The smell of smoke clung to the air, bitter and suffocating. Seventeen-year-old Bloom pressed her trembling hands against the banister of the grand staircase, her heart thundering in her chest. From her hiding place, she could hear the chaos below—voices raised in fury, the clash of steel, the crack of gunfire.
Her father's empire—everything they had built—was collapsing in a single night.
Through the shadows, she saw him. Tall, dressed in black, with eyes like sharpened blades. He moved through the wreckage of her family's estate like a king claiming territory, his men dragging servants and guards to their knees.
And then, in the center of the room, her parents.
Her mother's tear-streaked face turned toward Bloom's direction for a fleeting second—as if she knew her daughter was watching. Her father, though beaten and bloodied, stood tall. Defiant to the very end.
The man stepped closer, his voice calm—terrifyingly calm.
"You should have known better than to cross me."
Two gunshots split the night. Her parents collapsed on the marble floor.
Bloom's scream lodged in her throat, raw and silent. She bit her lip until she tasted blood, forcing herself not to move, not to be seen. Because if she did, she knew she'd be next.
She etched his face into her memory—the man who stole everything from her. The man she swore she'd kill.
That night, Bloom died alongside her parents. Only hatred lived on.
---
Bloom ran until her feet bled. Through forests, alleyways, and broken roads, until the mansion was nothing but smoke on the horizon.
For days, she wandered the streets, hollow with grief. Hunger gnawed at her ribs like knives. She had once been served meals on silver plates; now she stole crumbs left behind by careless hands.
The first night she curled under a bench, praying for warmth. The second night, she begged a baker for stale bread, only to be shoved away with curses. By the third, she could barely stand. Her hair was tangled, her lips cracked, her eyes vacant.
She had been a daughter of luxury only days ago. Now she was nothing.
Her body grew weaker each passing hour. Every step felt heavier, every breath shallow. She had no destination, no hope, only the raw instinct to keep moving.
On the fourth night, delirious with exhaustion, Bloom collapsed on the cold pavement of a forgotten street. Rain drizzled over her skin, soaking her thin clothes until her bones ached with cold.
Her vision blurred. She thought of her mother's face, her father's voice. She thought of the gunshots. And she let her eyes close, welcoming the darkness.
---
"Hey! Are you okay?"
The voice sliced through the haze. Firm, urgent, alive.
Bloom blinked weakly, the world spinning, until she saw him kneeling beside her. A young man, perhaps twenty, with dark, striking eyes and hair that fell across his forehead. His clothes were clean, his jacket tailored, too fine for the streets. He looked like he belonged in a world of wealth—but the way he crouched in the rain, concern etched across his face, didn't match the arrogance of privilege.
"Leave me," Bloom whispered, her voice little more than a breath.
But he shook his head. "If I do, you'll die out here. Come on."
He extended his hand. Bloom stared at it, hesitating. Trust was dangerous. Yet her body trembled too much to resist, her pride already shattered. Slowly, she placed her hand in his. His grip was firm, steady, warm against her frozen fingers.
---
Adrian
He brought her to a small safe house on the edge of the city, tucked between warehouses and forgotten streets. The space was simple but safe—an old couch, cracked walls, a single heater humming faintly.
"Sit," he ordered gently, guiding her onto the couch. He draped a blanket over her shoulders, then handed her a bottle of water.
"Drink."
Bloom obeyed, gulping it down, her throat burning as the cool liquid slid down. She hadn't realized how close she was to breaking until now.
After a pause, he leaned back against the wall, arms crossed. His eyes studied her closely, as if weighing every detail. "I'm Adrian," he said at last. "I'm twenty. My parents… let's just say they've got more money than sense. I sneak out when I can. Tonight, I guess it worked out—for you at least."
Bloom stiffened, her heart racing. She couldn't tell him the truth. Not about her name, not about the blood still staining her memory.
"My name is…" she faltered, then forced the lie past her lips. "Lia."
Adrian raised an eyebrow, catching the hesitation, but he didn't push. "Alright, Lia. You don't owe me your life story." His tone softened. "But you should know this city eats people alive if they're not careful. Stick with me, and maybe it won't swallow you whole."
Bloom's gaze dropped to her trembling hands. She hated the weakness in her body, hated that she needed his help. But for now, she would accept it.
Because he didn't know who she really was. And she intended to keep it that way.