Ayla ignored the swelling on her forehead, her gaze steady as she carefully avoided Blake's long, strong legs, moving closer to him with deliberate caution. She couldn't help but notice the flush on his face, a sign of both discomfort and something else. She licked her dry lips, a nervous habit she couldn't seem to control.
"I know you're not willing," she murmured, her voice soft yet edged with something that felt almost tender. "So... don't worry. It won't harm you. I bought it from overseas, spent quite a lot of money on it…" Her tone betrayed a faint regret, an almost reluctant tenderness she hadn't expected to reveal.
Blake's eyes, bloodshot beneath the cloth that covered them, burned with fury. The drug's hold on him was growing stronger, leaving him unable to control his body, his breath ragged as he struggled to speak. Every attempt to break free only left him gasping for air, but words remained trapped behind his clenched teeth. His sight was obscured, but his other senses were sharpened.
He heard the soft rustling of clothes, the delicate sounds of her movements, and his throat tightened. The burning thirst he felt wasn't just physical anymore. It was deeper, gnawing at his sanity. His skin, once cold, was now pulsing with heat, and when the moment of relief came, it was like the last piece of his resistance crumbled away.
With a sense of helplessness, he lowered his head, burying his face in the tangled mess of her hair. It was rough, not the smooth softness of salon products, but something simpler, more raw—soap and sunlight mixed together. It was the smell of something humble, something real. Something cheap.
Blake's thoughts turned bitter. He gripped a handful of her hair, pulling her closer, his teeth sinking into the delicate skin of her neck.
A sharp, desperate scream pierced the room.
"Shut up!" came the muffled shout from a neighbor, annoyed and irritated by the sudden noise.
The night darkened, clouds veiling the moon. The stillness of the air deepened as the moment stretched on, thick with tension.
Ayla was twenty years old, a second-year law student, top of her class, earning scholarships every year. She should've been well-known, admired even.
But university wasn't high school. Here, grades weren't everything—charisma, confidence, personality—those were what mattered most. And Ayla? She was nothing like that. Her long hair was usually untamed, falling in loose waves around her face. She wore oversized glasses with thick black rims, and her clothes, faded and worn from years of use, seemed out of place in the fashionable campus.
She sat quietly in the back of classrooms, barely speaking, never joining in on group activities. She was the quiet observer, always with a book in her hands, detached from everyone around her. After two years, she was invisible to most of her peers.
Except for the occasional laughter at her expense.
"Ha! Look at those shoes—are those some limited edition Nike?" one of the girls teased, pointing at Ayla's worn sneakers.
Another girl chimed in with a mocking tone, "Ayla, where'd you get those, huh? A flea market special?"
Embarrassed, Ayla stood by the bathroom door, her face flushed. "They're not limited edition... my grandma bought them at the morning market. Twenty bucks for the pair," she muttered, looking down.
Last time she stayed silent, hoping they'd get bored. But this time, as one of the girls extended her foot, she stomped on the back of Ayla's shoe, kicking it off her foot and sending it flying into the hallway.
"Oops, sorry!" the girl said, her voice dripping with insincerity.
The rest of the girls giggled and hurried away. "Let's go, Blake's back on campus today. Let's see if we can catch him around."
Ayla watched them go, her heart sinking. She quickly ran down the stairs, hoping to find her shoe. There were only a few people out in the courtyard, but after searching frantically, she didn't see it anywhere.
She wasn't sure why it mattered so much. The shoe was old and falling apart, but it was all she had. She felt like she was drowning in embarrassment and frustration, until, in the distance, she spotted a tall figure—a man holding something in his hand.
It was her shoe.
Before she could reach him, the man casually dropped the shoe into the trash can.
"Hey! My shoe!" Ayla gasped, rushing forward, her heart racing.
She stretched on her tiptoes, trying to reach the shoe, but a pale hand stopped her, blocking her path.
When she looked up, her breath caught in her throat. Standing before her was the face she had seen a thousand times in her dreams—the one she had longed for, silently admired from afar. The very person she had never imagined would be standing here, now, in front of her.
Blake.