prominentworld

[prominentworld]

Chapter 10: A Crack

ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀꜱ ᴅɪꜱᴄʀᴇᴛɪᴏɴ; ᴛʜɪꜱ ɴᴏᴠᴇʟ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴀɪɴꜱ ᴍᴀᴛᴜʀᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ᴘᴏᴛᴇɴᴛɪᴀʟʟʏ ᴅɪꜱᴛʀᴇꜱꜱɪɴɢ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ, ɪɴᴄʟᴜᴅɪɴɢ ᴠɪᴏʟᴇɴᴄᴇ, ꜱᴛʀᴏɴɢ ʟᴀɴɢᴜᴀɢᴇ, ᴀʙᴜꜱᴇ, ᴛʀᴀᴜᴍᴀ ᴛʜᴇᴍᴇꜱ, ᴘꜱʏᴄʜᴏʟᴏɢɪᴄᴀʟ ᴛʀɪɢɢᴇʀꜱ, ʜᴏᴍᴏᴘʜᴏʙɪᴀ, ᴀʟᴄᴏʜᴏʟɪꜱᴍ, ʀᴀᴘᴇ, ᴀɴᴅ ꜱᴜɪᴄɪᴅᴇ. ᴘʟᴇᴀꜱᴇ ᴘʀᴏᴄᴇᴇᴅ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴄᴀʀᴇ.

NOTE:

Start of distressing content

End of distressing content

The thing about people falling apart is… they don’t scream when they do.

They just stop showing up.

First it was her voice. Samantha stopped humming in the hall. She stopped playing music through her speaker when she cooked, no more soft jazz, no more experimental violin. Her laugh—once sharp and sudden—vanished without fanfare. Then it was her hair. She’d always braided it loosely to the side, tucked behind one ear. But lately it stayed unbrushed. Damp sometimes. Always pulled into a knot, as if she didn’t want to touch herself more than necessary.

Rome noticed it all.

He wasn’t trying to.

It just became hard not to.

Their apartments shared a wall, and silence has a way of sounding louder when it replaces something beautiful. He began to miss the scrape of her ballet shoes against the floor, the muffled sound of her rehearsing lines to herself late into the night. He missed her shadow beneath the door when she passed. Missed her. And he didn’t know when that feeling had started to grow heavy, but it sat in his ribs now like water in lungs.

He asked her once.

“You okay?”

He didn’t even try to pretend it was casual. His voice cracked on the “you.”

Samantha blinked at him through the narrow slit in the door, as if she hadn’t expected anyone to ask.

As if she’d forgotten what it was like to be seen.

“I’m fine,” she’d said.

But she hadn’t smiled when she said it.

Not even the lie smiled.

Rome noticed Raphael, too. The shift was smaller—more guarded. More controlled. Raphael was late to class more often. He stopped replying in the group chat. Started drinking before rehearsals. At first, it looked like stress. People snapped under pressure all the time at Cypress.

But this wasn’t snapping.

This was hiding.

Rome figured the couple had gotten into a big fight — maybe even broken up. But no. He’d watched the guy across the courtyard during lunch, chewing the inside of his cheek like there was something sour in his mouth he couldn’t spit out.

So Rome confronted him.

He and Ezra found Raphael behind the campus café, cigarette tucked between two fingers he never used to stain. The smoke curled up against his face like a curtain he could disappear behind.

Rome didn’t try to sound polite.

“Something happened with Samantha. Didn’t it?”

Raphael didn’t look up. He just exhaled.

Ezra cleared his throat beside Rome, unsure if he should intervene.

“I said,” Rome repeated, firmer, “something happened.”

“What’s it to you?” Raphael snapped. He finally looked up, and the bags beneath his eyes looked carved there. “You her boyfriend now? You two sneaking around or some shit?”

Rome felt his jaw tense. “No. I’m just not a fucking coward.”

The words landed harder than expected.

Raphael crushed the cigarette under his heel, eyes dark. “You don’t know what happened between us. You don’t know anything about her. So don’t act like you care now.”

“I do care,” Rome said. “That’s the difference.”

There was a pause.

Then Raphael’s face twisted into a sneer. “You think she’s perfect? You think she didn’t ask for attention? She never said no—”

Rome didn’t remember lunging.

Just the sound of his fist hitting something too soft to satisfy the rage in his chest.

Ezra pulled him off. Raphael spat blood onto the ground, grinning, like pain proved something.

“You think you’re a saint?” he coughed. “You’re just a broken fucking kid playing god.”

Rome didn’t say anything else.

He just walked away.

It was three days later when the door to Samantha’s apartment was slightly ajar. Just enough to notice. Rome stood there for a second, grocery bag still hanging from one hand, unsure if he should knock or just close it gently for her.

He said her name first.

“Samantha?”

No answer.

He pushed it open slowly, like he was intruding on a secret. The hallway smelled strange—something metallic beneath the scent of expired flowers.

“Samantha?”

Still no answer.

And then—

He saw her feet.

They hung an inch above the floor.

Pale. Still. Blue at the toes.

The bag hit the ground with a hollow thud.

Rome couldn’t scream at first. His mind didn’t understand what his eyes were seeing. He walked toward her like a ghost himself, hand reaching forward like maybe, just maybe, he was wrong. But when his fingertips brushed her ankle, the cold went straight to his spine.

Then it came.

The scream wasn’t human.

It tore out of his throat like an animal’s. He screamed her name, screamed again, louder, until his voice cracked and his knees hit the floor.

“SAM,” he cried. “SAM, PLEASE.”

But her body only swayed gently.

A chair had fallen below her. The same one she painted on. The one with flecks of white from the paper stars she made in October.

He grabbed her legs, sobbing violently, begging her to come down like it was a game they could still undo. He didn’t even feel the snot and tears staining his face, didn’t hear the neighbors calling from behind doors. All he saw was the piece of paper taped below her feet. Her handwriting.

He read it on the floor. Knees scraped. Chest heaving. Eyes burning.

I don’t know how to write this without screaming.

I don’t even know who I am anymore. I keep replaying it — his breath, his voice, the way he touched me. Those hands. The same ones that used to hold me like I was made of glass. That used to brush the hair from my face like I was worth looking at.

That night, they didn’t feel like love.

They felt like something was being taken from me.

He was drunk. He kept saying he missed me. That I was beautiful. That he needed me. I laughed at first. I thought he was being dramatic — clingy, maybe. But when I said no, when I tried to leave, he didn’t stop.

He didn’t stop.

It’s like my body left me. I remember staring at the ceiling thinking, “Not him. Not him.”

But it was.

He didn’t yell. He didn’t hit. And somehow, that makes it worse. He kissed me while I cried. Whispered that he loved me, like that erased the word no. I said it more than once. I know I did.

So why do I still feel like it’s my fault?

I loved him. I trusted him. That part makes me sick. I still miss who he used to be — or who I thought he was. Isn’t that messed up? I’m ashamed for missing someone who made me feel like I was just skin to be used.

And after? He cried.

I held him while he cried.

I don’t even know who I’m supposed to be angry at anymore.

Maybe it was the alcohol. Maybe it was something else. Maybe it was always there, waiting.

And I hate myself for saying this, but—before it happened to me, I used to think she must’ve done something. I saw the way he looked after what he did to her. I saw how she disappeared — how dirty she looked. I thought, She must’ve deserved it somehow. She’s that kind of girl, isn’t she?

But now I know. No one deserves it.

Not her.

Not me.

I can’t look in the mirror without feeling like I’m wearing someone else’s skin. Like my body doesn’t belong to me anymore. I keep telling myself, “But he’s your boyfriend.”

Like that’s supposed to make it better.

It doesn’t. It makes it worse.

Because love wasn’t supposed to feel like erasure.

I’m not writing this to ruin him. I’m writing this because I can’t carry it anymore. I keep scrubbing my skin raw and still — I feel him. Like something that soaked too deep.

I tried to move on. I tried to be okay. But I’m so tired.

So tired of pretending.

So tired of screaming inside and waking up with nothing in my throat but air and blood.

If there’s somewhere else after this, I hope I can sleep.

And if he ever reads this...

I hope he understands what he broke.

And that he can never, ever put it back.

Goodbye, Raphael.

Rome dropped the letter like it was on fire.

And for a second… he stopped breathing. He didn’t move. Didn’t cry.

Then he stood. Slow. Shaking.

He was confused. Overwhelmed. In disbelief.

He hadn’t known it would come to this — not like this.

He regretted letting her walk alone. Letting her be alone.

If he had just asked Ezra more clearly. If he hadn’t panicked. If he hadn’t left. If he had noticed something, anything.

Then maybe—

Maybe this wouldn’t have happened.

He killed her.

That thought landed like a stone in his chest. Heavy. Cold.

He killed Samantha.

And now — now that he knew what had been done to her, who had made her feel used, filthy, like a body to be thrown away — he couldn’t hold it in. The betrayal pressed against his ribs like it wanted to tear its way out.

Because it wasn’t just anyone.

It wasn’t a stranger.

It was someone he loved.

His friend. His family.

Destroyed not by enemies, but from the inside.

Rome stumbled back, knees giving up. His stomach turned. He doubled over and vomited onto the floor.

And then the sound came. Not words — just a howl of something too broken to name. He wailed, screamed, until the sound of sirens filled the distance.

When the medics arrived, he was still on the floor, clutching her like he could somehow hold her soul together. He wouldn’t let go — couldn’t — not this time, not again.

They had to sedate him to pry her from his arms.

Even unconscious, his fingers stayed curled in the fabric of her sleeve.

Ezra found him that night. Sitting in front of Samantha’s door, dried blood on his knuckles from punching the wall until it cracked.

“Rome—”

“I know who it was,” Rome said.

Ezra paled. “Rome—please—”

“He raped her,” Rome whispered. “And she still wrote his name like she loved him.”

His voice cracked. He looked down at his own hands like they belonged to someone else.

“What kind of person does that?” he asked. “What kind of monster makes someone write that?”

Ezra didn’t answer.

Rome didn’t wait.

He already knew what he had to do.

And he knew who deserved it.

Rome didn’t remember making the choice to follow him that night.

One second he was standing still — air thick with the smell of winter and hospital soap, Samantha’s name still echoing somewhere inside him like a bell that wouldn’t stop ringing — and the next, he was moving.

He saw Raphael walking ahead, hands buried in the pockets of his coat, shoulders curled in like a boy who didn’t want to be seen. Just walking. Like nothing happened.

Like he still had the right to move through the world.

Rome started walking faster. Then faster. Then he was running.

“Raphael.”

The name came out strangled. Less a name than a warning.

Raphael turned, too slowly.

Rome’s fist met his jaw with a sound like breaking ice.

Raphael staggered back. No words. Just shock in his face. Mouth already slick with red.

Rome didn’t give him time to find words.

He slammed him into the wall so hard it rattled before dragging him into an alley. Raphael gasped, but Rome didn’t care. He hit him again — knuckles splitting against cheekbone, pain ricocheting up his arm like fire.

“You touched her,” Rome hissed. “You touched her.”

Another punch. And another. Until Raphael crumpled onto the cold, wet concrete, coughing blood into his palm.

Rome didn’t stop.

He didn’t stop because if he did, he’d have to feel it. He’d have to face it — what this was, who he was now, what Raphael had done. Who Raphael is.

So he dragged him deeper into the alley, into the dark, where no one could interrupt. Where grief could unmake him in peace.

“You looked me in the eye,” Rome said, breath ragged. He punched him again. “You sat beside me. Ate with me. You fucking—laughed.”

Raphael tried to crawl backward, hand raised weakly. “Rome—”

Rome kicked him in the ribs. “You let me think she was okay. You let me believe she was healing.”

He could barely see through the tears now, but he didn’t wipe them away. Just let them fall, hot and fast, splashing on Raphael’s coat as he stood over him.

Raphael was curled up, shaking. There was blood between his teeth, slicking the collar of his shirt. He tried to speak again — choked on it — then whispered, voice cracking:

“I didn’t mean to. I was drunk. I didn’t—”

Rome’s body moved without him. He pulled him up by the front of his coat and shoved him hard against the wall again.

“Don’t you dare say you didn’t mean to. She said no.”

“I know—”

“She begged you.”

Raphael didn’t fight back. Didn’t even raise his arms. His eyes were wide, glassy.

And then he said her name.

Soft. Like it still belonged to him. Like he had the right to speak it.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m so fucking sorry. Samantha—Samantha, I didn’t— I don’t know what’s wrong with me—”

That was when Rome stopped.

He let go.

Raphael slid down the wall, breath rattling. He looked small. Stupid. Nothing like the boy who had once made rooms tilt when he walked in.

That’s when he pulled the gun. It’s the same gun he bought after those seniors burned Ezra. It’s the same gun he bought to protect people. To protect them. Never did he think that one day he will be using it against them.

He clocked the gun and pointed at Raphael. He’s going to do it. He’s going to kill him. He’s going to avenge Samantha.

But he couldn’t bear to do it. He couldn’t kill his family. That despite the monster that he is. He couldn’t bring himself to do it. Knowing that he too was at fault for her death.

Rome stood there, fists dripping red, chest heaving.

He lowered the gun and pulled it back to his jacket.

He didn’t feel powerful. He didn’t feel healed.

He felt empty. Like someone had reached inside and scraped out everything good.

His hands hurt. But not enough.

He turned away. Took one step. Then another.

And then he dropped to his knees and threw up in the snow.

There was blood in his mouth — not his own.

He wiped it away and pressed his forehead to the cold pavement.

He didn’t know how long he stayed there.

That letter became evidence. And Raphael was arrested within a week.

The charge: Rape in the first degree.

The courtroom wasn’t loud. It wasn’t wild. It was cold—methodical. Samantha's diary was found later, each entry lined with quiet agony and trauma so plain it silenced the defense. Raphael didn’t cry when the verdict came. He didn’t speak. He sat still as his sentence was read out. Life was already out of his eyes.

Eighteen years to life.

He would serve a minimum of eight and a half years, but the judge’s tone made one thing clear: parole wouldn’t come easy. Not for this. Not when the girl was dead. Not when the pain was inked in her own hand.

He was added to the sex offender registry. Level III risk. The highest tier. His name etched into databases he could never escape. His future dissolved in the weight of what he did.

Outside the courtroom, Rome stood on the courthouse steps. The wind was sharp that day. It stung the corners of his eyes, but he didn’t blink. Didn’t flinch. He didn’t feel vindicated. Only tired.

Because justice didn’t bring Samantha back. It didn’t heal the space where she used to laugh through thin walls or ask for sugar through a cracked door.

And Raphael—once kind, once part of the warmth in Rome’s new life—was now just another name buried under guilt.

It was never the same then.

Never the same for Rome.

And never the same Rome.

[prominentworld]

Chapter 9: New Corner

ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀꜱ ᴅɪꜱᴄʀᴇᴛɪᴏɴ; ᴛʜɪꜱ ɴᴏᴠᴇʟ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴀɪɴꜱ ᴍᴀᴛᴜʀᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ᴘᴏᴛᴇɴᴛɪᴀʟʟʏ ᴅɪꜱᴛʀᴇꜱꜱɪɴɢ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ, ɪɴᴄʟᴜᴅɪɴɢ ᴠɪᴏʟᴇɴᴄᴇ, ꜱᴛʀᴏɴɢ ʟᴀɴɢᴜᴀɢᴇ, ᴀʙᴜꜱᴇ, ᴛʀᴀᴜᴍᴀ ᴛʜᴇᴍᴇꜱ, ᴘꜱʏᴄʜᴏʟᴏɢɪᴄᴀʟ ᴛʀɪɢɢᴇʀꜱ, ʜᴏᴍᴏᴘʜᴏʙɪᴀ, ᴀʟᴄᴏʜᴏʟɪꜱᴍ, ᴀɴᴅ ꜱᴜɪᴄɪᴅᴇ. ᴘʟᴇᴀꜱᴇ ᴘʀᴏᴄᴇᴇᴅ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴄᴀʀᴇ.

Three weeks have passed since Christmas.

Rome still kept in touch with his family back in Elmbury—calls with Kate, long texts with Krist, even the occasional picture of their dog asleep under the tree long after the season had ended. And now, with January closing in fast, whenever he wasn’t at the airfield, slowly chipping away at his Private Pilot License (PPL) training—he found himself spending his weekends with the people who’d found him first.

He sat by the window sill of his small apartment, guitar in hand, fingers idly strumming. It was the one his mother gifted him for Christmas—dark mahogany with a smooth neck and a message carved faintly near the bridge ‘Love never missing a beat’. His thumb traced the carving absentmindedly as he looked around the room, quiet but full.

Ezra was raiding the fridge again.

“Why the hell is your fridge full of Michelin-level leftovers?” Ezra asked, dramatically pulling out a container of something green. “Do you just live off steak tartare and guilt?”

Rome gave a soft grunt, not looking up. That meant yes.

Raphael was curled up on the couch with Samantha, both of them tucked under a too-small blanket as a movie played in the background. They weren’t paying attention. Her hand was resting over his heart, and his was in her hair.

Turns out, it wasn’t just Rome’s plane that landed in January.

It was nearly 4 PM when Samantha stood up, brushing off invisible lint from her leggings. She had one final rehearsal left before her upcoming performance. Swan Lake, February 20th, at the local theater. She was both excited and exhausted, and it showed in the faint tension in her jaw.

She and Raphael had a disagreement twenty minutes ago—something about schedule conflicts. The performance landed on the same night as Flight Night, a semi-annual party hosted by the academy’s upperclassmen and instructors. It was part ceremony, part chaos. But, it wasn’t just drinks and music; it was networking, recognition, a chance to be seen by alumni and maybe even future employers. For someone like Raphael—ambitious, eager to belong—it felt like a must-attend.

He walked out the door first as Samantha followed while talking to Rome.

“What about you, Rome?” Samantha asked, smiling at him as she slipped on her coat. “Will you come to my performance?”

He blinked at her like she had said something strange. “Your boyfriend’s unavailable. You think I am?”

She grinned. “Yeah. Because I know you wouldn’t go to that party anyway.”

Ezra, who had just found his phone between the couch cushions, popped up behind him. “Wait—what?! You’re not going to Flight Night, Romey?”

Rome shrugged. He was used to social events now, tolerated them even—but that party wasn’t really about celebrating students. Not really. It was a spectacle, a hazing event under the guise of tradition. If it had been a true network gathering, he might’ve gone.

Raphael pouted from the couch. “Hey hey hey, you’re asking another guy out when your boyfriend isn’t available?”

Samantha rolled her eyes and leaned down to kiss his cheek. “Sorry, love. I just need a witness. It’s Swan Lake. I need someone to witness me being smug in pointe shoes.”

��Wow. They’re both narcissists,” Ezra muttered. “No wonder they matched.”

“Excuse me? Did you just call me a narcissist?” Raphael looked betrayed.

“Why are you only offended for yourself?” Samantha added, laughing as she playfully smacked his arm.

The conversation flowed so easily, so naturally, that Rome didn’t even realize they’d all stepped out of the apartment and were walking down the hall. It scared him sometimes, how easily his guard dropped around them.

But that safety shattered in seconds.

As they turned the corner, a group of upperclassmen passed by. It all happened too fast.

One of them threw a cup of steaming coffee directly at Ezra.

There was a sickening hiss. Ezra screamed. The cup clattered to the floor as hot liquid soaked into his shirt and splashed across his face. He stumbled back, clutching his cheek, eyes squeezed shut in agony.

Rome froze.

His mind glitched for a second, torn between the instinct to chase after them and the more urgent pull toward his friend. The latter won.

He dropped beside Ezra, pulling him close and trying to wipe the scalding liquid away with the hem of his shirt. Ezra screamed again, shaking.

Samantha was on the phone with the police in seconds. Raphael ran into the street, yelling for help.

Rome held Ezra tighter, trying to keep him steady, trying not to shake himself.

And then—Ezra’s shirt lifted slightly.

Rome saw it.

A bruise. Then another. A cluster of them across his ribs, dark and in varying stages of healing. And there—a small round scar near his side. A burn. Cigarettes.

Rome’s hand froze.

He lifted the shirt a little more. More bruises. More silence.

He dropped it quickly, swallowing hard. His eyes flicked to the corner of the street, where the boys who did it were retreating, laughing.

One of them looked back.

Right at him.

Rome's vision tunneled. His pulse was deafening in his ears. He had seen those guys before—upperclassmen who loitered by the hangars, always close to Ezra. Always laughing too loud. Always watching.

He hadn’t seen it before. Not really.

Now he couldn’t unsee it.

“Don’t worry, Ez!” Raphael shouted from behind. “This guy said he’s a nurse—he knows what to do!”

The nurse crouched beside them, unscrewing a bottle of water and gently dabbing Ezra’s cheek.

But Rome heard none of it. Just the ringing in his ears.

Rome sat silently beside Ezra’s bed in the ER, the pale green light above casting soft shadows across his face. Ezra had passed out not long ago, his body finally surrendering to the shock and pain.

The doctor said the burn wasn’t serious. No permanent scarring. Just a few weeks and he’d be okay. Physically, at least.

Rome hadn't moved since they brought him in. He watched the slow rise and fall of Ezra’s chest, the faint monitor beeping beside him like a ticking clock. He could still smell the burnt fabric, the sharp sting of coffee in the air, the panic. The way Ezra screamed.

Samantha and Raphael had gone home an hour ago. Rome insisted. Samantha had her final rehearsal and Raphael—despite his protests—agreed to go with her. Rome didn’t tell them why he needed to stay. He didn’t tell them that he recognized the boys who threw the coffee. That it wasn’t random. That it was personal.

He didn’t say it because Ezra hadn’t said it either.

Then a sound broke the room’s stillness.

“...Romey?”

Rome stood in an instant, his chair screeching back on the tiles. He leaned forward, reaching for Ezra’s hand.

“I’m here, Ez. I’m right here,” he said gently, squeezing his hand. Ezra’s fingers were cold.

Ezra’s voice was thin and raspy. “Where’s…?”

Rome’s chest ached. His friend could barely speak, let alone open his eyes. And he—Rome—had just stood there when it happened. Frozen.

“They’re safe,” he said quietly. “I sent them home. Samantha had her rehearsal. Raphael’s with her. I didn’t want them to worry.”

Ezra’s brows pinched, his lips barely moving. “Do they…?”

Rome already knew what he meant.

“No,” he said. “They still don’t know.”

There was a silence, heavy with something they both understood.

Ezra hadn’t wanted anyone to know. Not yet. Maybe not ever. Rome knew why. It wasn’t about shame. It was fear—fear of being seen differently, like he was something fragile or tragic. Like he wasn’t Ezra anymore.

Rome had promised to wait until Ezra was ready. To let him speak for himself.

“Ez…” Rome hesitated, watching his friend’s pale face, his skin reddened by the coffee’s scald. “Tell me something.”

“Yeah?”

“What’s their name?” Rome’s voice was low, but steady.

“What?”

“Their name, Ez. The ones who did this.”

Ezra didn’t answer right away. His hand shifted slightly under Rome’s.

After a pause, he said, “They’re just some seniors. Third-years. I didn’t think they’d actually—” he stopped. His breath caught in his throat. “They saw me come out of a gay bar last December. I didn’t have anywhere to go that night. Home was too far. It was cold and I just... didn’t want to spend the holiday alone.”

His voice cracked.

“So I stayed. Talked to a guy. We just talked,” he added quickly, as if it made it better. “But they were watching. I didn’t know. I didn’t know they saw me.”

Rome’s jaw clenched. Something inside him shifted—not rage exactly, but a cold, sharp knowing. The kind of clarity that settled in his bones.

“They’ve been waiting for a chance,” Ezra continued, voice barely a whisper. “I didn’t think they’d go this far.”

Rome said nothing. He just tightened his grip on Ezra’s hand, anchoring him there. Keeping him safe, even if just in that small moment.

“I’m so tired, Rome,” Ezra whispered.

Rome brushed his thumb across Ezra’s knuckles. “I know. Rest. I’m not going anywhere.”

And as Ezra drifted back into sleep, Rome stayed right where he was, the silence around him thick with unspoken promises.

He wouldn’t let this go.

Not this time.

He spent the next few weeks watching over Ezra like a hawk, eyes sharp, presence unwavering. Rome didn’t speak much—he didn’t need to. His stare alone was enough to make people uneasy, especially the upperclassmen who had done this.

At first, they were caught off guard by his sudden shift. How someone so quiet, so seemingly composed, could carry something so dangerous in his silence. There was something in his gaze that promised damage, something just beneath the surface—stillness that felt like the moment before a blade drops.

But pride is a stubborn thing. And in their eyes, he was just a sixteen-year-old kid. A kid. Probably still cried to his mommy. So they laughed it off. Smirked at him in the halls. Threw glances soaked in mockery.

Yet they never got too close.

Because Rome was always there. Always one step ahead. Always seated at the right table, walking down the right hall, exiting class just in time to cut between them. It was calculated, subtle, suffocating. He made himself a wall they couldn’t climb, and worse—a witness they couldn’t shake.

And they hated him for it.

They couldn’t get to Ezra anymore. Not with Rome so close. They couldn’t even get near the others without feeling that heavy, unspoken warning: Try it. I dare you.

They boiled in silence, fists clenched behind locker doors and locker room whispers. They tried to rattle him, tried to make him falter—but Rome didn’t flinch. He just stared. Cold. Watchful. Ready.

So eventually, they stopped.

Or at least, it looked like they did.

Because boys like that don’t give up. They wait. For silence. For a crack in the armor. For the next opportunity.

And Rome knew that, too.

Which is why he never let his guard down.

It had been weeks since Rome left his apartment for something that wasn’t required. He went to class. He ate. He studied. But joy? Joy had left the building with the scent of burned skin and the sound of someone screaming.

Now it was February, and the world outside was brittle with frost. Sidewalks glistened with thin layers of ice that caught the morning sun like broken glass. Cold wind scraped through narrow alleys, and bare trees lined the streets like ribs. It was the kind of month where you either held on to someone or let go.

And Rome had been letting go. Of everything. Piece by piece.

So when Samantha messaged him, “Still coming to the performance? :)”, he didn’t respond. He read it three times and stared at the blinking cursor as if it might type something on its own. He didn’t mean to ignore her, but the thought of going — of being around people, of pretending he was fine — made his chest tighten.

Worse, the idea of leaving Ezra alone twisted something deeper in him. The dorm felt fragile lately, like it was holding its breath. What if something happened while he was gone? Rome stared at the blinking cursor like it might decide for him. He almost put his phone down.

Until he remembered what Ezra had said just two days before.

"You need to see something beautiful again, Rome. You need to remember what softness looks like."

So he went. Not because he wanted to. But because Ezra asked him to.

The theater was older, with cracked velvet chairs and golden lights that made the dust in the air shimmer like static. There was something sacred about it. The way sound hushed in the walls. The way people dressed up a little nicer, spoke a little quieter. It felt like the past breathing.

Rome sat near the back, his black hoodie zipped up to the chin. He pulled his hood halfway over his head and kept his eyes down as people filed in, laughing, murmuring, shaking snow from their jackets. Somewhere in the crowd, a mother whispered, “This is her last performance before auditions.” Another voice said, “She’s the white swan tonight.”

And then the lights dimmed.

Music rose — strings first, then winds, delicate and haunting. It made Rome’s chest ache. Not with sadness. Not with memory. Just... something.

Then, Samantha appeared.

At first, she was just a silhouette in the mist of the stage lights. But as the fog cleared, she emerged in white, glowing almost — like a swan breaking the surface of a still lake. Her costume was impossibly detailed; silver thread curled like vines along her bodice, the skirt feathered and floating just above her knees. Her arms moved with a sorrowful grace, soft yet strong. Each movement felt intentional, like she was speaking in a language meant only for the brokenhearted.

Rome forgot to blink.

She didn’t dance to impress. She danced to survive.

Her hair was swept into a low bun, her makeup soft with the faintest shimmer under her eyes. But her expression — that quiet grief, that nobility in fragility — was what silenced the entire room. She wasn’t just Odette. She was peace. She was purity trying to endure a world that kept staining everything it touched.

Rome thought about Ezra. About fire. About how purity and pain sometimes lived in the same body.

For those few moments, everything cruel about the world disappeared. He let it go. The anger, the guilt, the noise. All of it was washed away in the white of Samantha’s performance.

And when it ended — when the lights rose and the audience clapped like they were trying to hold onto her a second longer — Rome stood too. Slowly. Like waking from a dream he wasn’t ready to leave.

He waited outside by the side entrance, coat zipped to his chin, his breath fogging in the frigid air. Snow flurried in lazy spirals around the streetlight. His phone buzzed. A missed call from Ezra. He tried calling back. No answer.

His chest tightened.

He tried again.

And again.

Samantha finally stepped out the stage door, wrapped in a coat that barely concealed the glitter from her makeup and the dampness in her hair. “You came,” she said, voice soft, surprised.

Rome managed a nod. “You were...” He didn’t know the word. Beautiful didn’t feel enough. “You were honest.”

She blinked, then smiled. “Thank you.”

They walked side by side in silence, their shoes crunching softly against the icy pavement. He told her a little about what the show reminded him of. She laughed and said, “That’s the point. You’re supposed to feel something.”

But Rome was barely listening now.

His fingers curled tight in his coat pocket around his phone.

No reply from Ezra.

He stopped walking.

Samantha turned, brows pulling together. “Rome?”

His voice was strained. “He’s not answering.”

“Maybe he’s asleep?”

Rome was already dialing again.

When the line clicked, Rome almost dropped the phone.

“...Romey?”

Ezra’s voice was rough. Hoarse.

Something about it was wrong.

Rome froze. The phone was suddenly too quiet. Too thin between them.

Then a thought struck — brutal and fast.

Did they get to him?

“Where are you?” Rome asked, his voice sharp, rushed, like the words might vanish if he took a breath. Like Ezra might vanish.

Silence on the other end. Just the sound of wind.

“At my apartment…”

That was all Rome needed.

He was already moving—barely thinking. He didn’t know what he was running toward. Only that he had to get there before it was too late.

Ezra’s apartment was warm when Rome finally pushed open the door. His coat was still covered in melting snowflakes. His fingers were numb. But all that mattered was the sight of Ezra on the couch, hair wild, eyes half-lidded, blanket kicked halfway off his legs.

He blinked in confusion. “Rome?”

“What-”

“I was asleep,” Ezra said, blinking again. “You ran all the way here because… my voice is hoarsed?”

Rome didn’t answer.

He just stared at him. At his hands. His neck. The small scar on his jaw.

Still whole. Still alive.

And slowly, Rome walked towards the couch and hugged Ezra. He exhaled like he’d been underwater.

Ezra froze for a moment, then let one arm fall from the blanket, his fingers brushing Rome’s shoulder.

Rome didn’t flinch.

“I’m okay,” Ezra said again.

“I needed to see it,” Rome murmured. “With my own eyes.”

Silence. Soft. Safe.

“I’m glad you came to the show,” Ezra said after a while.

Rome closed his eyes.

“I’m glad too.”

And there, beneath the quiet of February snowfall, beneath the hum of the heater and the slow, steady breaths of a friend not yet lost — Rome let himself believe Ezra was safe.

He only stayed ten minutes.

Long enough to hear Ezra’s voice steady. Long enough to watch the color return to his face, to be sure no blood stained the floor, no threat lurked in the corners.

Then he slipped out the door and walked home in the cold.

But that night, when he lay in his own bed, the silence didn’t claw at him. For the first time in weeks, his body let go—and Rome finally allowed himself to sleep.

Even if just for the night.

Deaf to the streets.

Deaf to the people passing by.

And deaf—to the death of peace.

[prominentworld]

Chapter 8: End Of The Year

ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀꜱ ᴅɪꜱᴄʀᴇᴛɪᴏɴ; ᴛʜɪꜱ ɴᴏᴠᴇʟ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴀɪɴꜱ ᴍᴀᴛᴜʀᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ᴘᴏᴛᴇɴᴛɪᴀʟʟʏ ᴅɪꜱᴛʀᴇꜱꜱɪɴɢ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ, ɪɴᴄʟᴜᴅɪɴɢ ᴠɪᴏʟᴇɴᴄᴇ, ꜱᴛʀᴏɴɢ ʟᴀɴɢᴜᴀɢᴇ, ᴀʙᴜꜱᴇ, ᴛʀᴀᴜᴍᴀ ᴛʜᴇᴍᴇꜱ, ᴘꜱʏᴄʜᴏʟᴏɢɪᴄᴀʟ ᴛʀɪɢɢᴇʀꜱ, ʜᴏᴍᴏᴘʜᴏʙɪᴀ, ᴀʟᴄᴏʜᴏʟɪꜱᴍ, ᴀɴᴅ ꜱᴜɪᴄɪᴅᴇ. ᴘʟᴇᴀꜱᴇ ᴘʀᴏᴄᴇᴇᴅ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴄᴀʀᴇ.

Time went by fast, and before Rome knew it, he was already finishing his last month in ground school this December.

He had said his goodbyes to Ezra, Raphael, and Samantha, each hug lingering a little longer than usual. Rome didn’t think he was the type to miss people. But apparently, he was wrong.

He was spending the Christmas holidays with Kate and Krist.

He hadn’t planned on going back—back to where things once felt heavy and cold. But Kate had invited him. Whether it was guilt for leaving a kid alone on Christmas Eve, or something more genuine, Rome didn’t ask. Not that he would’ve declined either way.

The past few months had done something to him. Something good.

Ezra’s noise, Raphael’s warmth, and Samantha’s stillness—they healed things in him that he didn’t even realize were broken. He was softer now, more open. Open enough to accept Kate’s invitation without his walls going up first.

The airport, as expected, was chaotic. Families bumping into one another with suitcases too big and patience too thin. Flight announcements overlapping with crying babies and the occasional voice screaming, “I said gate C24!” Rome moved through it all like a ghost—tired, unaffected, shoulders hunched under the weight of travel and memory.

By the time he reached Kate’s front door, he wasn’t sure how he got there. He felt like a blackout drunk man waking up on the right doorstep, silently thanking whatever higher force made sure he didn’t end up lost.

He exhaled deeply and knocked.

The door swung open before he could even finish the second tap.

“Rome!” Kate’s voice was bright. Too bright. Her arms wrapped around him before he could step back. “I’m so glad you made it.”

And then—chaos again.

But this time, it was personal.

Behind her were faces he didn’t recognize. Kate’s side of the family. Aunts, uncles, cousins, toddlers darting through legs with sticky fingers and toy swords. It smelled like cinnamon and baked ham. It sounded like too many conversations layered on top of one another. He blinked.

So this… this is what a real family looks like.

She guided him to the dining table, gesturing to an empty chair. People were gathering now, hovering as the food was set down—roast ham, mashed potatoes, sweet pies, bottles of soda. A wine bottle for the adults, and hot chocolate for the kids. Rome, somehow, got hot chocolate too. He looked at Kate sideways, but she didn’t notice. She was too busy placing the vanilla cake at the center of the table.

It started okay. Rome sat quietly, focused on his ham while the rest of the table buzzed around him. Background noise. His own quiet world.

Until—

“Who are you? You’re not family,” a little boy said across the table, finger pointed and innocent.

The table was still. Conversations faltered. Forks paused midair. All eyes turned, not to the boy—but to each other. Passing responsibility like a hot potato. And, unfortunately, it was the wrong aunt that caught it.

“Who is he? Oh honey,” she cooed with fake sweetness, “that’s Kate’s little reminder from her mistake with John! Not really family. Just tagging along—bless his heart.”

It hit the room like a slap.

Murmurs rose. Someone chuckled awkwardly. Another uncle muttered about how “John was always a bastard anyway.” A few tried to hush her, while a mother tugged her son’s arm down. But the one voice that broke through the noise came sharp and clear:

Krist.

“Really, Aunt Pam?” he said, his tone full of steel. “Kate’s little reminder from her mistake with John? You’re basically calling him a mistake. How insensitive are you?”

Aunt Pam bristled. “Excuse me? I said nothing wrong. What, are we not allowed to acknowledge reality now? That thing with John—”

“I’m the result of that mistake,’ Aunt Pam,” Krist cut in, his voice rising, eyes flashing. “Am I a mistake too?”

Aunt Pam faltered. Her mouth opened, closed.

Silence.

Kate stood.

“No one is a mistake,” she said, voice calm but commanding. Her eyes moved across the table until they landed gently on the boy who asked the question. “Nate, sweetheart—Rome is family. He always has been. Not because of blood or paperwork or who his father was. He’s family because he’s here. Because he matters to us.”

Rome stared at her.

There were a million ways to respond to that, but he said none of them. Instead, he just picked up his cup of hot chocolate again, let the warmth sink into his fingers, and allowed—for the first time in a long time—himself to believe her.

Rome sat in silence under the Christmas tree, feeling colder than ever despite being just a few feet from the fireplace. The last of the relatives had just walked out the door, clutching takeaway containers and leftovers, their voices still echoing faintly down the hallway.

He wasn’t sure anymore if coming here had been the right decision.

Despite what Kate had said at dinner, the kid had been right. He wasn’t family. Not really. The only person he shared blood with in this house was Krist—and even then, it wasn’t the kind of connection that bound hearts. They shared the same father. That was it. Krist was everything Rome wasn’t: new, easy to love, easy to forget their ties with the same man who haunted Rome's childhood.

Rome was deep in that thought when Krist sat down beside him. He didn’t say anything at first. Just sat next to him, silent and solid, until—

“We’re not a mistake.”

Rome flinched. He didn’t know why, but he did. He turned to look at Krist.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“I know,” Krist said softly. “But I know you’ve thought about it. Because I have too.”

Rome was silent, unsure how to respond. He hadn’t expected that. He didn’t think Krist—kind, easygoing Krist—would ever carry that kind of weight.

“You don’t believe me, do you?” Krist added, catching the look on his face. “That I’ve thought of myself as a mistake?”

Krist smiled, not bitterly, but with something cracked behind it. He turned to face the fireplace.

“My mom’s been called a whore more times than I can count. And yeah, I get it. She slept with a married man. I’m not saying it was right. Even if I’m her son, I can say that she made a mistake—a big mistake. But she didn’t deserve what came after. The whispers. The mockery. The shame.”

Rome looked down, jaw clenched.

“We grew up in the same house, Rome. Same drunken bastard of a father. The only difference between us is the woman who gave birth to us. Everything else—the yelling, the booze, the cold silences—was the same. Same man, same fists, same neglect disguised as discipline. You think I don’t remember him coming home reeking of smoke and bitterness?”

He laughed, bitterly, painfully.

“Sometimes I wonder... if I wasn’t born—if my mom hadn’t fallen for him—would she have found someone better? Someone who actually stayed, who didn’t leave bruises instead of love? Or maybe... maybe if he had never met her, he would’ve tried harder for your mom. Maybe your family wouldn’t have fallen apart.”

His hands curled into fists.

“Sometimes it feels like I’m the crack that ruined everything. Like my birth was the first domino that made your whole house collapse. To make your mother lose her mind”

He looked at Rome with wet, glassy eyes.

“I didn’t mean to wreck your family, Rome. I really didn’t. But I think I did. And I’m sorry. I am so fucking sorry.”

And then Krist fell silent.

But the silence didn’t last long. It turned into quiet cries, into soft, hitched breaths that tried so hard not to be heard.

“I’m sorry, Rome. I’m so sorry.”

Rome didn’t know what to do. He didn’t know if he was supposed to hug him, console him, or just sit there and pretend not to notice. But his body moved before his mind did.

He cried.

A few silent tears slipped down his cheeks as he stared at Krist in disbelief. His hand moved on its own, reaching across the small space between them to take Krist’s hand and squeeze it tightly.

Krist looked up at him in surprise.

“I don’t hate you. I never did. You were all the family I had during those dark times. All I needed.” Rome said quietly. “I love you, Krist”

And then Krist broke again—his shoulders shaking harder, sobs rising from a place too deep to silence. Rome tightened his hold without thinking, wrapping both arms around him, anchoring him. They clung to each other like brothers lost in a storm, because in a way—they were.

They sat like that for a long time, just holding on. Long enough for the ache to settle into their legs, for the numbness to creep in from the cold floor—but still, they didn’t let go. As if loosening their grip might undo everything that had been said, everything finally understood.

Kate stepped into the room quietly from the hallway. Rome didn’t know if she had heard everything, but the look in her eyes said she had heard enough.

She knelt down slowly beside them, voice shaking as she spoke.

“Rome,” she said, voice thick. “I may not be the mother who carried you, who gave birth to you... but I’m the mother who raised you. I’m the one who tucked you in and packed your lunches and kissed your bruises. And I know... I know you never really saw me as your mom. I don’t blame you. But to me, you’ve always been my son. My Rome.”

Her hands trembled. Her lip quivered.

“And I’m sorry. I’m sorry I left you in that house. I didn’t know what to do. You were older then, harder to reach, and I—I was scared. Scared I wasn’t the mother you needed. Scared you hated me.” Her voice cracked completely. “But I never gave up on you. I never stopped loving you. You are a part of me, Rome. And you always will be.”

She broke down, sobbing into her hands.

Rome didn’t hesitate. He reached for her and pulled her close, the three of them falling into a messy, clumsy hug full of shaking shoulders and whispered apologies.

And that’s when Rome finally understood.

‘I have always had a family.’

He pressed his forehead against hers, voice barely above a whisper.

“Don’t cry, Mom. Please, don’t cry. I love you too.”

Kate looked up, eyes wide with tears, her whole face trembling. And then she broke—really broke—into tears as she clutched both her boys against her.

It was the first time he had ever called her that. Mom.

It was the first time he let himself mean it.

They stayed there for hours, crying until their throats were sore and their eyes burned. And eventually, they fell asleep on the floor, still wrapped in each other’s arms.

The airport was loud in a way that made goodbyes feel smaller than they should be. Rome stood near the gate, his bag slung over his shoulder, watching the steady flow of people come and go—families laughing, children tugging at sleeves, lovers holding on for one more minute.

He turned to Kate and Krist.

Kate looked at him like she was trying not to cry, her arms already halfway around him before he even said a word. Krist just shoved his hands into his pockets and stared at the floor like the tiles were going to say something wise.

Rome hugged Kate first. Tighter than he thought he would.

“Thank you,” he said quietly. And she didn’t ask what for. She just held him tighter.

Krist clapped him on the back and tried to play it cool, but the shake in his voice gave him away. “Text me when you land, dumbass.”

Rome smiled, small and crooked. “I will.”

As he walked toward his gate, his chest ached—not from regret, but from something else. A quiet, aching kind of happiness. The kind that swells inside you when something starts to matter.

He paused just before rounding the corner, turning one last time to see them standing there—Kate waving, Krist pretending not to wave but doing it anyway.

Next Christmas, he thought, I’m coming back. I’ll bake something. I’ll actually bring gifts. Maybe we’ll all sleep in the living room this time.

The thought made his heart feel fuller than it had in years.

Rome turned and kept walking.

For the first time in a long time, he had something to come back to.

[prominentworld]

Chapter 7: Around The Corner

ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀꜱ ᴅɪꜱᴄʀᴇᴛɪᴏɴ; ᴛʜɪꜱ ɴᴏᴠᴇʟ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴀɪɴꜱ ᴍᴀᴛᴜʀᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ᴘᴏᴛᴇɴᴛɪᴀʟʟʏ ᴅɪꜱᴛʀᴇꜱꜱɪɴɢ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ, ɪɴᴄʟᴜᴅɪɴɢ ᴠɪᴏʟᴇɴᴄᴇ, ꜱᴛʀᴏɴɢ ʟᴀɴɢᴜᴀɢᴇ, ᴀʙᴜꜱᴇ, ᴛʀᴀᴜᴍᴀ ᴛʜᴇᴍᴇꜱ, ᴘꜱʏᴄʜᴏʟᴏɢɪᴄᴀʟ ᴛʀɪɢɢᴇʀꜱ, ʜᴏᴍᴏᴘʜᴏʙɪᴀ, ᴀʟᴄᴏʜᴏʟɪꜱᴍ, ᴀɴᴅ ꜱᴜɪᴄɪᴅᴇ. ᴘʟᴇᴀꜱᴇ ᴘʀᴏᴄᴇᴇᴅ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴄᴀʀᴇ.

The last few weeks had been smooth. Better, even. Rome wasn’t used to calling anything in his life "good" without waiting for something to crash through it. But things with Ezra and Raphael had shifted—grown lighter. Closer. The kind of closeness that didn’t come from shared classes or random proximity, but from those quiet, in-between moments: laughter that came too easily, inside jokes that weren’t forced, silences that didn’t demand filling.

They dragged him out to places he never would’ve gone alone—raves, theaters, weekend flea markets that smelled like incense and overripe fruit. Rome would groan and roll his eyes like they were a burden, but when he got home, his chest was always a little fuller than when he left. His apartment had become quieter than usual lately—not just in sound, but in spirit. Ezra and Raphael, for all their noise, had unknowingly taught him something: silence didn’t mean peace. Sometimes, it meant loneliness.

It was October 22. His birthday. He didn’t tell anyone, didn’t expect anything, didn’t want to. All he planned was to take a walk, sit at that quiet café near the corner, and order a slice of cake. That would be enough. That was always enough.

The air had grown sharp and cold, typical of Seattle in mid-October. He liked it. The cold made things feel cleaner, somehow—honest. The bath he took that evening wasn’t just routine. It never was. Water always had a way of making him feel like he was shedding something. Washing away more than just sweat or dirt. Sometimes, when he closed his eyes, he imagined it cleansing the darker things—shame, bitterness, memories that clung like mildew.

He dressed thoughtfully. Not for anyone else. Just for the world, maybe. A black turtleneck, long charcoal coat, dark slacks. Boots that had walked through just enough rain to know the weather. A silver chain—barely visible, but present. He looked like someone ready to disappear, but with elegance. Someone you’d pass on the street and wonder about afterward.

He opened the door.

And froze.

“Would you look at that?” Ezra beamed. “Rome, I didn’t know you were a sweetheart like this—getting all dressed up for us.”

Rome blinked. “What?”

Ezra and Raphael were standing there like they owned the hallway. Big grins. No shame.

Before he could say another word, they were each grabbing an arm and dragging him forward.

“You didn’t think we’d find out?” Raphael asked, already halfway down the hall. “Joke’s on you. We’ve been planning this for weeks.”

“Had to sneak into admin just to see your birth date,” Ezra added proudly. “Totally worth the near-heart attack I gave the receptionist. Elmbury, huh? Sounds like a place haunted by suburban regrets and sweater vests. Bet that Freddy Kruegers even lives there.”

Rome wanted to resist. He really did. It was his instinct—backpedal, protect, retreat. Ask where they were going. Demand they let him go. But... he didn’t. Instead, he let them lead. He lifted his feet and started walking, not because he had no choice—but because, deep down, something inside him trusted that they wouldn’t lead him anywhere he didn’t belong.

And that was new.

For once in his life, Rome let himself be taken. Not away. But in.

“Pretty good, huh?” Raphael looked at him expectantly.

And Rome? He was done.

He stared at the wet leaves piled on the ground, his mouth curling into a scowl carved from disbelief and a long-suffering patience he hadn’t signed up for. He didn’t need words—just a look, sharp and deadpan, aimed right at Raphael like: Do you not see this? This look on my face?

And Raphael, to his credit, did.

“Hey! Don’t look at me like that. We’ve been planning this for weeks!”

“Not thoroughly, as I can see,” Rome muttered, voice dry as the inside of a locked cockpit.

It was late. The skies had turned a steel shade of angry gray, and what was supposed to be a warm, glowing bonfire night had shapeshifted into a wet improvisation. Their flashlights barely pierced through the fog, and the forest pressed in close, breathing and damp.

“Eyy, don’t look so down. Watch this.”

Ezra, ever the showman, gathered their flashlights, jamming them into the soil and tilting the beams skyward.

“See? This’ll do.”

“Yeah,” Raphael said flatly, arms crossed, “and then we wait for lightning to toast our marsh.”

While Ezra and Raphael bickered over flashlight angles and hypothetical death by thunderstrike, a low rumble whispered above the treetops—distant, warning. Then, a sudden crack. Thunder split the sky like a jagged scar. Seconds later, rain came down in furious sheets.

Rome blinked up as the first drop hit, followed by a thousand more—his hair plastered to his forehead, his coat drenched instantly. Cold water slid down the back of his neck, and it hit him then: This is your birthday, huh?

The peaceful forest became chaos in fast-forward. Leaves lashed in the wind. Flashlights dimmed under water. Mud swallowed their shoes with every panicked step.

Ezra and Raphael scrambled toward him, panic wide in their eyes.

“What are you doing?!” Rome barked as they reached for his coat like children grabbing a parachute.

“We don’t have an umbrella—run!” Ezra yelled.

They yanked the coat up and over their heads like a makeshift tarp and took off—dragging Rome with them.

Screaming. Laughing. Slipping.

Ezra nearly wiped out on a tree root. Raphael dragged him up, still cackling. Rome’s boots splashed through puddles, his once-pristine coat now flapping behind them like a soggy superhero cape.

After what felt like a war zone worth of chaos, they collapsed beneath a massive tree, breathless and shaking with leftover adrenaline. Rain drummed against the leaves above, relentless but distant now, like an applause far away.

For a long moment, they just sat there. Soaked. Quiet. Breathing.

“Damn…” Ezra panted, flopping his head back against the trunk. “Rome?”

“Yeah?”

“Remind me never to piss off Raph. He can actually call the weather gods.”

There was a beat of silence.

“That’s right,” Raphael said, lifting his chin with faux pride. “Honor me, or I’ll strike your plane from the heavens.”

As if summoned by arrogance itself, another deafening thunderclap cracked above them.

All three flinched. Then—

Laughter. Uncontrollable. Cracked open from somewhere deep and real. Ezra clutched his ribs. Raphael wheezed. Rome… he didn’t try to hold it in this time. He laughed with them. Loud. Free. Alive.

He looked at them—mud-streaked, soaked through, ridiculous—and in that wild, dumb, unforgettable moment, he realized something:

He trusted them.

They were home.

And they wouldn’t lead him anywhere he didn’t belong.

By the time Rome stepped into his apartment, it was nearly midnight. Rain clung to him like a second skin—his coat heavy, hair damp, boots squelching softly against the tiles. He didn’t turn on the lights. The city glow filtered through his windows just enough. Quiet, warm. Not hollow this time.

He undressed slowly, piece by piece. There was no rush, no chaos left to fight. The boys had drained all of that out of him—Ezra with his shouting and bad jokes, Raphael with that easy laugh that stuck like honey in the air. His coat slid off and hit the floor with a wet slap. He’d clean it later.

The water in the bath steamed up the mirror. This time, it was warm. Not punishingly cold like his usual. It pooled around him, coaxed the chill out of his skin, and for the first time that day, Rome let his head rest against the tile. He closed his eyes.

Tonight, there were no thoughts of survival or performance or expectations. Just warmth.

When he stepped out of the bathroom, steam trailing behind him, Rome dried his hair with the edge of a towel. The warmth from the bath still clung to his skin, loosening the tension that usually curled between his shoulder blades. He felt warmer—not just in body, but in something deeper, harder to name, something deep in his chest.

Now dressed in a loose black shirt and drawstring pants, he moved through the quiet of his apartment. That’s when he heard it.

A faint sound. Careful. Like someone scavenging their bag.

Rome paused, brows knitting. He walked barefoot to the door and opened it just a crack, peeking out into the dim hallway.

To his left, right in front of the door marked 3E, stood Samantha.

Her bag was slipping from her shoulder as she tried to unlock her door, strands of hair clinging to her face in the hallway’s stale light. She looked tired. Not in the way that begged for sympathy—but in the way people looked after chasing something they loved all day.

Rome didn’t think. He opened his door a little wider.

“Samantha,” he called softly.

She glanced over, startled for half a second, then relaxed into a familiar grin. “Hey. Long night?”

There was a pause. He shifted, then nodded toward the inside of his apartment. “You wanna come in?”

Samantha tilted her head. She found it strange. Not that a guy is inviting him, it’s that it's Rome who is inviting him. Her neighbour who despite having gotten close to, seemed distant still.

“You sure?”

He didn’t answer, just left the door slightly ajar.

“I’ll just take a quick shower,” she added, voice soft like her smile. “Be there at ten.”

Ten minutes later, she knocked once, then stepped inside wearing worn pajama pants and an oversized shirt that looked like it used to belong to an old dance school. Her hair was wet, the scent of lavender trailing behind her.

Rome had already set two plates at the small kitchen table. A single slice of cake had been split in half—plain, from the convenience store downstairs. No candles. No ceremony.

Samantha slid into the seat across from him. No questions. No jokes.

They ate in silence for a moment before Rome spoke, barely above a whisper.

“It’s my birthday.”

She looked up, mid-bite. “What?”

“I didn’t tell anyone,” he said. “Didn’t want to make a thing of it.”

A small smile tugged at her lips. “Happy birthday, Rome.”

He gave her a nod. “Thanks.”

“Did the guys know?”

He huffed a breath—almost a laugh. “Somehow. They took me out. Tried to do a bonfire.”

“In this weather?”

“It rained,” he said dryly. “A lot.”

Samantha laughed. “Of course it did.” And then she paused, before looking Rome in the eye and asking, “Are you okay?”

“Yeah. Actually...” He pushed a crumb with the edge of his fork. “Yeah, I am.”

She rested her chin on her hand, watching him.

“Ezra and Raphael,” Rome said after a while, his voice softer now, like he was letting something unguarded slip through. “They’re… a lot. Ezra talks too much, always has a joke ready even when no one asks. Raphael pretends to be quiet, but once you know him, he’s just as loud—sometimes worse. But they’re good. The kind of good that doesn’t need to be explained. They don’t expect anything from me. They didn’t try to fix me, or dig into things I don’t want to talk about. They just… show up. No matter what. And I didn’t realize how much I needed that until they did.”

He paused, then let out a small breath—almost a laugh.

“They make everything feel a little less heavy.”

Samantha’s voice was quiet. “They sound like good people.”

“They are.” A pause, then, with a slight twitch of his lips, “Also, Raphael has a crush on you.”

Her head jerked up, eyes wide. “Wait—what?”

Rome gave a small, amused look. “Why are you surprised?”

“I don’t know!” She looked flustered now, pink creeping into her cheeks. “He barely talks to me.”

“He barely talks to anyone,” Rome said, smirking. “That’s how I know it’s real.”

She blushed deeper, muttering something under her breath as she looked down at her cake.

The silence between them wasn’t awkward—it was soft, like a blanket pulled between two people. Outside, the rain tapped faintly against the glass, and inside, there was nothing but the hum of the fridge and two forks against ceramic.

Rome leaned back, watching the candlelight flicker in her eyes, and thought to himself—

Maybe this year, birthdays didn’t feel so lonely after all.

Not with friends who knew how to drag him into the woods for a ruined bonfire. Not with a neighbor who didn’t ask too many questions but always answered when he called.

And not with a night that ended like this.

‘Happy sixteenth birthday to me’

[prominentworld]

Chapter 6: Ezra Hill

ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀꜱ ᴅɪꜱᴄʀᴇᴛɪᴏɴ; ᴛʜɪꜱ ɴᴏᴠᴇʟ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴀɪɴꜱ ᴍᴀᴛᴜʀᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ᴘᴏᴛᴇɴᴛɪᴀʟʟʏ ᴅɪꜱᴛʀᴇꜱꜱɪɴɢ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ, ɪɴᴄʟᴜᴅɪɴɢ ᴠɪᴏʟᴇɴᴄᴇ, ꜱᴛʀᴏɴɢ ʟᴀɴɢᴜᴀɢᴇ, ᴀʙᴜꜱᴇ, ᴛʀᴀᴜᴍᴀ ᴛʜᴇᴍᴇꜱ, ᴘꜱʏᴄʜᴏʟᴏɢɪᴄᴀʟ ᴛʀɪɢɢᴇʀꜱ, ʜᴏᴍᴏᴘʜᴏʙɪᴀ, ᴀʟᴄᴏʜᴏʟɪꜱᴍ, ᴀɴᴅ ꜱᴜɪᴄɪᴅᴇ. ᴘʟᴇᴀꜱᴇ ᴘʀᴏᴄᴇᴇᴅ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴄᴀʀᴇ.

The word f** has been mentioned. I apologize in advance. As a straight woman, I do not think I am allowed to say this as a person, and I have felt conflicted. But this is just a mere word compared to the other discriminations that the LGBTQ+ receive due to their sex and gender (Im talking about the physical abuse and all). This is me opening this book into something that will tackle the abuse that people go through in real life. This is a step to it. If it in any way makes anyone upset. I will be more than thankful to you for coming forward about it and will change it into something that you think would still encapsulate the message without being offensive to anyone. Anyways, I apologize for holding you for too long. Enjoy!

“One night,” Ezra declared, pointing a dramatic finger at Rome as they stood beneath the yellow wash of a streetlamp. “One night, Rome. No simulations. No pre-flight checklist. Just vibes.”

Rome gave him a dry look, one brow raised. “You do realize you're asking me to a concert where people willingly lose brain cells.” Ezra grinned, clapping him on the back hard enough to make Rome sway. “Look, man, you’ve been cooped up too long. You need to be human for once. Get a little chaos in that bloodstream. Trust the turbulence.”

Rome turned, already starting to walk away.

“Nope,” Raphael said, smoothly stepping in front of him like a closing gate. “Uh-uh. Don’t even think about it.”

Rome sighed. “I didn’t say no.”

“You didn’t say yes,” Ezra countered. “Which is basically a no in Rome-language.”

Raphael grinned, slinging an arm over Rome’s shoulder and steering him back toward the curb like a stubborn sibling. “We’ll take that as a soft yes. C’mon, man. One night won’t kill you.”

“You can’t be sure of that,” Rome muttered.

“Shh,” Ezra said, linking his other arm through Rome’s free side. “Stop resisting the vibes.”

Rome gave them both a deadpan look, utterly unimpressed. “This feels like peer pressure.”

“It is peer pressure,” Ezra beamed.

Rome exhaled through his nose. “Fine. One night.”

Ezra spun on the spot, triumphant. “Let’s gooo! Oh—can we get you to dance? Like, just one song?”

Raphael shot him a look. “You’re pushing it.”

“What? I’m just—”

Raphael tilted his head toward Rome. “Him tagging along is already a miracle. Don’t get cocky.”

Ezra held his hands up, grinning wide. “Alright, alright. Just vibes. No dance floor obligations.”

Rome shook his head as they walked off down the street, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Maybe he’d regret this. Maybe not. But for once, it didn’t feel like a mistake. It just felt like… something new.

The three of them strolled through the city streets like they belonged there—three very different kinds of boys with one unexpected bond. Rome walked in the middle, not because he asked to be, but because the others naturally fell in place that way.

Raphael was dressed like the older brother at a music festival: black cargo pants, a snug sleeveless shirt that showed off toned arms, and silver chains that caught the city light with every step. His curls were tied back messily, but intentionally. One hand rested comfortably on Rome’s shoulder the entire time, like he needed that quiet contact to balance his buzzed joy.

Ezra, on the other hand, looked like a walking riot. Neon green joggers, a mesh tank over a glowing graphic tee, and a bandana tied around his head like some street prophet of good times. He had rings on nearly every finger and a pair of LED glasses that flickered in sync with his steps. He veered off constantly—greeting strangers, laughing too loud, or trying to jump and touch every signpost they passed.

Rome, center of the storm, wore something simple—but sharp. Black slim jeans, combat boots, and a deep burgundy shirt rolled up at the sleeves, with a leather jacket slung casually over his shoulder. His hair sleeked back with a few strands hanging to his face. For once, he let himself be seen.

He didn’t say much. But he didn’t need to.

“I swear this place is magic,” Ezra said, catching up and swinging his arms behind his head. “Like—every time I’m out with you guys, it feels like... I don’t know, like we’re in a movie.”

Rome huffed a breath of laughter. “What kind of movie has you climbing mailboxes in a mesh?”

“A damn good one,” Raphael muttered, his voice still warm with amusement. “Probably one where we all die in the end but we look hot doing it.”

Rome shook his head, smiling despite himself.

They passed a busker singing under a flickering streetlamp. Ezra tossed him a few coins, did a dramatic twirl, and yelled, “Make us the soundtrack of our youth, old man!” before jogging to catch up.

Rome looked up at the sky—stars barely visible behind the light pollution—and thought, Maybe this is what it means to be alive. Not chasing the sky in a cockpit. Not running from a past or planning a future. Just this. Messy, chaotic, too loud, too bright. And beautiful.

He looked at Raphael’s hand still on his shoulder. Then to Ezra, who’d just tried to moonwalk and nearly fell. And he said, quietly but clearly, “You guys are idiots.” Raphael chuckled. “Takes one to love one.”

Rome let the words sit for a second. Then nodded, softly.

Ezra stopped in his tracks. “Ohhhh—this man’s drunk on serotonin! You don’t think we see you smiling huh?”

“Take a picture!” Raphael grinned.

“No need,” Rome said, his smile small but real. “I’ll remember this one.”

By the time they reached the venue, the streetlights were flickering with the hum of bass already thumping from inside. The building wasn’t fancy—graffiti-streaked bricks and steel doors—but the energy leaking through the cracks made it feel alive.

The banner above the entrance glowed neon pink:

TONIGHT ONLY: DEVOUR SUNSET – LIVE SET + DJ AFTERPARTY

Ezra clapped his hands once. “We are going to lose our minds.”

“Correction,” Rome said, stuffing his hands into his jacket pockets, “you’re going to lose your mind. I’m going to stand somewhere safe and observe.”

“Bro,” Raphael laughed, clapping him on the back. “You don’t observe a concert. You survive it. Let’s go.”

Inside, it was chaos. Colored lights swirled across a sweaty, bouncing crowd. The speakers pounded with the beat of something bass-heavy and sharp. Ezra wasted no time grabbing two plastic cups of beer and shoving one into Raphael’s hand. He offered Rome the other.

Rome gave it a glance. “No thanks.”

“Your loss,” Ezra shouted over the music, already tilting his head back for a gulp.

Rome didn’t need beer. The music did enough. As the beat dropped and bodies jumped, he found himself pressed between his two friends, bouncing with the crowd, his head tilted up, laughing into the lights.

He didn’t even realize when the smile crept onto his face—wide and unfiltered. His hair was damp with sweat, shirt sticking to his back, and his throat burned from yelling lyrics he didn’t even know. But God, it felt good.

The bass pulsed under Rome’s feet like a second heartbeat, faster and louder than his own. His shirt clung to him with sweat, collar half-loosened, and he didn’t care. He’d never felt this kind of release before—surrounded by bodies, energy, sound. He jumped with Ezra and Raphael, mouthing lyrics to a song he didn’t know but could feel. The lights overhead flickered in waves—blue, gold, red—like a thunderstorm on loop.

Ezra had one arm in the air, pointing to the sky like it owed him something. Raphael bumped into Rome’s side, yelling something too loud to be understood but full of joy. Rome laughed. Actually laughed. No tight smile. No second-guessing.

He was caught in it—in the kind of joy that doesn’t leave room for history.

And then he turned.

Not dramatically. Just mid-movement, mid-breath. And crashed into someone in the crowd.

It wasn’t rough, but it was close—chest to chest for a moment too long.

“Shit—sorry—” Rome muttered, instinct kicking in, reaching to steady whoever it was.

But then he saw them.

A boy—he looked a little younger than Rome, though they were likely the same age—blinked up at him with wide eyes, unafraid. His skin was soft-looking and fair, pale in the glow of the stage lights. His dark brown hair fell in gentle waves around his shoulders, damp at the ends from the heat of the crowd and wild from all the dancing. He wore a soft pink sweater, oversized just enough to drape casually off one shoulder, and light denim jeans that fit like they were made for him. Clean white sneakers peeked from under the hem, untied but untouched by the grime of the venue.

And his eyes—blue. Not just blue. Cold ocean blue. Bright and striking and glass-clear. The kind of eyes that held your gaze without trying.

Then he smiled.

It wasn’t coy. Wasn’t flirty. It was warm. Sweet. The kind of smile that tasted like honey and spring air.

Rome blinked, heartbeat louder now for a very different reason.

“Hey,” the boy said, voice low but kind. “You good?”

Rome straightened, momentarily dazed. “Y-Yeah. Sorry, I—the crowd shifted.”

“It does that,” the boy said, his smile unfading.

Rome realized his hand was still lightly on the boy’s arm. He dropped it immediately. “Didn’t mean to crash into you.”

“No harm done.” The boy tucked a piece of hair behind his ear. “It’s nice to see someone actually enjoying it.”

Rome raised a brow, his voice a little more grounded now. “Most people are.”

“Most people are performing,” the boy replied. “You were singing like you meant it.”

Rome looked at him, really looked. And for a moment, it felt like the rest of the concert blurred into a muted background—like he’d stepped into a different tempo.

Before he could say anything else, Raphael’s voice broke through the noise behind him. “Rome! Bro! You good?”

The boy stepped back with a small laugh. “Go to your friends. I’ll see you around, singer.”

And just like that, he slipped into the crowd—swallowed up by lights and bodies.

“Who was that?” Raphael asked with a grin, looping an arm around Rome’s shoulders again.

Rome only shook his head, letting a smile tug at his lips. “No idea.” And just as he was about to turn back around to the stage, he saw him. He saw Ezra.

Just off to the side of the crowd, under a flickering blue light—Ezra was kissing someone. A guy.

It wasn’t rushed or sloppy. It was soft, almost quiet, even amid the noise. The guy had a hand on Ezra’s cheek, and Ezra was smiling into the kiss like he’d been waiting to do it for years.

Rome stilled, breath catching—not in shock, but something else.

Not judgment. Not confusion.

Just a kind of... understanding.

He didn’t say anything. Didn’t point. Didn’t make it a thing. He just turned back to the music, Raphael rejoining him seconds later, grinning with flushed cheeks.

“Where’s Ez?”

Rome smiled. “Busy.”

The beat kicked back in, and they kept dancing, lights spinning above their heads, the world slipping into rhythm.

And for a boy who’d once walked through life trying not to feel anything—Rome felt everything.

After the concert, they spilled back out into the street, their ears still ringing from bass and adrenaline. It was almost midnight, and the city had settled into a softer version of itself—neon lights blinking slower, cars passing like whispers instead of shouts.

Ezra had his jacket slung over his shoulder, hair damp with sweat, still sipping from that obnoxiously bright slushie he bought during intermission.

“Bro, that part when the beat dropped during the encore—”

“I swear,” Raphael groaned, “if you yell 'Drop it like it's flight school' one more time…”

“You’ll what?” Ezra laughed, throwing an arm around both Raphael and Rome. “You’ll admit it slapped? You’ll cry again?”

Rome smirked. He didn’t flinch when Ezra’s arm hit his shoulder. He didn’t dodge when Raphael clapped a hand to his back. Instead, he let it happen—let it feel normal. Let it sink in.

Ezra clicked his tongue. “ I’m dragging you out again next week.” Rome gave a small, tired smile. “I’m not really… good at this.” “At what?” Raphael asked. Rome looked between them, the red stoplight painting his face soft and honest. “This. Friends. People.”

Ezra didn’t even pause. “Yeah, well… lucky for you, we’re good enough for all three of us.”

Rome stared down at the cracked sidewalk, then back up. It wasn’t dramatic. No music swelled. No stars aligned.

But something inside him shifted.

“…Thanks,” he said, quietly. “You guys are… I don’t know. Like family, I guess.”

Ezra blinked. “Family?”

Raphael’s grin spread slow and smug. “Oh shit, we got him to say it.”

Ezra whooped and pulled Rome into a full hug, sweat and all. “Rome ‘no new friends’ Ellison just called us brothers. I could cry.”

Rome rolled his eyes but didn’t pull away. He even gave Ezra a one-armed pat on the back—awkward, sure. But real.

“Don’t make it weird,” he muttered.

Raphael snorted. “Too late, bro.”

And for the first time in years, his heart felt full. Like the echo of the music hadn’t just stayed in the venue—it had followed him home. And maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t alone anymore.

Raphael was the first to peel off, waving lazily as he crossed the street to his building, his laughter still echoing faintly behind them. That left Rome and Ezra alone, walking side by side through the softened hush of midnight. The concert’s pulse had faded into memory, and now only the rhythm of their footsteps and the warm glow of streetlamps filled the quiet.

It was peaceful. Almost too peaceful.

Rome was soaking in the stillness, letting it rest in his bones, when Ezra broke it.

“You saw it.”

Rome didn’t turn to look. He didn’t have to.

“You saw me.”

There was no malice in his voice. Just a raw, nervous tremor—like someone bracing for a punch that hadn't landed yet.

Everything seemed to stiffen. The air. The ground. Even their pace slowed, their shoes scuffing gently against the pavement.

“Yeah,” Rome said quietly. “And?”

Ezra blinked. His breath hitched, like he’d expected something else—anything else. “And? That’s it?” he asked, half incredulous, half daring. “You’re not gonna call me a fag or something?”

Rome stopped walking. Ezra did too.

He turned, brow furrowed—not in anger, but in disbelief.

“Didn’t you just hear me call you family?” Rome asked, voice low but steady. “Does that not suffice? You’re seriously standing here expecting me to call you a slur?”

Ezra opened his mouth. Closed it. He didn’t know what he was expecting, but it wasn’t this. Maybe a shrug. Maybe silence. Maybe a punch, which he knew wouldn’t come because it’s Rome he’s talking too. But not a slap of honesty so bare.

Rome ran a hand through his hair, frustrated—not at Ezra, but at the idea that he had to explain something that should’ve been obvious.

“I don’t care who you kiss. End of story.”

Ezra stared at him.

Voice rising—shaky, angry, frantic. “You think it’s that easy? Just be okay with it? You know how fucking scary it is to like someone and not know if they’ll hate you for it? If they’ll—hurt you for it? You don’t get it, Rome! You don’t fucking get it! It’s not just about liking someone—it’s about walking into a room and wondering if today’s the day someone looks at you differently. If they call you shit. If they hit you. If they find out.” His hands were balled into fists, shaking. “I live every day wondering if being me is enough to get me—” He cut himself off, swallowing the words like bile.

And he stood there, Rome watched Ezra catch his breath as his eyes widened asking for an explanation from him, waiting for him to say something, anything.

That’s when it clicked—what Ezra had meant, what he’d been carrying. Rome had never truly understood the why behind the hate. Why people spat venom at others just for loving someone of the same gender. Why being gay, or trans, or anything outside of some invisible line was treated like a threat. As if love between two men, two women, or someone in between was more complicated, more offensive, than love between a boy and a girl. As if it broke the rules of a game no one agreed to play. It made no sense to him—never had. And standing there, watching Ezra unravel in fear and fury, Rome realized it didn’t need to make sense. It just needed to stop.

And for the first time in a while, he felt it. He felt hate—raw and scorching—for the kind of world that could twist something as simple as love into something shameful. Anger burned in his chest for every name Ezra must’ve been called, for every time he had to hide or second-guess a smile. So cruel, Rome thought, that his friend was standing there, eyes sharp with fear, expecting nothing but disgust. Expecting rejection. As if that’s all the world ever taught him to brace for. Rome looked at him, and all he could think was—God, what the hell did they do to you to make you think I’d stop being your brother for being who you are?

Rome didn’t look away. “So what? You want me to hate you too, just so it makes sense?”

Ezra blinked, stunned. His breath caught in his throat.

“You think you’re disgusting, huh?” Rome said, suddenly, voice sharp. Ezra flinched at the edge in his tone. “Because people told you that? Called you names? Treated you like you’re some kind of disease?”

Ezra looked away, jaw tight.

“So what?” Rome pressed. “That makes it true? That makes you less? You think their words matter more than everything you are?”

Rome’s voice stayed low, steady. “I’m not gonna do that. You’re my brother, Ezra. And I don’t give a single fuck who you kiss. Get mad all you want.”

Ezra opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Rome took a breath—deep, grounding—and stepped closer.

“Let me tell you something,” he continued, quieter now but still firm. “You’re not disgusting. You’re not broken. You’re a good person. Loud as hell, annoying as fuck—but good. And if someone can’t see that because of who you love, then they’re the ones who are rotten. Not you.”

Ezra’s lips trembled. Rome kept going.

“You don’t have to explain yourself to the world. Just stay kind. Stay loud. And don’t ever shrink just to fit into someone else’s comfort.”

Rome's voice softened to a near whisper.

“You’re my brother, Ez. And no version of you could ever make me walk away.”

Then—slowly, carefully—he let out a breath. His hand bumped against Rome’s shoulder in a lazy, affectionate way. “You’re a weird guy, you know that?”

Rome shrugged. “Takes one to know one.”

Ezra let out a shaky laugh, one that collapsed halfway into a sob. He clutched his chest like the weight of all the years he spent holding it in had finally snapped his ribs apart. And then, without warning, he broke—crumbling to his knees right there on the concrete, shoulders trembling as a choked cry tore from his throat. It was the kind of sound that scraped its way out, the kind that would leave him hoarse in the morning. The kind that wasn’t meant to be heard, but needed to be.

And Rome didn’t say anything. He just knelt beside him, not touching, not crowding—just there. Steady. Unmoving. Like family does.

They kept walking, slower this time. The silence was no longer tense—it was comfortable, like a warm hoodie after the storm.

Ezra didn’t say thank you.

He didn’t have to.

Rome already knew.

[prominentworld]

Chapter 5: Ground School Begins

ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀꜱ ᴅɪꜱᴄʀᴇᴛɪᴏɴ; ᴛʜɪꜱ ɴᴏᴠᴇʟ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴀɪɴꜱ ᴍᴀᴛᴜʀᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ᴘᴏᴛᴇɴᴛɪᴀʟʟʏ ᴅɪꜱᴛʀᴇꜱꜱɪɴɢ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ, ɪɴᴄʟᴜᴅɪɴɢ ᴠɪᴏʟᴇɴᴄᴇ, ꜱᴛʀᴏɴɢ ʟᴀɴɢᴜᴀɢᴇ, ᴀʙᴜꜱᴇ, ᴛʀᴀᴜᴍᴀ ᴛʜᴇᴍᴇꜱ, ᴘꜱʏᴄʜᴏʟᴏɢɪᴄᴀʟ ᴛʀɪɢɢᴇʀꜱ, ʜᴏᴍᴏᴘʜᴏʙɪᴀ, ᴀʟᴄᴏʜᴏʟɪꜱᴍ, ᴀɴᴅ ꜱᴜɪᴄɪᴅᴇ. ᴘʟᴇᴀꜱᴇ ᴘʀᴏᴄᴇᴇᴅ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴄᴀʀᴇ.

Cypress Aeronautical Institute was sleek, state-of-the-art—its halls gleaming with ambition and steel. Rome had earned his place there not by charm or connections, but through a full scholarship built on raw intellect. He was young—too young, some whispered—but his aptitude in math, physics, and problem-solving had set him apart. At fifteen, while most were navigating high school, he was decoding flight theory, memorizing aviation laws, and studying the anatomy of aircraft systems with the cold precision of someone who had long since stopped flinching at pressure.

He wore the standard uniform like the rest of them: white pilot shirt, black shoulder epaulets, navy slacks, and polished shoes. But unlike the others, his collar was always just a little loose—intentional, defiant, as he did not like the feeling of something being wrapped tightly around his neck.

In the simulator room, he was silent and exact. In lecture halls, he was a phantom—present, but untouched. He passed his written exams with scores that surprised even the professors. Yet outside the classroom, attention followed him like smoke. Maybe it was his age. Maybe it was the way his features were carved too sharply for someone so young—striking cheekbones, eyes too old for fifteen, a quiet intensity that made people stare longer than they should.

He was beautiful in a way that didn’t invite warmth—it demanded attention. And attention came often. Students approached him constantly—some out of awe, some out of curiosity, and others with bolder intentions. He never encouraged it. His answers were clipped, polite but hollow, like every conversation was a script he didn’t audition for. People didn’t know what to do with that kind of face when it didn’t smile back.

Still, somehow, he ended up with friends. Or maybe they ended up with him.

Ezra Hill was the first. Loud, magnetic, impossible to ignore. An African American exchange student who filled every room he entered with sound and laughter, who had a knack for storytelling and an open invitation to host nearly every campus event. Rome found him irritating at first—but over time, that noise became familiar. So did the way Ezra called him "Captain Cool" with a grin and elbowed him in the ribs for not laughing at his jokes.

Then there was Raphael Bianchi—Italian by blood, sunshine by personality. He smiled easily, spoke little around others, but turned chaotic the moment it was just the three of them. He once jokingly accused Rome of “stealing his name” and swore he’d start calling him Tokyo instead. “You’re half German, half Japanese,” Raph had said, dramatic as always. “What’s Rome doing in there? I’m the Italian one!” Rome didn’t argue. He just shrugged. Names were just borrowed things, anyway.

But what surprised him the most was Samantha.

His neighbor.

She’d gone from a curious hallway stranger to something softer and steadier. He learned that she’d moved to Seattle alone to chase ballet, having left behind a small hometown with no real theater. She practiced at a modest studio near campus and came home with blisters and tape around her toes, but always with a tired smile. She didn’t press too much. She didn’t ask for details. She just... existed alongside him, and sometimes, that was enough.

What was once a lonely life began to take shape, not because Rome sought it—but because it found him anyway. And as much as he hates to admit it, he is getting attached.

He didn’t mind it. Not really. It wasn’t a bad thing.

It’d only become one if something fucked it up.

It started at lunch.

Rome had just finished his solo study session at the hangar lounge when Ezra dropped himself into the seat across from him without invitation—his tray clattering like an entrance cue.

“Bro,” Ezra said, dramatically exhaling like he’d just sprinted a marathon. “They really had us out here calculating wind drift like I don’t already have anxiety.”

Rome raised an eyebrow over his protein bar. “It’s only been a week.”

“Exactly,” Ezra pointed at him. “It’s day seven, and my soul has already taxied to the runway and requested departure clearance.”

Rome let out a short breath—half exasperation, half amusement.

Then, from behind, came Raphael’s easy, melodic voice. “Ezra, I told you to chill. You act like you didn’t play ping-pong with your calculator the entire simulation.”

Ezra scowled. “I was testing the durability of academic equipment under stress.”

Rome blinked. “It bounced off the whiteboard.”

“Precisely,” Ezra replied. “High-impact data.”

Raphael chuckled as he slid into the seat beside Rome, already unwrapping his sandwich. Unlike Ezra, his energy didn’t arrive in waves—it poured gently, consistently, like warm sunlight on stone. When he laughed, it wasn’t to be heard, but because he meant it.

Rome didn’t realize he was smiling until Raphael nudged his elbow.

“See? We’re growing on you, Romulus.”

Ezra snorted. “Romulus! I’ve been calling him ‘Rome’ like a peasant. That’s royal.”

“I hate both of you,” Rome muttered.

“You don’t,” Raphael said easily, clinking his soda can against Rome’s bottle. “You just don’t know how to say ‘thank you for saving me from being the mysterious loner stereotype.’”

Rome said nothing, but he didn’t move away when Raphael leaned against his shoulder, tired but content.

They sat there like that—three very different kinds of noise blending into something comfortable. Rome didn’t speak much, but he didn’t leave either. That was progress.

Later that week, Rome ran into Samantha again—quite literally—while crossing the street after picking up some groceries. She was holding a tote bag filled with ballet shoes and half a baguette sticking out like a cliché. When she saw him, her eyes lit up.

“Well, if it isn’t my elusive neighbour.”

Rome gave her a nod. “Samantha.”

“You remembered,” she said with mock surprise. “I thought you were too emotionally repressed to retain casual names.”

Rome raised a brow. “You’re louder in public.”

She laughed. “You’re just less grumpy in daylight.”

Before he could fire back, a familiar voice called out from behind him.

“Rome!” Ezra jogged across the street, nearly knocking over a biker. “Man, I’ve been looking for you everywhere. I thought you ghosted us.”

Raphael followed behind, slightly out of breath. “He’s not the ghosting type. He’s the ‘strategically withdrawn from human interaction’ type.”

Rome sighed, gesturing toward Samantha. “This is Samantha. Neighbor. Ballerina.”

Ezra grinned. “Damn, Rome got some hot neighbors- wait, neighbour? I almost forgot you picked the most isolated corner like the shy baby that you are.”

Samantha rolled her eyes before giving a laugh to his last remark. “And you must be an extrovert.”

“That’s me, baby.”

Raphael shook her hand with a small bow. “He’s Ezra. I’m Raphael. He talks. I listen. You’ll learn to like one of us.”

Rome didn’t say it, but he already did. Maybe both.

They all walked together for a while. Samantha had rehearsal, so they split up after a few blocks. But not before she turned to Rome and said, “You should come watch one night. I promise I won't fall on stage.”

Rome considered it. Then nodded once. “Okay.”

They parted ways with Samantha at the next intersection—her tote bag swinging gently at her side as she waved goodbye. The moment she turned the corner, Raphael gave a low whistle.

“She’s something else,” he said, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Graceful, too. You can just tell by the way she walks. Like she hears music even when it’s quiet.”

Ezra raised a brow, already grinning. “Oh? Someone’s looking a little enchanted.”

Raphael blinked, caught. “What? No. I just—appreciate the arts.”

Ezra laughed, pointing dramatically. “My guy’s got a crush. Someone bring this man a bouquet! Or maybe a baguette if you get what I mean.” raising his eyebrows suggestively before laughing harder as he slapped his shoulder.

“Shut up,” Raphael said, but he was smiling. “I said she was graceful, not that I was ready to write her a sonnet.”

Rome, walking just behind them, listened quietly. He wasn’t sure if it was the teasing or the ease of it all, but something about the moment felt… good. Normal.

“You like her, Rome?” Raphael asked suddenly, tossing the question over his shoulder.

Ezra perked up. “Oh-ho! That’s why you introduced her like she was a hidden gem. 'Neighbor. Ballerina.’ All mysterious and shit.”

Rome blinked, “No. You’re wrong.”

“Sure we are,” Raphael said, nudging him with an elbow. “Just say the word and I’ll be the best man.”

Rome rolled his eyes but didn’t pull away. “She’s just… someone I’m fond of.”

Ezra placed a hand over his heart. “Someone I’m fond of. Damn, Romeo, who taught you how to be poetic?”

Rome let out a breath, half a sigh, half a laugh. “She’s different. Not in the way you’re thinking.”

“So how then?” Raphael asked, genuinely curious now.

Rome’s voice lowered, not in tone but in weight. “Just… soft, kind, and steady. She shows up, doesn’t ask for more than I can give. With her, I don’t have to explain myself. It’s not about liking her. I just... feel safe around her. So please don’t ruin it by trying to make it into something it isn’t. I don’t like her like that.” he finished with a tired sigh.

They both grew quiet for a moment. Then Ezra slung an arm around his neck and grinned.

“Damn, bro. You talk like that again and I’m gonna fall for you myself.”

Rome rolled his eyes again, but the corners of his mouth tugged into a smile.

They kept walking. The sky above was bruised purple, the city lights humming low. The teasing faded into more stories, more laughter, but the warmth stayed.

Rome didn’t need to say anything else. In that moment, it was enough.

They were holed up in a corner booth of a quiet café, late afternoon sun leaking through the blinds in lazy stripes. Raphael took a slow sip of his coffee, eyes narrowing at Rome over the rim of his cup.

“So,” he started, “what kind of women are you into?”

Rome blinked. “What?”

“You know,” Raph smirked. “Like, what’s your type? Ezra’s probably got cheerleaders from three different universities blowing up his phone.”

Ezra nearly choked on his frappe. “Yo! Who said anything about cheerleaders?”

Raph rolled his eyes. “Come on, you could sit still for five minutes and some girl would land on your lap by gravitational pull alone.”

Ezra grinned, hands raised in mock surrender. “Hey, I’m just chilling. Not my fault I’m magnetic.”

Rome watched them, then shook his head with a soft laugh. “You guys are idiots.”

“Oooh,” Ezra leaned forward, grinning wide. “He’s dodging the question. Come on, Romie. Spill. Who’s your Juliet?”

Rome paused, genuinely thinking about it—for what might’ve been the first time. Then, with a shrug:

“I guess… someone loud. Confidently annoying. But also passionate. And kind. Someone who knows how to care without asking for anything back.”

There was a beat of silence before Ezra leaned back and said, “Bro, you could’ve just said you’re into Rainbow Dash or like Pinkie Pie. We wouldn’t judge.”

Rome let out a rare, low laugh, shaking his head. “You’re ridiculous.” “Really, man? My little pony? What kind of shit are you into?” Ezra looked at Raphael with judgement, earning a punch in the shoulder from the man.

Raph pointed at Romes’s drink. “And what even is that you’re drinking?”

“Milky butterscotch,” Rome said proudly.

“Jesus,” Ezra muttered. “Rome’s got a weird taste in women and even a weird taste in drinks. While Raphael is weirdly into ponies. I’m the only normal one here.”

Raph leaned back in his chair, lips twitching. “You’re delusional.”

“Sure, but I’m delusional with style,” Ezra shot back.

Ezra raised his cup like a toast. “We’re a weird trio, but you gotta admit—no one else gets us like we do.”

Rome met their eyes, quiet for a second.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “I guess I’m glad for that.”

[prominentworld]

Chapter 4: Consciousness

ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀꜱ ᴅɪꜱᴄʀᴇᴛɪᴏɴ; ᴛʜɪꜱ ɴᴏᴠᴇʟ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴀɪɴꜱ ᴍᴀᴛᴜʀᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ᴘᴏᴛᴇɴᴛɪᴀʟʟʏ ᴅɪꜱᴛʀᴇꜱꜱɪɴɢ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ, ɪɴᴄʟᴜᴅɪɴɢ ᴠɪᴏʟᴇɴᴄᴇ, ꜱᴛʀᴏɴɢ ʟᴀɴɢᴜᴀɢᴇ, ᴀʙᴜꜱᴇ, ᴛʀᴀᴜᴍᴀ ᴛʜᴇᴍᴇꜱ, ᴘꜱʏᴄʜᴏʟᴏɢɪᴄᴀʟ ᴛʀɪɢɢᴇʀꜱ, ʜᴏᴍᴏᴘʜᴏʙɪᴀ, ᴀʟᴄᴏʜᴏʟɪꜱᴍ, ᴀɴᴅ ꜱᴜɪᴄɪᴅᴇ. ᴘʟᴇᴀꜱᴇ ᴘʀᴏᴄᴇᴇᴅ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴄᴀʀᴇ.

Rome’s life shifted like a shift in the script. He still moved cautiously, not from fear of being caught, but from the quiet need to belong. He understood the survival skill of blending in. Of choosing your community so the weight of living feels lighter. That instinct proved right the moment he stepped back into school for his final year of senior high.

He slipped into the role of grieving son the moment he entered the building—just as people expected. A few tears when teachers asked how he was holding up. A few weak smiles when classmates offered him the usual “Hang in there, man.” But never too sad. Not pathetic. Just mournful enough to still get invited to house parties and called “my guy” by the cool kids.

He stayed off the radar. Out of trouble. Close enough to be included, distant enough to avoid friendship.

He knew people. People knew him. That was it.

His last year passed in a blur. There’s not much to remember—he dissociated through most of it, just to get through without wincing at every touch.

He hated that: being touched. Not because he was a germaphobe—he cared about hygiene, sure—but this was deeper.

It made him feel violated.

Dirty.

Not by the people themselves. Not even by the things they touched.

But by the town. The town with its two-story shops and polished fences. Its bright sidewalks and neighborly grins. It looked clean—but it felt wrong.

Rome wasn’t tethered to that kind of place.

He was raised in the slums—by chaos, by concrete, by fists and rain.

And this town, no matter how new the paint or how kind the people,

disgusted him.

Rome stood alongside his fellow students in the crowd, wearing a black gown over a slightly wrinkled button-up shirt. His collar was undone just enough to bend the rules, and his tassel still hung untouched on the right—like he refused to pretend this moment meant more than it did. His shoes were scuffed but clean, a quiet rebellion on polished floors. The cap sat slightly crooked, not from carelessness, but choice. He blended in just enough to pass. Not enough to belong.

The principal gave their last message. Applause followed. A few hats flew into the air with whistles. Around him, students ran to their parents with hugs and wide smiles, celebrating like it was over—even if another chapter waited.

Kate showed up beside him, resting a hand on his back. Her smile was gentle, genuine—but not one meant for him, not really. He hadn’t invited her. He didn’t expect her. But she came anyway, with her son.

Krist, ten months younger, stood beside her. They weren’t close—Rome was heading to college, while Krist was still in 10th grade. They didn’t attend the same school either; Rome had earned a private scholarship, while Krist went to public school. Still, there was no bitterness. Krist didn’t resent him for being three steps ahead of him, nor does he resent Krist for being the product of an affair, or for what happened to their parents. In fact, they got along surprisingly well.

Despite sharing a father, the two looked nothing alike. They both had his soft black hair that turned dark brown in the light. Rome had his mother’s changing eyes—blue-green with a ring of brown around the pupils—while Krist had their father’s dark eyes.

Their father, once sharply handsome, had that clean-cut charm that aged slowly. His skin was golden-brown, his jaw defined, his eyes deep and unreadable. In his better days, he was magnetic—smiled with his whole face. But time chipped away at that.

Rome inherited his father’s shape and silence. Krist inherited none of it. He looked more like his mother—pale skin, soft cheeks, and bright blue eyes that could look kind or cutting, depending on the moment. It’s what saved Krist from being looked at with the same disgust their father had when he looked at Rome. Because Krist didn’t resemble him. Rome did.

“Hey, Rome,” Krist said, nudging his shoulder. “Congrats. Are you excited?”

“Yeah, Romy! I heard you got accepted into three colleges,” Kate added with a proud squeeze to his arm. “Where’re you headed?”

“I’m actually looking into Cypress,” Rome said. “The Aeronautical Institute. It’s a flight school out west. I can’t start yet—gotta finish some prereqs and turn sixteen—but that’s the plan.”

He paused.

“If I start ground school early, maybe I’ll get my private license by seventeen. Then commercial.”

Kate blinked, impressed. Krist laughed in shock.

“Wow, that’s big,” Kate said, moving closer. “Isn’t that a little far, though? Are you sure you’ll be okay?”

“I’m sure,” Rome said with a small laugh. “I just want to be somewhere else. Higher, maybe.”

Kate nodded, her voice soft. “Well... if you say you’ll be okay, then I believe you. I’m proud of you, Rome. Really. I’m sure your father would be too.”

Rome smirked. “Yeah... I’m sure he would.”

Rome handled everything on his own. He sold both houses—the one that raised him and the one that ruined him—without looking back. The money was enough. More than enough, especially for a boy who learned early how to stretch a coin. He asked nothing from Kate, just her signature on the legal documents. She didn’t protest. Maybe because she knew he wouldn't let her.

With the paperwork behind him, he found a clean, low-rise apartment just outside downtown Seattle—modern, sunlit, the kind of place with high ceilings, wide windows, and floors that didn’t creak. It was quite flashy, but quiet. Safe. New. To get there, he had to book his first ever flight. It felt like the right kind of symbolism—one-way, just him and a carry-on. The airport security, the boarding pass, the rumble under his feet as the plane lifted—everything reminded him he was leaving more than a town. He was leaving an entire version of himself behind.

It was a six-hour flight to Seattle. Rome had already studied his new environment before takeoff—scrolling through the apartment building’s website, scoping out nearby stores, and mapping the exact route and transportation he’d need to reach the university. His routine was set. His plan was laid out. All that was left to do was sleep. So, he did.

Four hours passed before a flight attendant gently nudged him awake to ask if he wanted anything from the trolley.

“Oh, thank you. Just some water, please,” he replied with a polite smile, reaching for a few bills from his pocket.

The elderly woman seated beside him tilted her head curiously. “Are you traveling alone, young man? You seem far too young to be flying solo,” she asked. “Where’s a kid like you headed all by himself? Visiting your parents?”

He smiled at her—an honest smile.

He may have been reserved, even violent once, and on top of it, an indirect killer. But he’s not unreasonable. He didn’t despise the world, didn’t secretly hope for the plane to fall from the sky. He simply didn’t belong in the world the same way others did.

“No, ma’am. I’m heading to Seattle for school.”

“Well now, isn’t that impressive! What high school are you going to?” she asked warmly. Rome let out a small laugh as he handed the flight attendant his money. “Actually, I’m starting college. Cypress Aeronautical.”

“Cypress?” the attendant perked up. “What a coincidence! Our captain studied there, too.” She handed him the water, her eyes gleaming. “Is this your first time on a plane?” He blinked, unsure why it mattered. “It is, yeah. Why?” She leaned in with a grin. “Well, I'll let the captain know. I’m sure he’d be thrilled to meet a young man chasing the same sky he once did.”

“Really? At fifteen you’re already heading to college? God, what have they been feeding kids nowadays? At your age I was… well, doing nothing!” the pilot laughed, cheerful and unaware. The plane had already landed, but as promised by the flight attendant, Rome had been held back for a quick chat in the cockpit area.

Well, I don’t know either. But if it feeds your curiosity, I was fed alcohol by my mother, Rome thought to himself. But instead of saying it, he gave a practiced laugh—just enough to keep things pleasant.

“It is such a privilege to meet you, Sir,” he said, reaching out to shake the man’s hand.

“It is much more of an honor to meet you, young fella. I’m sure you’ll reach higher places than this plane can even reach!” the pilot replied, gripping Rome’s hand tightly before resting his palm atop the boy’s head. “Doesn’t look that far into the future with your height.”

Rome smiled—tight, polite, but not real. He was ready for this to be over.

“I appreciate it, Sir. Really. But I should probably go now—a long day ahead.”

With that, he slipped out of the cockpit and down the aisle, his carry-on bouncing lightly against his leg as he walked. He didn’t look back even when the pilot bid him farewell, he just lifted his hand for a casual goodbye to the man.

Outside the airport, Seattle greeted him not with fireworks, but with wind and passing conversations. The kind of noise that didn’t ask anything of him. He liked that. A short shuttle ride took him from the terminal to the rental car pickup. From there, he drove himself to the apartment building he’d already researched weeks ago—low-rise, quiet, a neighborhood just on the edges of downtown, where the trees were still green and the sidewalks weren’t crowded.

The building was glassy and modern, but not towering. It looked sleek, with a faint golden hue reflecting in its windows. The lobby smelled like citrus and stone. The front desk gave him his keycard and welcome folder. Rome nodded, said “thanks,” and went straight to the elevator.

His unit was on the fifth floor. Big windows. Pale floors. A new mattress. The kitchen still had that unused smell, and the counters gleamed. He didn’t smile, but he didn’t frown either. He walked through it slowly like he was making sure it was real.

He dropped his bag. Took a breath. Then walked to the window and looked out.

The city was alive. Buzzing but distant. And above it all—sky. Just sky.

He didn’t feel at home yet. But he didn’t feel trapped either.

And for now, that was enough.

He now has his personal space.

He had just finished setting up the apartment. Not unpacking—there was nothing to unpack. Everything from the life before had been left behind. Clothes. Bedsheets. Books. The cracked mug he used for brushing his teeth. The threadbare hoodie that had survived too many winters. Gone. Not by accident. By design.

He hadn’t taken a single thing with him when he left. He didn’t want to.

The new space looked like a catalog apartment: clean, modern, impersonal. Still, it was his. Or at least, it was no one else’s. The drawers held shirts he’d chosen from a store instead of inherited donation piles. The linens were stiff and new, still smelling faintly of plastic wrap. Toiletries lined the shelf like soldiers—uniform, labeled, untouched. A modest stack of books sat on the small desk, more for atmosphere than use. A phone. A laptop. Practical things. Tools, not treasures.

He hadn’t decorated. Didn’t plan to. There was no need. The walls didn’t have to feel like home—they just had to stand. He has already seen himself too busy to care anyways in the future.

The apartment came partly furnished, which was a gift. But the thing that sealed it for him—was the private washer and dryer tucked into the hallway closet. No shared laundry room. No neighbors. No waiting. Clean clothes. His terms. And did he feel a sigh of relief leave him. He holds great importance with hygiene and cleanliness.

That, he thought, was luxury.

The last thing left was food.

He had mapped out the local grocery mart while still on the plane. Ten-minute walk, decent reviews, affordable prices. He’d even browsed the shelves online—memorized aisle layouts like he was preparing for a test. It wasn’t just about groceries. It was about knowing where things were. About entering a place with a plan.

By the time he checked the clock, it was just past 10 p.m. The air outside would be cooler now, sharper. He reached for his jacket—a denim one with a gray hood—and threw it over a plain white shirt. Faded jeans, clean sneakers. Nothing special. He checked himself in the mirror by the door. He looked like someone who belonged in the background. That was enough.

He slid his keycard into his back pocket and stepped out.

The building was quiet—polished floors, gold accents, soft lighting. The kind of place families booked for weekend getaways and took photos in the lobby. It smelled like citrus and new beginnings.

He walked through it like he belonged. Like he’d always lived there.

On his way out, he glanced at the security camera mounted above the exit, noting the guard’s location by the front desk. Not because he felt unsafe. Not because he planned on doing anything. Just to know. Just to be sure. It was a habit, built in muscle memory—scan, note, assess.

The streets outside were gentle. Wide sidewalks, soft streetlamps, and storefronts still aglow. He passed the clothing shops he’d visited earlier—name brands in every window, gleaming mannequins that made it all look effortless. Further down, he noticed a pastry shop he hadn’t seen before, tucked into the corner like a secret. Beyond it, a small library. He made a mental note to return there when time allowed.

A few joggers passed by, nodding politely. A woman walking her golden retriever paused when the dog bounded up to him, tail wagging. She smiled and said hello. He nodded back. Smiled, even.

It all felt... nice. Too nice.

Too open. Too trusting. Too soft-edged.

He didn’t know if it was because of what he came from—or what he carried—but he couldn’t help it. He expected something to go wrong. Sooner or later, it always did.

Still, for now, he walked the quiet street like it was enough just to exist without fear.

And for the first time in a long time, it was.

The trip to the store had been smooth—quick, quiet, efficient. He moved like he’d done it a hundred times before, grabbing a month’s worth of supplies with practiced precision: meats, vegetables, fruits, dry goods, spices, flour, eggs, milk. Essentials. Nothing boxed. Nothing frozen. Nothing microwavable.

He didn’t buy junk food. Didn’t see the point.

Cooking, to him, was grounding. One of the few things he had full control over. He liked the rhythm of it—the slicing, stirring, simmering. The silence of a pan just before the sizzle. It reminded him of something almost normal.

By the time he made it back to the building, his arms ached from the weight of the bags. He refused to buy one of those trolley carts families used as he believed he could do it with no problem. There was pride in that. Or maybe just stubbornness. Either way, he dropped the bags gently outside his door and dug into his pocket for the keycard.

That’s when he heard footsteps behind him.

He glanced up, shoulders tensing slightly. A girl—a young woman heading toward the unit next to him. She looked a few years older than him. College-aged. Her hair was loose and she wore the kind of lazy-day outfit that still somehow looked curated: oversized sweater, leggings, quiet makeup. She had that bright, natural kind of face—the kind that people trusted too quickly.

She smiled like they’d known each other in another life.

“Hi,” she said cheerfully. “Are you my neighbor?”

He blinked. He’d specifically requested this unit for its location—far corner, no shared walls on one side, no noise. But someone had moved into the unit beside him.

So much for silence.

“I am,” he replied cautiously. “Nice to meet you.”

His expression gave away nothing. Just polite enough to be passable. Not inviting enough to start a real conversation.

“Nice to meet you too!” she said, undeterred. Her eyes dropped to the grocery bags at his feet. “Whoa—lots of bags. That’s a ton of food for one person.”

He didn’t like that. The question underneath the comment.

Why do you care?

“Month’s worth,” he answered flatly.

“Ohh,” she said with a nod, as if that explained everything. “I’m Samantha, by the way.”

“Rome.”

“Like the city?”

“Mm.”

“Are you Italian?”

“Not that I know of.”

He was already turning away as he said it, keycard slipping into the reader with a soft beep. The lock clicked.

Before she could ask anything else, he opened the door and started dragging his bags inside.

“Sorry—groceries. Wouldn’t want them to spoil,” he said, half over his shoulder.

“Of course! See you next time, neighbor!” she chirped, waving with a toothy grin.

He gave her a nod that didn’t quite reach his eyes and stepped inside, letting the door fall shut behind him with a gentle finality.

He exhaled.

She reminded him of someone. Kate, maybe. If Kate had been younger, thinner, less tired.

He dropped the grocery bags onto the kitchen counter and stared at them for a moment. He hadn’t expected to speak to anyone tonight. Hadn’t planned on introductions. Definitely hadn’t planned on a neighbor who smiled like she was trying to make friends.

That was the problem with new beginnings.

You never knew who else would show up in them.

[prominentworld]

Btw, I am so sorry if the story plot seems to have gaps and such. One of my proofreaders are currently on a break while the other one is too busy 🙏

Hi! If any of you have any song recommendations that settle well the genre of 𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝑳𝒊𝒇𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝑹𝒐𝒎𝒆 𝑬𝒍𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒐𝒏, please do share them down below haha. I'm running out of somber songs to put per chapter (I would make sure to tag you to it)

[prominentworld]

Hi! If any of you have any song recommendations that settle well the genre of 𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝑳𝒊𝒇𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝑹𝒐𝒎𝒆 𝑬𝒍𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒐𝒏, please do share them down below haha. I'm running out of somber songs to put per chapter (I would make sure to tag you to it)

[prominentworld]

Chapter 3: That Look In Your Eyes

ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀꜱ ᴅɪꜱᴄʀᴇᴛɪᴏɴ; ᴛʜɪꜱ ɴᴏᴠᴇʟ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴀɪɴꜱ ᴍᴀᴛᴜʀᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ᴘᴏᴛᴇɴᴛɪᴀʟʟʏ ᴅɪꜱᴛʀᴇꜱꜱɪɴɢ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ, ɪɴᴄʟᴜᴅɪɴɢ ᴠɪᴏʟᴇɴᴄᴇ, ꜱᴛʀᴏɴɢ ʟᴀɴɢᴜᴀɢᴇ, ᴀʙᴜꜱᴇ, ᴛʀᴀᴜᴍᴀ ᴛʜᴇᴍᴇꜱ, ᴘꜱʏᴄʜᴏʟᴏɢɪᴄᴀʟ ᴛʀɪɢɢᴇʀꜱ, ʜᴏᴍᴏᴘʜᴏʙɪᴀ, ᴀʟᴄᴏʜᴏʟɪꜱᴍ, ᴀɴᴅ ꜱᴜɪᴄɪᴅᴇ. ᴘʟᴇᴀꜱᴇ ᴘʀᴏᴄᴇᴇᴅ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴄᴀʀᴇ.

Now at fifteen, Rome stood tall. Not compared to his peers or his stepbrother—he stood tall like his father. Just as tall now. Nearly eye to eye. His frame had sharpened—long limbs, lean build, steady gaze that made people hesitate. There was nothing soft left in his silhouette. The boy was gone. The child they once hushed and rocked and tried to fix—gone.

If Rome was the Colosseum—solid, imposing, ancient in the way hurt makes a person old—then his father was the Leaning Tower of Pisa. Still standing, but tilted. Not from unstable ground, but from regret. From guilt. From the weight of his son’s gaze that never blinked and never looked away.

“Turn around, Rome,” his father said from the couch, the television flickering behind him, a beer sweating in his hand.

Rome didn’t move. He only stared.

That stare—quiet, locked in, sharp as glass—made John shift. It wasn't a curiosity. It was a dissection. Dedication. Like Rome was trying to decide whether anything inside this man was still worth respecting.

And John couldn’t take it. That look made him feel smaller than he’d ever felt in his life. It reminded him of how Kate left. How Krist left. How Rome stayed.

But not for him.

Rome stayed because he hadn’t been asked to leave. Because he didn’t belong with them. Because he didn’t belong to anyone.

“I said turn around!” the man barked, throwing the bottle to the wall. It shattered. Beer bled down the wallpaper. He rose with a stumble, his anger tangled in desperation.

Then softer, “I—I’m sorry, Roo. Did I scare you?”

He stepped forward, unsteady, and touched Rome’s cheek. The gesture felt foreign now. Like pressing a photo to skin and expecting warmth. “It’s just… when you look at me like that… it makes me upset, you know?”

Rome didn’t blink.

“Because you think you’ll end up like her, right?”

The words landed like a slap.

John’s face twisted. “What did you say?”

“You think if you stare long enough into me, you’ll see her. And you’re afraid you’ll snap like she did.” Rome stepped closer. Calm. Unshaken. “But you're not scared because you want to be better. You’re scared because you know it wouldn’t take much. And that’s not about me. That’s about you.”

John lunged. Slammed his son’s head to the floor. Kicked him.

“Don’t you ever talk about her!” he shouted. “I saved you from her—her hands, her screaming, her madness! I’m the reason you even made it out of that house!”

Rome grabbed his father’s ankle and yanked. John stumbled into the chair behind him.

“Please,” Rome said, standing. “You know that yourself. You look into my eyes and see her. That’s why you avoid me. Because you’re scared you might finally see what she saw—that you hate me too.” His voice was level. Cutting. “And you’re not afraid because you’re trying to be a better man. You’re afraid because when you look at me, you see the crack in yourself. And you're scared it’ll split open.”

John lunged again. Hands to his son’s throat. Slammed him against the wall. Rome didn’t fight back. Didn’t gasp for air. He only stared. Lips moving slowly. Breath shallow.

“Face it,” he rasped, “we are nothing but that woman’s reflection.”

John’s grip faltered.

Because somewhere past the alcohol, the rage, the shame—he knew.

It was raining heavily that night when Rome stepped out of the house, but not even the furious storm could drown the sound of the shotgun going off behind him. The crack split the air like a scream—raw, abrupt, final. For a brief second, he paused on the porch, the cold rain slipping down his neck and into the collar of his shirt, soaking through the fabric like blood. He didn’t turn back. He didn’t have to. He already knew.

He had handed his father the gun.

Told him to use it.

Told him he wouldn’t do it.

Told him—like a dare, like a curse—that he wouldn’t have the guts.

And yet, when the trigger was pulled and silence followed, Rome didn’t feel triumph. He didn’t even feel grief. He just stood there, skin drenched, heart muted, as the rain failed to wash away the weight in his chest. He felt bad—not because his father was dead, not because he had manipulated the man into doing it, but because he hadn’t done it himself. Because some part of him still believed it should’ve been his hand that pulled the trigger. Not for justice. Not even for revenge. But so that there would be no doubt.

No doubt about who ended the cycle.

Who had the final word.

Who was strong enough to finish it.

By letting his father do it, Rome had left something unresolved. It wasn’t guilt that gnawed at him afterward—it was the absence of ownership. The ending wasn’t his. Not really. Not entirely.

He had put the gun in the man’s hands. Given the speech. Closed the door behind him like a coward playing god.

But it should’ve been him. His choice. His reckoning. His hands. Because then, the blood on the walls would’ve spoken for him. And the echo in his chest might’ve felt honest.

But instead, it felt like residue.

The blood was there, yes—splattered across the wallpaper like punctuation—but it didn’t say what needed saying.

And because of that, it lingered.

Worse than memory.

A ghost.

Not the kind that wailed or wept—but the kind that breathed just behind your ear in the dark. The kind that followed. That waited.

Because ghosts like that—ghosts born from violence you didn’t fully claim—don’t leave.

Not because they’re tragic.

But because you weren’t strong enough to finish it.

Rome had wanted to kill him. He’d imagined it for years—not always in grotesque detail, but in quiet daydreams. In the way his jaw clenched when his name was barked through beer-soaked lips.

But when it finally happened, Rome wasn’t the executioner.

He was just the boy who handed over the gun.

And walked out the door.

The rain had stopped by the time he came back and turned the knob.

The house smelled different now—metallic and wrong. The kind of smell that clung to the walls and lungs and didn’t care how many windows you opened. Rome stepped back inside, not like a son returning home, but like an executioner late to his own sentence.

He didn’t look at the body.

He didn’t need to.

He walked past it—slow, measured—and into the kitchen. The mop sat in the corner, bristled and old, the bucket beside it still half-filled with gray water from the last time his father spilled something worth hiding.

Rome didn’t hesitate.

He dragged everything out. Bucket. Bleach. Rags. His shoes made no sound as he crossed the stained floor.

He knelt.

And he scrubbed.

Not with sorrow. Not with panic. But with fury. A fury that had nowhere to go, so it went into the tile. Into the cracks. Into the red that wouldn’t come out. He didn’t flinch when his knuckles scraped raw. Didn’t pause when the water turned pink. If anything, he pressed harder. Because if he hadn’t been the one to pull the trigger, then let him at least be the one to wash it clean. Let it be his hands that wiped away the last proof of that man.

Because someone had to.

Because if he couldn’t kill him, then by God, he’d erase him.

He scrubbed until the floor was pale again. Until the air burned with bleach. Until there was nothing left but the echo of what could’ve been. What should’ve been.

Rome stood.

Still angry.

Still empty.

But clean.

A month passed. The police had stopped looking.

Given John’s reputation, they chalked it up to one last drunken night gone wrong. Probably stepped out to buy more alcohol, still half-wasted, and slipped off the bridge during the flood. An accident, they said. A tragedy. They said the river would give him back when it was ready.

It wouldn’t.

Because he knew that the man wasn’t in the river. He was somewhere else entirely.

Kate heard. She called a few times, asked if he was okay. Said his name softly, like she was practicing the right amount of sympathy. But that was all. She never came by. Never asked if he needed a place to stay. Said she wasn’t in the state to take in another child.

Rome wasn’t upset. That excuse—weak as it was—wasn’t wrong. He was just another child. Not hers. Not anyone’s.

With his mother still confined, worsening by the month, the court finally made a decision. Rome inherited the house. And the other one, too—the one where the blood still hadn’t come out of the wall completely. They gave him the deeds like someone handing over a curse. Because technically, he is an orphan now. Firstborn. Legal son. Heir by blood and by technicality.

John may have died broken, but he'd once been a successful estate agent—sharp, fast-talking, good with numbers. Rome didn’t remember much of that version of his father, but the money he left behind remembered him. Bank accounts. Shares. A few old properties.

Add to that the pity money.

From relatives. Strangers. Neighbors who left envelopes in the mailbox with soft words and shaky handwriting. People who felt sorry for him, or just didn’t know what else to do.

Rome accepted all of it. Not because he believed in their kindness—but because money meant options. It meant he could keep going to school. It meant he didn’t have to leave. Even if it was just some secluded town that he bothered not to remember the name;

He wanted to stay.

Because no matter how much violence was stitched into his past, how much silence weighed on his nights, Rome understood one thing: he’s still just a kid.

No job. No guardian. No backup plan.

School was structured. It was survival.

It was the only thing left that made sense.

Rome stood in front of his father’s memorial, still as stone.

He didn’t cry. He didn’t pray. He just stood there, surrounded by names whispered behind hands—troubled, poor boy, the one left behind. And maybe they were right. Maybe that was all he was. A sad boy with an empty home.

Because the truth was, he had no direction. No dream. No fire in his chest telling him where to go.

And until he found the shape he was meant to take… He would wear the one they gave him. He would become what the world had already decided he was.

[prominentworld]

When will the next chapter be released? Really looking forward to it!

Hmmm, idk. Maybe... 3 seconds from now! Haha. I'm delighted that someone out there has been looking forward to this as much as I do (Even though I'm the author)

[prominentworld]

Chapter 2: Inheritance

ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀꜱ ᴅɪꜱᴄʀᴇᴛɪᴏɴ; ᴛʜɪꜱ ɴᴏᴠᴇʟ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴀɪɴꜱ ᴍᴀᴛᴜʀᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ᴘᴏᴛᴇɴᴛɪᴀʟʟʏ ᴅɪꜱᴛʀᴇꜱꜱɪɴɢ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ, ɪɴᴄʟᴜᴅɪɴɢ ᴠɪᴏʟᴇɴᴄᴇ, ꜱᴛʀᴏɴɢ ʟᴀɴɢᴜᴀɢᴇ, ᴀʙᴜꜱᴇ, ᴛʀᴀᴜᴍᴀ ᴛʜᴇᴍᴇꜱ, ᴘꜱʏᴄʜᴏʟᴏɢɪᴄᴀʟ ᴛʀɪɢɢᴇʀꜱ, ʜᴏᴍᴏᴘʜᴏʙɪᴀ, ᴀʟᴄᴏʜᴏʟɪꜱᴍ, ᴀɴᴅ ꜱᴜɪᴄɪᴅᴇ. ᴘʟᴇᴀꜱᴇ ᴘʀᴏᴄᴇᴇᴅ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴄᴀʀᴇ.

Nora had trouble seeing herself as a mother. It wasn’t that she felt unworthy—it was that the child himself seemed to reject her, silently, day after day. Like he knew something about her that she couldn’t hide. Something rotten, something broken. His silence, his blank newborn stares, felt like judgment.

“Hold him, Nora.”

John stood in the kitchen doorway, his voice clipped and tired, his eyes on her like a man looking at a stranger. Like he was testing her again, for the hundredth time.

“John,” she said, tone sharp and defensive, like a cornered dog. She didn’t move. Her arms hung limply at her sides, sleeves stained from days of milk and sweat.

“I said hold him. Hold your son.”

His voice rose, tight with anger—less a command now, more a desperate demand.

“Hold your fucking son, goddamn it, woman!” He slammed his palm against the table, the crash echoing through the walls. Rome cried out from the next room, startled.

Nora flinched but didn’t step back. Her face twisted, red and furious, and suddenly she screamed.

“No, John! No, no, no!”

She thrashed forward with both arms, knocking a plate from the counter. It shattered at her feet. Another followed—a mug, a glass, a bowl—until shards littered the kitchen floor like fallen teeth. Her cries were raw, animal. Somewhere under her voice, Rome’s sobbing grew louder.

“Shut the hell up, John!” she spat, her chest heaving. “You want me to touch that thing, huh? You want to see me cradling that piece of shit like it’s my whole world? Well, I can’t! There. I said it—I can’t fucking do it!”

John stared, stunned. Her voice cracked with exhaustion, rage, and something hollow beneath it—something weak.

“Why, Nora?” he asked, voice low and trembling. “Why can’t you hold him? He’s your son. Your flesh and blood. What the hell happened to you?”

She laughed, sharp and cold. “That is not my son, John. Can’t you see it? Because I can. Every time you walk out that godforsaken door, I’m stuck here with him. That devil. He hates me. He looks at me like I’m nothing. Not his mother, not even human.”

Her hands shook as she gripped the edge of the counter. Her voice lowered to a hiss. “Just like your mother does. With her sneering face and her tight smiles. You think I don’t see it? Her disgust? She hates me, John. They hate me.”

“Nora, that’s not true. He’s just a baby,” John pleaded, voice cracking. “He doesn’t hate you—he doesn’t even know what hate is!”

She stepped closer, eyes wild, her lips twitching. “You think I’m crazy, huh? That's what this is? Your wife’s gone nuts and now you’ve got a poor little baby and a poor little mistress to save?”

John blinked. “What are you talking about?”

“I know, John,” she growled. “I know about her. The blonde with the fake tits and the perfect laugh. Do you think I’m blind, or just stupid? ‘Late nights at work,’ my ass.”

He turned pale, the color draining from his face. “How… why didn’t you say anything?”

Her laugh was hollow. “Say what? That I know you’re fucking someone else? What would that have fixed, John? You’d leave. You’d take that plastic-ass bitch and your greasy little gremlin and walk right out while I starve to death in this leaking dump.”

Tears burned in John’s eyes now. His fists were clenched at his sides.

“I just wanted quiet,” Nora said, softer now, almost pathetic. “I wanted to sleep. I wanted a moment where I didn’t have to hear that kid crying and throwing up and pissing through his diapers. I wanted to feel like a person again.”

Then her voice changed—low, bitter, venomous.

“Maybe I wouldn’t be so miserable if he just fucking died.”

Silence.

John lunged.

The slap came fast and sharp across her face, sending her stumbling backward.

"Don’t you ever talk like that!” he roared.

Before she could recover, his hand was at her throat, slamming her back against the counter. She gasped for breath, clawing at his wrist.

“You don’t talk about them that way,” he seethed, spit flying from his mouth. “Not my son. Not her.”

He let go abruptly, and she dropped like dead weight to the floor, coughing, trembling.

“I can’t do this anymore,” he said, chest heaving. “I’m not letting you do this to me. Or to him. Or to this family. I’m leaving you.”

She held her neck, wheezing on the tiles, eyes wide with disbelief.

“Fine!” she shouted, voice hoarse. “Take the brat! Leave, see if I care! Take your fucking devil with you and don’t come back! Because if you do—if you ever come back—I swear to God, I’ll kill you. I’ll kill you and that goddamned baby!”

John stood frozen for a moment, then turned toward the hallway where Rome’s crying still echoed, sharp and afraid. He didn’t look back.

And Nora stayed on the floor, staring up at the ceiling with a blank, open-mouthed expression—like someone who’d finally said everything she’d been trying to choke down for months. But instead of relief, there was just more screaming in her ears.

Not Rome’s.

Her own.

A month had passed. The hearings were over, the evidence reviewed, the statements read. The court had come to its decision.

Nora Ellison lost custody of the child.

Not that it was a fight—she hadn’t so much as raised her voice in protest. She simply signed the papers, eyes blank, like she was just signing a receipt for groceries. She handed her baby to the man who used to be her husband with the same energy one gives away a dying plant.

John kept the child. Nora kept the house.

It wasn’t out of kindness. It was pettiness. He left her with the walls and the leaky pipes and the quiet—a quiet so loud it could eat her from the inside out. Let her sit in the empty rooms with her own silence. Let her feel the weight of nothing. Let her rot in what was once their home.

But Nora didn’t flinch. She didn’t cry. She didn’t plead.

It was like she didn’t care. Like she couldn’t.

And maybe that would’ve been the end of it. Until she saw her.

Kate.

She walked into the courtroom like she belonged there—hand on her stomach, swollen with child, her soft blonde hair tucked behind one ear. She was glowing. Smug.

Something in Nora cracked.

Her entire body jerked forward in the defendant's chair, the chains on her wrists clinking against the metal. “You…” she hissed.

Kate didn’t look at her. She was too busy rocking Rome, who cooed softly in her arms.

Like she was already his mother.

“You fucking son of a bitch!” Nora shouted, eyes locked on John now. “This was your plan? This was your little fucking project? Huh? Project Bullshit? Just wanted to live with that bitch in her tiny, plastic dollhouse dream!”

The bailiffs stepped in before she could rise from the seat.

She thrashed against her cuffs. “Let me go! You think this is justice? She gets my baby? She gets you? Fuck you!” Her voice cracked. Spit flew. “I hope you both rot! I hope that baby chokes on its own spit!”

The judge slammed his gavel once. “Order! Mrs. Ellison, you are already under psychiatric confinement. Your outburst only confirms the court’s decision.”

Nora screamed again, incoherent now, animal. It took both guards to pull her back.

Six months in the state hospital. That was the verdict. Not that it mattered anymore.

John stood still as stone, watching it unfold.

Behind him, Kate rocked Rome gently. Her smile was soft and supportive, her hand brushing over the child’s cheek as if to say: It’s over. You can rest now.

John let out a long, shaky breath. His jaw relaxed. He turned back toward the judge.

The man’s voice echoed firmly across the court:

“The custody of the minor, Rome Ellison, is hereby granted in full to Mr. John Ellison. The court is adjourned.”

The gavel hit wood. Applause followed. Friends, cousins, coworkers—all clapped quietly, some offering pats on John’s back as he passed.

He didn’t stop.

He walked straight to Kate.

And for the first time in weeks, he smiled.

Rome grew into a bright, unnerving child.

At only ten years old, he had already jumped a grade into seventh—youngest in the room, but never overlooked. His size may have set him apart, but his presence made people forget his age. He didn’t beg for respect. He took it.

Those who dared to call him soft or small quickly learned otherwise. Rome had a right hook sharper than most middle schoolers’ mouths, and he wasn’t afraid to use it. Not because he liked violence, but because it reminded him he wasn’t helpless anymore.

He wasn’t that crying baby in a warm bassinet, red-faced and howling, waiting for someone to help. He was no longer that child who screamed only to be met with a pacifier soaked in alcohol—his mother’s twisted lullaby.

And even though he no longer remembered the taste, something inside him never forgot how it made the world blur just enough to forget the pain.

By the time he turned five, Rome had already visited the ER twice for pneumonia, once for a seizure that left the nurses clutching their clipboards with white knuckles. But it wasn’t the illnesses that worried his father the most.

It was the way he stared blankly when praised.

It was the way he smiled when punished.

Like nothing touched him the right way.

Behavioral issues weren’t new to Rome. He had been biting, breaking, and back-talking long before he could spell “defiant.” Therapists came and went, saying words like "trauma,” “attachment difficulties,” and “early-stage conduct disorder.”

But John wasn’t sure what Rome needed anymore—discipline? Space? Or someone who could understand the thousand-yard stare of a child who had once been drugged into silence by the only woman meant to protect him.

Teachers learned to tread lightly. Some found him charming—brilliant, even. A boy who could recite Greek myths, ace every math exam, and quote laws like they were bedtime stories.

Others found him terrifying. Too perceptive. Too quiet. Too volatile.

He didn’t cry anymore.

Not since he learned crying just gave people a reason to hurt you.

But it was no longer the whispers about his mother—the loose mouths of neighbors that once forced them to move—that frustrated him most. It was something else now.

Something newer, yes, but not entirely unfamiliar.

The same hollow feeling, just in a different shape.

Rome had begun noticing it in the way adults paused before speaking to him. Teachers. Counselors. Even his father. They all wore the same expression when addressing him—measured, cautious, like approaching an animal you weren’t sure was trained.

It wasn’t fear, not exactly.

It was restraint. The kind you use around people who’ve survived something monstrous.

As if survival had turned Rome into something not quite human. Like the damage had

etched itself so deeply into his skin that no one could see the boy anymore—only the scar.

He hated that look.

It reminded him of the old neighbors who whispered through cracked windows and stopped inviting him to their barbecues. As if trauma was contagious. As if madness could leak from bloodlines.

John tried. Rome knew he did.

But sometimes even his father looked tired in his presence. Like love was a job. Like Rome was a shift he had to clock into.

And the woman—the one who raised him for the last nine years—Kate—she smiled too much. Asked too many questions in that voice that tried too hard to sound casual.

“How was school today, Rome?”

“Learn anything fun?”

“Are the kids being nice?”

Rome would nod. Always nod.

And she would pat his head or kiss his cheek and whisper things like, “You’re such a good boy,” or “You’re going to do amazing things someday.”

But none of it mattered.

Because every time she said those things, Rome felt like he was being watched by something older than he was. Something cold and breathing just beneath his ribs.

Sometimes, late at night, he would lie awake and stare at the ceiling, trying to remember the exact pitch of his mother’s screams. Not because he missed them. But because silence felt like a lie.

He’d tried therapy.

Twice.

The first therapist called him “gifted.” The second called him “guarded.” Neither of them lasted more than three sessions.

They asked too many questions he didn’t want to answer. Like:

“Do you remember your mother?”

“How does that make you feel?”

“Do you have nightmares?”

Rome had stopped answering after the second visit. Instead, he smiled. Always smiled.

Until the day his father didn’t come home on time.

Kate had called twice, pacing the kitchen in her socks, worrying out loud while Rome sat at the table with a bowl of cereal gone soggy.

When the door finally opened, John stumbled in smelling like beer and something heavier.

Kate was relieved. Rome was not.

Because in that moment—watching his father wobble slightly, eyes glassy and shirt half-tucked—Rome felt it again.

The familiarity.

The thing is not quite new.

It wasn’t just the alcohol. It wasn’t just the guilt in John’s eyes.

It was proof that no one stayed good forever.

That no matter how much you loved someone, no matter how safe they seemed—they could still come undone.

And Rome couldn’t unsee it.

Not then. Not ever.

So he picked up his spoon. Stirred his cereal. And smiled again.

The way his mother used to.

[prominentworld]

Masterlist

ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀꜱ ᴅɪꜱᴄʀᴇᴛɪᴏɴ; ᴛʜɪꜱ ɴᴏᴠᴇʟ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴀɪɴꜱ ᴍᴀᴛᴜʀᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ᴘᴏᴛᴇɴᴛɪᴀʟʟʏ ᴅɪꜱᴛʀᴇꜱꜱɪɴɢ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ, ɪɴᴄʟᴜᴅɪɴɢ ᴠɪᴏʟᴇɴᴄᴇ, ꜱᴛʀᴏɴɢ ʟᴀɴɢᴜᴀɢᴇ, ᴀʙᴜꜱᴇ, ᴛʀᴀᴜᴍᴀ ᴛʜᴇᴍᴇꜱ, ᴘꜱʏᴄʜᴏʟᴏɢɪᴄᴀʟ ᴛʀɪɢɢᴇʀꜱ, ʜᴏᴍᴏᴘʜᴏʙɪᴀ, ᴀʟᴄᴏʜᴏʟɪꜱᴍ, ᴀɴᴅ ꜱᴜɪᴄɪᴅᴇ. ᴘʟᴇᴀꜱᴇ ᴘʀᴏᴄᴇᴇᴅ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴄᴀʀᴇ.

❗️Please do note that every colored areas per chapters are a signal to its presence in the output.

- Playlist Link

- Chapter 1: The Birth | Word count: 2,096

- Chapter 2: Inheritance | Word count: 2,281

- Chapter 3: That Look in Your Eyes | Word count: 1,768

- Chapter 4: Consciousness | Word count: 2,934

- Chapter 5: Ground School Begins | Word count: 1,994

- Chapter 6: Ezra Hill | Word count: 3,209

- Chapter 7: Around The Corner | Word count: 2,094

- Chapter 8: End Of The Year | Word count: 2,102

- Chapter 9: New Corner | Word count: 3,079

- Chapter 10: A Crack | Word count: 2,722

- Chapter 11:

- Chapter 12:

- Chapter 13:

- Chapter 14:

[prominentworld]

CHAPTER 1: THE BIRTH

ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀꜱ ᴅɪꜱᴄʀᴇᴛɪᴏɴ; ᴛʜɪꜱ ɴᴏᴠᴇʟ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴀɪɴꜱ ᴍᴀᴛᴜʀᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ᴘᴏᴛᴇɴᴛɪᴀʟʟʏ ᴅɪꜱᴛʀᴇꜱꜱɪɴɢ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ, ɪɴᴄʟᴜᴅɪɴɢ ᴠɪᴏʟᴇɴᴄᴇ, ꜱᴛʀᴏɴɢ ʟᴀɴɢᴜᴀɢᴇ, ᴀʙᴜꜱᴇ, ᴛʀᴀᴜᴍᴀ ᴛʜᴇᴍᴇꜱ, ᴘꜱʏᴄʜᴏʟᴏɢɪᴄᴀʟ ᴛʀɪɢɢᴇʀꜱ, ʜᴏᴍᴏᴘʜᴏʙɪᴀ, ᴀʟᴄᴏʜᴏʟɪꜱᴍ, ᴀɴᴅ ꜱᴜɪᴄɪᴅᴇ. ᴘʟᴇᴀꜱᴇ ᴘʀᴏᴄᴇᴇᴅ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴄᴀʀᴇ.

Rome Ellison was born in the quiet of dawn, cradled in his mother’s trembling arms as she named him after a city she once read about—something strong, something lasting—never knowing how easily love could turn to blame.

Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead as nurses passed by in soft blue scrubs, their footsteps too calm. The room smelled of alcohol swabs and silence, soon disrupted by the loud cries of a child.

Nora Ellison stirred, her body slow to respond, eyes hazy with exhaustion. She turned her head toward the sound, finding the child in the warm bassinet beside her. Her pale hands reached slowly, hesitantly, for the baby.

She was of average height, her brunette hair clinging to damp temples, and her striking green-blue eyes—once vibrant—had dulled into a stormy stillness. As she lifted Rome into her arms, her face remained unreadable. The child had thick tufts of dark hair—just like his father—but when his eyes opened, they gleamed with her color. Green-blue, clear and quiet and strange. Her lineage, her gaze, on a face that didn’t yet feel like hers.

The door creaked open, and her husband stepped in with a plastic water bottle in hand.

“Nora! Oh, thank God. You’re finally awake,” John said, relief spilling through his smile as he leaned in to kiss her forehead and twisted the cap open. “Here. You need to hydrate. You did an amazing job.”

He was still in yesterday’s clothes, sleeves pushed to his elbows, his black hair mussed and his brown eyes tired—but bright. He always looked calm, even when she couldn’t.

She gave him a faint smile as she reached for the baby, her hands tentative. The newborn shifted in the blanket as she brought him close, but her touch was cautious.

“Thank you, John,” she murmured, eyes never leaving Rome's face.

The hours passed in a blur of nurses, paperwork, and quiet small talk. John filled the space with soft praise, light jokes, and grateful touches. Nora said little. She nodded often, answered when prompted, but mostly sat still while holding Rome.

When it was finally time to be discharged, John gathered their things while Nora cradled the baby with tired arms. She looked out the hospital window as they left, barely noticing the morning sun climbing higher in the sky.

Home greeted them with silence. The click of the door closing behind them echoed through the hallway. John set down the diaper bag and adjusted the carrier strap on his shoulder, glancing back at Nora.

She followed slowly, holding Rome close to her chest, her face pale from more than just the labor. She didn’t speak.

John reached for the keys in his pocket, setting them gently on the table beside the door.

“Why don’t you go rest? I’ll take care of unpacking. You must be exhausted.”

Nora looked at him, eyes soft but faraway. She gave a small nod.

“Can you hold the baby for a bit? I’m… I need sleep.”

She passed the baby into his arms with care, her fingers lingering briefly on Rome before slipping away. Then, without another word, she turned and headed upstairs, her feet dragging like she’d forgotten how to walk with purpose.

“I love you, Nora,” John called gently.

“I love you too,” she replied faintly from halfway up the stairs.

Downstairs, John bounced Rome gently in his arms. The baby stared up at him, eyelids fluttering.

“Hey, Roo,” he whispered. “Looks like it’s just you and me now.”

Rome reached out, his tiny hand curling around John’s finger. That small grip nearly brought tears to his eyes.

John carried him into the kitchen, talking softly as he unpacked.

“No cleaning today, little guy. Not with you in my arms. Wouldn’t want dust in your nose. And Mommy… She's resting now. Deserves it. Eighteen hours of labor. I passed out after three. Can you believe that?”

He chuckled as he pulled a pair of baby socks from the bag.

“You’re lucky, you know. She’s strong. Real strong.”

His voice grew softer as he looked at his son—black hair thick already, nose slightly upturned like Nora’s. But those eyes... green-blue like a shallow sea caught in a storm.

“You’re a strange little mix, aren’t you?” he murmured with a smile. “You’re gonna break hearts with those eyes.”

Rome was fast asleep now, his tiny chest rising and falling steadily. John kissed his forehead and carefully settled him in the bassinet beside the couch. He glanced toward the stairs, then collapsed onto the nearby armchair, sighing deeply.

The house remained quiet.

The rest of the day slipped by like vapor—feedings, brief naps, John humming under his breath, and checking in on Nora, who barely stirred. She hadn’t come down for dinner. She’d mumbled something about needing more sleep, eyes never quite meeting him.

John didn’t push.

By the time night fell, John had dozed off in the armchair, Rome curled peacefully in the bassinet. The TV still hummed in the background, casting flickers of light across the room.

It was 3 AM when the spell broke.

“John! John, can you stop the baby from crying?”

Her voice pierced the stillness. Sharp. Frantic.

“John! John, can you stop the baby from crying?”

Her voice pierced the stillness. Sharp. Frantic.

John jolted upright, rubbing at his face as the baby’s cries rang out beside him.

“Yup—on it already!” he called back, pushing himself up with one hand on the armrest.

“Hurry!”

“I’m coming! Just go back to sleep, hon,” he said, though his voice was thick with grogginess.

He lifted Rome into his arms, bouncing him gently.

“What’s wrong, Roo? Are you hungry?”

The cries lessened a little as he held the baby close and made his way up the stairs.

“Nora?” he called softly as he stepped into the dim bedroom. “I think he’s hungry.”

No answer. He approached the bed.

“Nora?” he tried again, more gently.

She was curled on her side, one arm bent awkwardly beneath her pillow. She turned her head toward him slowly, blinking as though surfacing from deep water.

“What?...”

“I think he needs to feed.”

She sat up stiffly. “I… I don’t know how.”

John knelt beside the bed, brushing her hair behind her ear.

“You did earlier. In the hospital. Maybe you were too tired to remember. But you did.”

Nora looked down at Rome, her lips slightly parted. Her hands hovered, hesitant.

“It’s okay,” he whispered. “He’s all gums right now. He won’t bite.”

She let out a shaky breath and reached out. He handed Rome to her gently.

She held him like she was relearning how to do it, adjusting her arms and posture with care. Her brow furrowed as she fumbled, one hand supporting his head, the other unsure of where to settle. John helped guide her, then stepped back to give her space.

Rome latched with a few soft whimpers, and her body stiffened at first—but then slowly,

she exhaled. Not relief, exactly. Not warmth. But something closer to surrender.

She looked away from the baby, eyes unfocused. John didn’t speak. He just watched her, quietly, the light from the hallway casting a soft glow behind him. And in that stillness, as Rome fed in the half-darkness, a silent truth settled between them:

She was here. But not all the way.

A week had already passed, and John was due back at work. He stood in the doorway in a neatly pressed suit, briefcase in one hand, the other adjusting the brim of his hat. He glanced at his reflection in the hallway mirror, fixing his tie with a half-smile, then turned to face his wife.

“I’ll be back before dinner, okay? Wouldn’t want to miss eating with you guys,” he said, leaning down to kiss her forehead.

Nora sat on the couch, Rome tucked into her arms. Her expression tightened, eyes tracing every detail of his uniform as if memorizing him.

“Are you sure you have to, John?” she asked, voice soft but uncertain. “It’s only been a week.”

John let out a low chuckle, trying to lighten the weight in the room.

“You mean it’s been a week? Honey, I only get seven days of paid leave. I’m already pushing it. I need to go back and make some money—for you and Roo.”

She held Rome a little closer. Her brows furrowed in quiet protest, but she said nothing more. Her silence wasn’t angry. Just… uneasy.

John crouched a little to meet her eyes and pressed another kiss to her cheek.

“I’ll be back soon. I promise.”

She exhaled slowly, then gave him a soft smirk.

“Okay. But be quick. Or I lock the door once the food gets cold.”

“Doesn’t sound so bad. Your cooking is terri—ow!” he winced, laughing as she pinched his side.

“Be safe,” she said, half-teasing, half-serious.

“I will,” he murmured.

With one last glance, John stepped out the door. The morning sun painted golden patches across the walkway. He took five steps, then turned back—just to see them one more time.

Nora hadn’t moved. She was still holding Rome, arms wrapped tightly around their child, eyes distant and unreadable.

John waved. She gave a small nod.

The door clicked shut behind him, and for a moment, the house felt too still.

Nora stood by the window, Rome cradled in her arms. She didn’t move, not even when

John turned and waved at them from the gate. She returned the gesture with a small nod—just enough to let him go. When his figure disappeared down the street, she exhaled, as if she had been holding her breath the entire time.

She walked away from the window and sank slowly onto the couch, adjusting Rome on her chest. He was already half-asleep, one fist curled against her collarbone, mouth slightly open. The weight of him was both grounding and heavy.

The living room was dim, though it was nearly mid-morning. She hadn't bothered to open the curtains.

The TV remote sat beside her, untouched. The silence wasn’t peaceful—it was thick, like the kind that gathered in places where words once lived.

She rocked slightly, not because the baby needed it, but because it gave her something to do. Rome stirred once, let out a soft grunt, and then settled again.

Her eyes wandered—past the coffee table with a bottle she hadn’t returned to the sink, over to the bassinet she hadn’t used since the night before. She thought about moving him there, just to free her arms, but then decided against it.

She looked down at Rome.

“You’re quiet today,” she whispered.

The baby didn’t respond. Of course he didn’t.

By noon, she had managed to eat half a banana. She wasn’t hungry. It wasn’t that she felt sick or weak. Just… untouched by appetite.

Rome had cried three times—once for milk, once from a dirty diaper, and once for no reason she could understand. Each time, she responded on instinct, slow but gentle, never harsh. She changed him carefully, fed him while staring out the window, and rocked him without singing.

Everything was done right. Just without color.

At one point, she caught her reflection in the hallway mirror—a robe still wrinkled, hair loose and frizzy around her face. She tilted her head, stared at herself like someone else might, and then walked away.

Later that afternoon, while Rome was sleeping, Nora sat on the edge of the bed. The room was warm, sun pooling on the comforter, yet her hands were cold. She folded them in her lap and stared at the wall.

She wasn’t thinking of anything in particular. That was the strangest part. There were no sad thoughts, no spirals. Just a dull, quiet blankness. Like background noise she couldn’t turn off.

A soft cry came from the crib.

She didn’t move right away. Not out of frustration—there was no anger in her. Just a pause, like waiting for her body to catch up with her mind. Then, slowly, she stood and walked over.

She picked him up, tucked him into her arms, and sat down on the bed again. He nuzzled closer, finding her warmth. She adjusted her robe, unfastening the loose tie, guiding him toward her chest. He latched easily this time, and she let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.

As he fed, she stared at the far wall. Her hand rested lightly on his back, moving in slow circles. Not absent, but not engaged either. Just enough.

His eyes began to close again, lashes fluttering against her skin.

“You’re okay,” she whispered, voice hoarse from disuse. “You’re okay.”

She wasn’t sure who she was talking to.

[prominentworld]

𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝑳𝒊𝒇𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝑹𝒐𝒎𝒆 𝑬𝒍𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒐𝒏

𝑾𝒓𝒊𝒕𝒕𝒆𝒏 𝒃𝒚 𝑨.𝑳. 𝑬𝒏𝒄𝒂𝒃𝒐 — 𝒇𝒓𝒐𝒎 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒊𝒓 𝒂𝒕𝒕𝒂𝒄𝒉𝒆𝒅 𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕

Playlist

[prominentworld]

"𝙰 𝚖𝚊𝚗, 𝚊 𝚑𝚞𝚜𝚋𝚊𝚗𝚍, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊 𝚏𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛"

𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝑳𝒊𝒇𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝑹𝒐𝒎𝒆 𝑬𝒍𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒐𝒏

𝑾𝒓𝒊𝒕𝒕𝒆𝒏 𝒃𝒚 𝑨.𝑳. 𝑬𝒏𝒄𝒂𝒃𝒐 — 𝒇𝒓𝒐𝒎 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒊𝒓 𝒂𝒕𝒕𝒂𝒄𝒉𝒆𝒅 𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕

Rome Ellison was raised by fists, silence, and the kind of love that leaves bruises.

He wasn’t born to survive— he forced the world to let him.

At fifteen, he walked away from a house of blood and ghosts, carrying nothing but his name and the weight of what he’d done.

This is not a story of redemption.

It’s the story of a boy who learned to kill before he ever knew kindness.

Of a man who was never meant to love—yet did. Fiercely. Quietly. Without question.

Of someone forged in violence... who still chose to build something worth keeping.

He didn’t become better.

He became true.

And those who knew him will never forget who he dared to be—despite who he once was.

⚠️ ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀꜱ ᴅɪꜱᴄʀᴇᴛɪᴏɴ; ᴛʜɪꜱ ɴᴏᴠᴇʟ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴀɪɴꜱ ᴍᴀᴛᴜʀᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ᴘᴏᴛᴇɴᴛɪᴀʟʟʏ ᴅɪꜱᴛʀᴇꜱꜱɪɴɢ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ, ɪɴᴄʟᴜᴅɪɴɢ ᴠɪᴏʟᴇɴᴄᴇ, ꜱᴛʀᴏɴɢ ʟᴀɴɢᴜᴀɢᴇ, ᴀʙᴜꜱᴇ, ᴛʀᴀᴜᴍᴀ ᴛʜᴇᴍᴇꜱ, ᴘꜱʏᴄʜᴏʟᴏɢɪᴄᴀʟ ᴛʀɪɢɢᴇʀꜱ, ʜᴏᴍᴏᴘʜᴏʙɪᴀ, ᴀʟᴄᴏʜᴏʟɪꜱᴍ, ᴀɴᴅ ꜱᴜɪᴄɪᴅᴇ. ᴘʟᴇᴀꜱᴇ ᴘʀᴏᴄᴇᴇᴅ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴄᴀʀᴇ. ⚠️

[prominentworld]

"𝙰 𝚖𝚊𝚗, 𝚊 𝚑𝚞𝚜𝚋𝚊𝚗𝚍, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊 𝚏𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛"

𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝑳𝒊𝒇𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝑹𝒐𝒎𝒆 𝑬𝒍𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒐𝒏

𝑾𝒓𝒊𝒕𝒕𝒆𝒏 𝒃𝒚 𝑨.𝑳. 𝑬𝒏𝒄𝒂𝒃𝒐 — 𝒇𝒓𝒐𝒎 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒊𝒓 𝒂𝒕𝒕𝒂𝒄𝒉𝒆𝒅 𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕

Rome Ellison was raised by fists, silence, and the kind of love that leaves bruises.

He wasn’t born to survive— he forced the world to let him.

At fifteen, he walked away from a house of blood and ghosts, carrying nothing but his name and the weight of what he’d done.

This is not a story of redemption.

It’s the story of a boy who learned to kill before he ever knew kindness.

Of a man who was never meant to love—yet did. Fiercely. Quietly. Without question.

Of someone forged in violence... who still chose to build something worth keeping.

He didn’t become better.

He became true.

And those who knew him will never forget who he dared to be—despite who he once was.

⚠️ ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀꜱ ᴅɪꜱᴄʀᴇᴛɪᴏɴ; ᴛʜɪꜱ ɴᴏᴠᴇʟ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴀɪɴꜱ ᴍᴀᴛᴜʀᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ᴘᴏᴛᴇɴᴛɪᴀʟʟʏ ᴅɪꜱᴛʀᴇꜱꜱɪɴɢ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ, ɪɴᴄʟᴜᴅɪɴɢ ᴠɪᴏʟᴇɴᴄᴇ, ꜱᴛʀᴏɴɢ ʟᴀɴɢᴜᴀɢᴇ, ᴀʙᴜꜱᴇ, ᴛʀᴀᴜᴍᴀ ᴛʜᴇᴍᴇꜱ, ᴘꜱʏᴄʜᴏʟᴏɢɪᴄᴀʟ ᴛʀɪɢɢᴇʀꜱ, ʜᴏᴍᴏᴘʜᴏʙɪᴀ, ᴀʟᴄᴏʜᴏʟɪꜱᴍ, ᴀɴᴅ ꜱᴜɪᴄɪᴅᴇ. ᴘʟᴇᴀꜱᴇ ᴘʀᴏᴄᴇᴇᴅ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴄᴀʀᴇ. ⚠️