Why did I let Luka drag me here?
The basement reeks of sweat and violence and everything I've spent years avoiding. Everything that tastes like home. Like father's lessons carved into my bones with his fists.
I shouldn't be here. Should be in my dorm. Safe. Silent. Invisible.
But Luka had that look. The one that said he wasn't asking.
"You need to see this," he'd said, leaning in my doorway like he owned it. Like he owned me. "Trust me, cousin."
Trust. What a fucking joke.
So here I am. Back row. Arms crossed. Watching two men try to kill each other while animals scream for blood around me. They remind me of the men who used to visit our house. The ones who smiled at mother before making her disappear.
Breathe. Count to four. Hold. Release.
It's a technique I learned when I was seven and father decided silence wasn't something I was born with. Something I had to earn.
The fighters circle each other. One's smaller. Italian, maybe. Dark hair, golden eyes that burn even from here. The other's built like a fucking truck.
But then the Italian moves and something twists in my chest.
The way he lets himself get hit. Welcomes it. Like pain feeds him instead of breaking him.
I know that hunger. I've seen it in mirrors.
"That's him," Luka murmurs. "Enzo Moretti."
Moretti. The name hits like a slap. Italian royalty. Father's mentioned them. Usually followed by words like reckless and dangerous and stay the fuck away.
"Why am I watching this?" My voice is barely audible over the crowd's roar.
Luka grins. Sharp. Predatory. "Because he asked about you."
My blood turns to ice. "What?"
"After his last fight. Asked Matteo who the blond Russian was." His grin widens. "Thought you should know what kind of attention you're attracting."
Attention. The word tastes like poison. Attention gets you noticed. Gets you hurt. Gets you dead.
I should leave. Right fucking now. But my feet won't move.
Because Enzo Moretti is looking directly at me and the world has gone quiet.
There he is. The boy who sat behind me yesterday. Who burned holes in my neck with his stare for fifty minutes straight. Here, in this violent space, he looks different. More himself.
All sharp edges and dangerous curves.
Beautiful like a wildfire. Destructive. Mesmerizing. Impossible to look away from.
The fight's already started when he spots me. I see the exact moment it happens. He's moving with fluid grace, landing hits, dodging swings. Then his gaze sweeps the crowd.
Lands on me.
Everything changes.
His stance falters. Guard drops. His opponent's fist connects with his ribs—a hit he should've seen coming.
He's staring at me like I'm a puzzle he needs to solve. Like I'm a problem he needs to fix. And that stare... Christ, that stare makes something twist low in my stomach. Something I don't recognize.
Something I don't want to recognize.
Another hit lands. Blood spatters. The crowd screams. But Enzo doesn't blink. Just keeps looking at me with those burning eyes, like getting his face rearranged is worth it for the chance to memorize my features.
What kind of madness drives someone to ignore pain for a stranger?
The same madness I need to stay away from.
The fight ends with Enzo barely conscious but victorious. Blood streams down his face. Knuckles split open. But when he looks at me again, there's something in his eyes that makes my stomach drop.
Recognition.
He knows. He fucking knows something about me that I don't want him to know.
"Interesting," Luka says quietly.
"What?"
"The way you're looking at him."
I'm not looking at him any way. I'm analyzing. Cataloging threats. Surviving. "I'm not looking at him at all."
"Right." Luka doesn't believe me. "Come on. Let's go before someone recognizes us."
But I can't move. Because Enzo Moretti is still staring and there's something in his eyes now. Something sharp and hungry and possessive.
Something that screams danger in every language I know.
I follow Luka out, but I can feel those golden eyes burning into my back. Can feel the weight of his attention like hands on my throat.
By the time we reach the surface, my heart is racing. Not from excitement.
From pure fucking panic.
"You're in trouble," Luka says as we walk.
"I'm not in anything."
"Noah." He stops. Turns. "I've known you since we were kids. I know what you look like when you're interested. And right now? You look interested."
Interested. Is that what this is? This feeling like I just walked into a trap?
"I'm not interested in anything," I lie. "Especially not some unhinged Italian who gets off on violence."
"Then why are your hands shaking?"
I look down. He's right. My hands are trembling. Not from what I've seen—I've witnessed worse. But from fear of what I'm feeling.
I shove them in my pockets. "Because that was fucked up."
"You've seen worse. Who are you fooling?"
Luka's always been too observant. It's an Aslanov trait. We see everything. Remember everything. Use everything against our enemies.
The problem is, I'm not sure if Enzo Moretti is an enemy or something worse.
Back in my dorm, I try to study. Try to focus on criminal psychology and behavioral patterns and academic bullshit that usually keeps my mind occupied.
I can't concentrate. Can't stop thinking about golden eyes and the way violence moved through Enzo Moretti like music.
This is exactly what I was afraid would happen. Why I keep my head down. Stay invisible. Avoid men like him.
Men who take what they want without asking. Men who see something they desire and pursue it with single-minded determination.
Men who remind me of my father.
Enzo Moretti is everything I should stay away from. Dangerous. Unpredictable. The type who destroys everything he touches.
I will not let him destroy me.
My phone buzzes. Unknown number.
See you in class tomorrow, Noah.
My blood turns to ice. How did he get my number? How does he know my schedule? We shared one lecture. He has no way of knowing what classes I'm taking.
Unless he's been digging. Unless this obsession runs deeper than I thought.
I should block the number. Should report it. Should do a dozen things that would put distance between us.
Instead, I stare at the message until the screen goes dark. Until I can see my reflection staring back. Until I can admit what I've been trying to deny since our eyes met across that bloodstained ring.
This is exactly what I was afraid would happen.
And I can't let it continue.
I set the phone aside. Try to return to my textbook. Criminal Psychology: Understanding Deviant Behavior. How fitting.
But the words blur. All I can see is the way Enzo moved in that ring. The way he absorbed pain like oxygen. The way he looked at me like I was the only person in that basement who mattered.
No one has ever looked at me like that. Like I'm something to be conquered instead of ignored.
It should repel me.
It does. It terrifies me more than anything my father ever did.
I close the textbook with more force than necessary. The sound echoes like a gunshot. The silence that follows is deafening.
I prefer it that way. Prefer not having witnesses to the ways I fall apart when no one's watching.
My phone buzzes again. Same number.
Sleep well, beautiful.
My hands shake as I read it. Not from excitement. From revulsion. From the sick realization that some twisted part of me doesn't hate the attention as much as I should.
Beautiful. When was the last time someone called me beautiful? When was the last time someone called me anything other than my name?
Never. And there's a reason for that.
Beautiful things get broken. Beautiful things get taken. Beautiful things don't survive in my world.
I should block the number. Delete the messages. Pretend this never happened.
But my finger hovers over the delete button and I can't make myself press it.
What's wrong with me? What kind of person stares at messages from a stranger instead of immediately blocking them? What kind of person hesitates when they should be running?
The same kind who stands in fight clubs and watches blood spill like art.
The same kind who recognizes predators because he used to be prey.
The same kind who learned to survive by becoming something no one would want to break.
Except Enzo Moretti looked at me like he wanted to break me anyway. Like he'd enjoy it.
I strip and step into the shower. The water is scalding but I don't adjust it. Heat is good. Heat reminds me I'm alive. That I can still feel something other than the endless numbness that's been my companion for years.
But I don't want to feel anything for Enzo Moretti. I can't afford to.
Steam fills the bathroom until I can barely see my reflection. Good. I don't want to look at myself. Don't want to see whatever expression is written across my face.
Don't want to acknowledge what I'm becoming.
What I refuse to become.
Under the spray, I force myself to think logically. Enzo Moretti is a problem. A threat. He's dangerous, unstable, and clearly fixated on me for reasons I don't understand.
The smart thing would be to avoid him completely. Change my schedule. Request different classes. Do whatever it takes to stay out of his orbit until his attention moves on.
But even as I think it, I know it won't be that simple. Men like Enzo Moretti don't give up easily. They don't lose interest because their target runs.
If anything, the chase probably excites them more.
The water runs cold before I turn it off. I wrap a towel around my waist and pad back to my room, leaving wet footprints on the hardwood.
My phone sits on the desk where I left it. Screen dark but somehow menacing. Like it's waiting for me to make a choice I'm not ready to make.
I pick it up anyway. Scroll through contacts until I find Luka's number.
Why didn't you warn me?
His response comes immediately. Warn you about what?
About him. About what he's like.
And what is he like, cousin?
I stare at the question. What is Enzo Moretti like? Dangerous. Obsessive. Beautiful in the way a knife is beautiful—sharp and deadly and impossible to look away from.
Everything I need to stay away from.
Trouble, I type back.
The best kind, Luka responds. Sleep tight, Noah. Tomorrow should be interesting.
Tomorrow. Right. Whatever class Enzo somehow knows I'm taking.
The class where I'll prove to myself that I'm stronger than whatever sick fascination he seems to inspire.
I turn off the lights and slip between cold sheets. Try to force my mind blank. Try to find the meditation techniques that usually help me sleep.
But every time I close my eyes, I see golden irises and that predatory smile. Every time I start to drift, I remember the way he said my name without ever hearing it spoken.
See you in class tomorrow, Noah.
How did he know? How did he find out my schedule? How did he get my number? How did he manage to invade my privacy in the span of hours?
More importantly, how do I make sure he doesn't get closer?
I should be angry about the invasion. Should be planning ways to avoid him, maintain distance, protect myself from whatever game he's playing.
Instead, I'm lying in the dark trying not to think about what it would feel like to touch those split knuckles. Trying not to wonder what he sees when he looks at me.
Trying not to admit that some twisted part of me wants to find out what would happen if I let him catch me.
That part of me is exactly what I need to kill.
For the first time in years, silence doesn't comfort me. For the first time in years, I feel like I'm in actual danger. Not from outside threats, but from within. From wanting things I shouldn't want. From being curious about things that would destroy me.
From being exactly the kind of weak my father tried to beat out of me.
Sleep comes eventually, but it's restless. Filled with dreams of golden eyes and blood-stained rings and the sound of my name spoken in a voice I've never heard but somehow recognize.
I wake up three times, heart racing, sheets soaked with sweat, the phantom feeling of being watched crawling across my skin.
Each time I wake, I remind myself why this is dangerous. Why I can't let myself feel anything for Enzo Moretti. Why curiosity killed more than cats in my world.
The fourth time I wake, it's morning. Pale gray light filters through my window, painting everything in muted tones. Six AM.
I check my schedule. Contemporary Ethics with Professor Martinez. A class I've never seen Enzo Moretti in. A class he shouldn't know I'm taking.
So how the fuck does he know where I'll be?
I shower again. Longer this time. Hot enough to turn my skin red. Hot enough to burn away the lingering effects of dreams I can't remember but refuse to acknowledge.
I dress carefully. Black jeans, black sweater. Nothing that stands out. Nothing that screams look at me. I've spent years perfecting the art of invisibility. Of blending into backgrounds and disappearing into crowds.
Time to remember why that's necessary.
I grab my bag and head for the door. Pause with my hand on the handle. Deep breath. Count to four. Hold. Count to four. Release.
The breathing exercises help. A little.
Because in two hours, I'm going to see Enzo Moretti again. In two hours, I'm going to prove to myself that last night was just a momentary lapse brought on by too much proximity to violence.
In two hours, I'm going to make sure nothing changes.
I step into the hallway and embrace the silence. It follows me down the stairs and across campus like an old friend. Like a reminder of everything I've survived and everything I stand to lose if I'm not careful.
Silence is my armor. It's kept me safe for twenty-one years, and it'll keep me safe now.
Even from golden eyes and boys who fight like they're trying to bleed out their demons.
Especially from them.
The lecture hall is half full when I arrive. I scan automatically, looking for threats, exits, places to hide. It's a habit I can't break. A survival instinct that's kept me alive.
Today, I'm looking for one threat in particular. And I'm going to make sure he doesn't see me coming.
I choose a seat in the third row. Close enough to seem engaged. Far enough back to have a clear view of anyone who enters. I pull out my notebook and arrange my pens with mechanical precision. Anything to keep my hands busy.
Anything to stop them from shaking.
Other students filter in around me. I recognize some faces. Catalog their positions, expressions, potential for trouble. None of them look at me twice.
Good. Invisible is safe. Invisible is survival.
Invisible is exactly what I need to be.
I know exactly what I want. To disappear into the background. To blend until Enzo Moretti forgets I exist.
I want to survive this.
"Morning, beautiful."
The voice comes from directly behind me. Low and rough and dangerous. My entire body goes rigid. Every muscle tenses. Every nerve fires.
So this is what the devil sounds like.
I don't turn around. Don't acknowledge the greeting. Don't give him the satisfaction of knowing he's gotten under my skin.
But my hands are shaking again.
And this time, I know exactly why.
I'm afraid. Not of him.
Of myself.