The house was too quiet for a place that used to be filled with life.
Aara stood in the hallway between two doors—hers on the left, Ayin's on the right. Same paint. Same creaking hinges. Same cracking wood. But these doors had seen two very different lives.
She ran her fingers along the frame of Ayin's room. It was half-open. Inside, the sheets were a tangle of leopard print and crushed velvet, clothes draped over the chair, makeup smeared on the mirror like bruises. Aara didn't need to peek inside to know it smelled like perfume, smoke, and rebellion.
Ayin hadn't come home again. Fourth night in a row.
Aara's side was the opposite: cold, clean, quiet. A single desk, books stacked with military precision, a school uniform pressed and hung, her backpack sitting by the door like a loyal dog. The scent in her room was hand soap and exhaustion.
They were twins.
But that's where the symmetry ended.
Downstairs, their mother was already yelling.
"Do you have money or not, Aara? Don't waste my time!"
Aara glanced at the clock. 6:12 AM. No good morning. No breakfast. Just panic.
"I won't get paid until the tenth," she replied, voice even.
"The collectors said they're coming back tonight! They said if we don't pay at least one month's worth, they'll break the windows this time!"
"You said that last week."
Her mother wheeled around, eyes bloodshot and twitching from another sleepless night. She looked thinner now—stress made her shrink, while guilt made her louder.
"And where the hell is your sister?" she barked, lighting a cigarette with shaking hands.
"Do you think she'd care if I knew?"
"No one asked you to be smart, Aara. Just useful."
That sentence landed harder than a slap. Aara didn't flinch—she never did anymore. She had learned early that reactions gave people power. Silence made them uncomfortable. Let them stew in their own filth.
She grabbed her bag and headed toward the door.
"Oh, and take the long way. Collector might be waiting outside."
Aara nodded once. No questions. No drama. Just another day in a house that had become a slow-burning funeral.
Outside, the city was waking up.
The sky was washed out and gray, like it hadn't slept either. People passed her in suits, uniforms, gym clothes, all walking faster than their lives could catch up with them. She kept her pace steady. Not fast enough to look scared. Not slow enough to be noticed.
Her old school was ten minutes away. But she wasn't going there anymore.
Not after the tuition bounced.
Now, she was stuck in a public high school on the edge of the city—where the hallways stank of bleach and body spray, and fights were more common than morning greetings.
She kept to herself. That was the rule. Eyes down. Mouth shut. No one needed to know who she was—or worse, what she was going through.
But secrets don't always stay buried.
The train station buzzed with noise—metal wheels grinding, teenagers shouting, someone beatboxing off-key. Aara stood on the platform with her earphones in, though they weren't playing anything. Just another shield.
Behind her, two girls whispered loud enough for her to hear.
"She's the new girl from that family, right?"
"Yeah. Her dad ran off. Left them with a mountain of debt."
"Serves her right. Acting all perfect."
Aara didn't turn. Didn't flinch. But her hands clenched inside her blazer.
She hadn't done anything to anyone.
Except exist.
By the time she reached the school gates, the stares had already started. Her name floated through the air in half-spoken whispers. She heard it more now than she ever had at her old school.
"That's the one."
"She works nights, they say. Probably sells herself."
"She's pretty though… I'd pay."
She walked past them all like a ghost. She was used to being misunderstood. But this—this slow, venomous attention—it was suffocating. And she didn't know where it started.
Or who started it.
She reached her classroom and slid into her seat by the window. The sunlight didn't reach her desk. The warmth stopped three rows short. Fitting.
Her homeroom teacher, Mr. Gomi, was already drunk off cheap coffee and self-loathing.
As he droned on about attendance, she stared out the window, eyes tracing the same clouds that seemed to float above every school in every neighborhood—mocking them with their freedom.
A sharp voice cut into her thoughts.
"New girl. Aara."
She turned her head slowly.
"You got a death wish dressing like a charity case?" a girl sneered, gum popping between her teeth.
It was Minji. Her best friend.
Or… former best friend.
They used to eat lunch together. Study after school. Share stupid romantic fantasies about boys they'd never meet.
But Minji had changed.
Or maybe she'd just unmasked herself.
Now, Minji's smiles were laced with poison. And the whole class followed her lead.
Aara didn't answer.
Minji leaned closer. "Don't get too comfortable. This isn't your last school."
No, Aara thought. It's not.
This one's worse.
At lunch, Aara didn't eat. She lit a cigarette behind the bike shed, the smoke curling around her like armor. She didn't really smoke. Not properly. But she liked the sting in her lungs. It reminded her that she was still here. Still breathing.
Even if she didn't want to be.
That's when she noticed him.
A figure leaning against the far wall, one foot propped up, hands in his pockets, watching her like a predator who'd been bored until just now.
Hair silver-blue. Uniform untucked. Expression unreadable.
Haru.
She had heard of him even before transferring—every girl had. Every guy, too. He was chaos wrapped in cash. His family owned half the city. The other half feared him.
Rumors said he once put a senior in the hospital for touching his phone.
She met his eyes. Unafraid. Unimpressed.
He grinned.
"Didn't peg you for the rebellious type," he said.
She took a slow drag and exhaled through her nose. "And I didn't peg you for a stalker."
"Not stalking," he replied, stepping forward. "Just curious."
"Curiosity kills."
"So do I," he said softly, like it wasn't a joke.
And that was the first conversation they ever had.
Not sweet. Not awkward. Not romantic.
Just a warning dressed as a spark.
That night, Aara slipped into the warehouse district after work.
She ducked into a narrow alley, heart steady, not from calm—but from habit. Her duffel bag was heavy with gloves, tape, and the mask.
Inside the warehouse, the ring was already lit.
Voices screamed. Bets flew. Blood stained the floor.
She tied her fists. Pulled on the mask.
Tonight, she was Ash.
Not the obedient daughter.Not the bullied student.Not the broken girl.
Just a fighter.
She stepped into the ring—and the world disappeared.