lighter clatters to the ground.

For a second, nothing moves.

Then—Neil exhales. Slow. Steady. Rolls his jaw like I just gave him something to think about.

And then—

He fucking grins.

His nose is bleeding. He doesn't wipe it away. He doesn't even seem mad. If anything, he looks... pleased.

I don't give him the satisfaction of asking what the fuck he meant.

I grab my lighter, turn, and storm off.

I barely take two steps—

And then—

Neil grabs my wrist.

Pain shoots through my arm.

His fingers press against the bandages—right where it hurts the most.

"Fuck"

My pulse thrums in my ears, loud, too fucking loud.

I turn back—slowly.

Neil meets my gaze head-on. His nose is still bleeding, streaks of red trailing down to his lips. He doesn't move. Doesn't blink. Instead his grip tightens.

And then, in a voice too soft—

"Don't leave me again."

---

TO BE CONTINUED...