Erika ran without looking back, clutching the letter against her chest as if it could stop the shame from bleeding out of her. "I don't want to be weak, I don't want to be weak," she repeated, even though every step seemed to prove the opposite.
When she finally stopped, her breath was ragged, her legs trembling. She didn't even know how she had gotten there. Only when she lifted her gaze did she realize: the forbidden rooftop, eighth floor. One wrong step, and it was over.
The wind howled like a wild beast. Erika edged toward the ledge with unsteady steps, whispering to herself that one step would be enough. The empty air seemed to call her—silent voices, sweet and terrifying at the same time.
She remembered the laughter, Ester's voice reading her secrets aloud, Samuel's cruel applause. And she knew, with a cold ache, that going back would only make it worse. It was always worse.
—Why do I have to keep enduring this? —she whispered, her voice breaking—. Just one more step, and I won't feel…
Then she heard it.
—Exactly… you won't feel anything. The voice was low, deep, sliding straight into her bones.
She spun around. And he was there.
A man, standing a few feet away, as if he'd always been part of the rooftop. The shadows of the clouds wrapped around him, but his features were too sharp, too vivid. His eyes… there was no compassion there, no tenderness, no promise of salvation. Only a dark, cruel gleam—so consuming it burned to look at, and yet impossible to turn away from.
Every instinct screamed at Erika to fear him. And she did. But beneath the fear was something else—a trembling in her chest she couldn't explain.
The stranger tilted his head slightly, studying her like a broken artifact on display.
—Have you thought about what your body will look like when it hits the ground? —he asked calmly, almost bored—. A heap of flesh and bones. Ugly. Disgusting. Is that how you want to be remembered? I suppose for someone like you… it doesn't matter.
Her lips parted, but no words came.
He gave the faintest smile. Thin. Arrogant.
—People like you always think dying is some kind of bravery, he said, his tone dripping with disdain. But death is easy. Pathetically easy. What's hard is living with the mockery carved into your skin. What's hard is standing up every day knowing everyone's waiting for you to fall.
Erika shook. She couldn't tell if his words were pushing her closer to the edge or dragging her away from it. All she knew was that she couldn't stop listening.
—Who… who are you? she whispered.
—No one you should ever meet, he replied flatly, looking away as if already bored. If you were smart, you'd run before you tried to find out.
The air between them vibrated. There was no kindness in his voice, no trace of empathy—only ruthless logic. Yet every word left Erika poisoned with something new: fear… and a dark, unexplainable pull to hear more.
He stepped back from the ledge with unshaken calm, his lips curving into a faint, self-assured smile, as though their encounter had already ceased to matter.
She stared. Tall, flawless posture, a dark suit that looked sculpted onto him—no wrinkle, no flaw. Not showy wealth, but the kind that came from someone used to having everything. Someone who never had to justify his power.
Danger radiated from him before he even spoke. And when he did, his voice slid like poisoned silk: smooth, arrogant, hypnotic. A voice that could order a kingdom's fall and still sound reasonable.
And then, as suddenly as he'd appeared, he walked away. Leaving her trembling, with the terrifying realization that the abyss was no longer beneath her feet. It was inside her.
Later, back in class, Erika's heart was still racing as she slipped into the room.
—Miss Erika, take your seat immediately! —the teacher barked.
She obeyed, head down, trying to steady her breathing. And then she saw him.
At the classroom door.
Angel.
He didn't smile—he didn't need to. He walked with absolute certainty, every gaze falling on him as if it belonged to him by right. His presence commanded silence, and yet the unease he stirred was undeniable: was he magnetic, or terrifying? No one could tell.
The teacher's voice held a tight formality, a respect laced with unease:
—Class, this is Angel Blackthorne, your new classmate.
An invisible current ran through the room. Ester—the untouchable queen of the school—lifted her eyes, and for the first time, she looked as if she'd found someone truly worthy of her attention.
That was when Erika knew: what she had seen on the rooftop wasn't an illusion. Angel wasn't like the others. Angel was danger.
For an instant, their eyes met. Just one second, and Erika's lungs felt crushed. Instinct forced her to drop her gaze, as if staring too long would be a dangerous offense.
To her, it was shame. To him, it was a reminder.
He had already forgotten her—her trembling words on the rooftop, all of it irrelevant. But that quick, nervous, submissive movement made him smile.
A slow smile, edged with irony. The kind of smile a predator gives when it recognizes prey it had once let slip away.
—Hmph… —he murmured under his breath, arrogance woven naturally into the sound.
He didn't need to say more. Erika already knew: she was marked.