Rein's POV's
The second the bell rang, I was out of there.
I didn't bother waiting for anyone. The hallway was loud, people pouring out of classrooms like a flood, but my head was somewhere else. I just kept walking—past the noise, past the crowd, out toward the parking lot, where the late afternoon sun hit everything in this tired kind of way.
My bike was parked where I left it—sleek, matte black, no frills. Just clean lines and power.
I was adjusting my helmet when someone stepped into my space.
"Yo," he said, easy smile on his face, hands in his pockets. Like he just happened to be walking by. "You ride?"
I clicked the strap of my helmet into place. "Obviously."
"Didn't expect that," he said, looking down at the bike like it had just insulted him. "Thought you'd be into something… I dunno. Less fast."
I raised an eyebrow. "And I thought you'd be less nosy."
That got a short laugh out of him. "Touché."
I swung one leg over the bike. "You done?"
He opened his mouth like he wanted to say something else, but I started the engine. The rumble drowned out whatever weak excuse for conversation he was about to try next.
"Bye," I said flatly, then took off.
The road was where everything faded. Buildings blurred, sunlight flickered past my visor, and the only thing I could feel was the hum of the engine and the wind against my arms.
No noise.
No people.
Just motion.
When I finally pulled up in front of the house,
the sky had shifted a bit—less sun, more clouds, but still warm. I parked in the driveway, turned off the engine, kicked the stand down, took off my helmet, and headed inside.
I barely made it two steps through the door before I heard her.
"Well, well, look who decided to show up," she called out from the living room, lying on the couch like she owned it.
I didn't even need to look to know who it was—Dain, sprawled across the couch like a diva on her day off, like she'd been waiting for hours just to say that line. One arm draped dramatically over the backrest.
"Well, girls," she announced loudly toward the kitchen, "Guess who ditched us for lunch today? Rein Morales, ladies and gentlemen. Our fearless friend abandoned ship."
I raised a brow, peeling off my helmet. "Seriously?" I dropped my bag on the floor. "We didn't even have the same lunch break. You guys were still locked inside your class, late."
"She left us," Dain continued, ignoring me. "We planned to eat together, right? But no, Rein had a secret lunch with some other group. Didn't even tell us."
"Dain," I sighed, kicking off my boots. "You and the others came out late. Me and mates had the break earlier. What did you expect? You want me to wait around starving?"
She sat up now, arms crossed like I had personally offended her. "A heads-up would've been nice."
I dropped my jacket by the stairs and walked toward the living room. "Next time, set your alarm earlier."
"Still could've texted," she said, arms crossed, voice sharp. "We ended up eating with the dance team. You ditched. You chose another table."
"You sound like my mom," I muttered.
From the kitchen, the sound of chopping stopped.
"You two are fighting over lunch?" someone from the kitchen cut in. "You two sound like toddlers."
Dain called out, "It's the betrayal for me."
Geline called out, voice dry as ever. "It's lunch. Not a betrayal."
Dain shot her a glare, then looked back at me. "Whatever. Still rude."
I rolled my eyes, brushing past her and heading to the kitchen to see what Geline was cooking.
'Smelled good.'
"Noted, Your Highness."
She scoffed behind me but didn't press it further. I could already hear her reaching for the remote to change the channel. A silent peace treaty, for now.
From the stove, Geline didn't even look up as she stirred something in a pan, sleeves rolled up.
That smelled way too good for how annoyed I felt.
Geline glanced at me as I leaned against the counter. "You good?"
I gave a short nod. "Just tired."
She didn't say anything, just handed me a spoon and pointed at the pot. "Taste this."
I took a small bite and nodded. "Needs more salt."
She smirked. "Knew it."
I leaned against the counter, watching the pot bubble. My body was tired, my mind was tired, but it felt good to just be here—quiet house, familiar noise, the smell of garlic and soy sauce filling the space.
We were back in our world.
The house settled into an easy silence, the tension slowly melting into the smell of dinner and the comfort of home. But even as I stood there, I could feel Dain's gaze flicker toward me from the couch. A little bruised ego. A little drama.
It wasn't the end of the world. But I'd make it up to her. Eventually.
Damian POV's
At the parking lot, I was heading to my car when I spotted her near a matte black bike.
Rein.
Helmet in hand, looking like she was ready to head out. No rush, just casually prepping for a ride.
I walked over, hands in my pockets. "Yo!" I said with a friendly smile, like I was just greeting a classmate.
She glanced up, barely acknowledging me, but still giving that look—like I was a mild interruption.
I leaned against the nearest car, trying to keep things chill. "You ride?"
"Obviously," she said, clipping the strap of her helmet into place. Her voice was cold, distant.
"Didn't expect that," I muttered, eyes on the bike. "Thought you'd be into something… I dunno. Less fast."
She gave me a quick side-eye, one eyebrow raised. "And I thought you'd be less nosy."
Okay. Fair.
I laughed a little, brushing it off. "Touché," I said, trying not to look too caught off guard.
She pulled on her helmet, movements quick, smooth. She was clearly done with the conversation. A second later, the engine came alive with a low, powerful growl.
"Bye," she said, calm as ever, before revving the engine.
And just like that, she was gone.
I stood there for a second, the wind of her exit brushing past me. A small laugh slipped out as I shook my head.
Well, that was definitely something.
I slipped into the car, the soft click of the door sealing everything out—people, noise, lies. The second it latched, the smile slid off my face like melting wax.
Silence.
Finally.
No more pretending. No more polite nods or thoughtful expressions. No more charming tilt of the lips. Just me and the quiet.
I leaned into the headrest and closed my eyes for half a second, letting my fingers tap a rhythm against the wheel—five beats, pause. Five beats, pause. My own little ritual. Not for comfort. For control.
The drive home was mechanical. I didn't think—I just moved. Traffic lights blurred into long red and yellow streaks against the tinted glass. The world outside felt fake. Fleeting. Unimportant.
I didn't play music. I didn't need sound. I had thoughts.
And tonight, they were louder than usual.
By the time I turned into the estate, the guards had already swung the gates open. Good. They knew better than to test my patience.
The mansion stood in silence—grand, cold, and empty. A statue of a house. No warmth, no noise. Just stone and glass and perfection carved by money and fear.
I parked on the line. Exactly. Always.
The butler waited at the top of the steps. Impeccable posture, eyes low.
"Welcome home, Sir Damian."
I didn't reply—just nodded once. He moved aside wordlessly. That's why he still works here.
Inside, the air was cool and dry. Marble floors. High ceilings. Every sound echoed. The kind of quiet that could make a person go mad if they weren't already halfway there.
"Good evening, Sir Damian," a maid called from the living room, her voice polite but hesitant. "Would you like your usual?"
I paused mid-step. "Something different."
She blinked. "Craving something, sir?"
I didn't look at her. "Spicy."
I moved on without waiting for a response, climbing the stairs at a measured pace. My blazer slipped off my shoulders in one fluid motion and landed on the chair beside my room—just like always.
Everything was exactly as I left it. The way I needed it.
Inside my room, the faint scent of lavender lingered in the air. Too gentle. Too sweet. It clashed with the weight inside my chest.
I stood by the window and looked down at the estate—manicured gardens, trimmed hedges, everything trimmed and perfect.
Nothing grew without permission.
Nothing survived without purpose.
Just how I like it.
There were no photos in this room. No signs of a childhood. No memories. Just order. Control. Clean lines. Surgical quiet.
That's how I was raised.
In this family, we don't leave fingerprints. We leave legacies.
My father runs things from behind an office door no one dares open unless summoned. His words aren't loud—but they end careers. Collapse companies. Silence names.
He taught me early: Power isn't about being seen. It's about being remembered. Or feared.
My mother plays hostess to people who wear tailored suits and talk in codes. She arranges meetings that never make it to paper. Smiles in pictures she doesn't keep.
Family dinners are quiet, intentional. No small talk. Only strategy.
We don't do business in daylight. We don't sign deals—we guarantee them.
And when someone steps out of line... let's just say no one ever finds a body in our backyard. We keep the garden too clean for that.
People at school see me—well-mannered, reserved, easy to get along with. Polite to professors. Friendly to classmates. The guy who remembers birthdays, opens doors, makes others feel seen.
They call me respectful.
That's the point.
They don't see the security detail in plainclothes that follows me in shifts. They don't notice the subtle way people move aside when I walk through a hallway. They don't ask why certain students disappear after crossing me.
Because if you have to say you're dangerous, you're not.
A knock on the door. Soft. Cautious.
"Sir Damian," a voice called. "Dinners ready?"
"I'm not hungry," I said flatly.
Not for food, anyway.
I moved to the desk. Opened the second drawer. The first was for appearances. The second held the truth.
A black notebook. A burner phone. Files and gloves. A silent gun I liked too much to forget.
I flipped through the notebook—pages filled with ink, written in perfect detail. Names. Schedules. Secrets. Weaknesses.
People tied to our family's... interests.
Investors. Traders. Informants. Liabilities. Cleaners. And a few corpses still walking.
I don't forget things. I don't forgive either.
Another name. Another distraction. Another entertainment. But like everyone else—predictable. Replaceable.
People assume I don't care because I'm cold. That's wrong.
I don't care because I calculate.
And when someone stops being useful, they stop being necessary.
I take notes. I watch. I wait.
Because this isn't about anger. I don't kill out of rage.
Rage is sloppy.
I do it for balance. To clean up the mess.
Some people are just stains.
And stains don't get second chances.
I leaned back in the chair, tapping the pen against the desk as silence settled like a second skin around me.
Then I smiled. Not the smile they all know.
Not the charming one that fools friends, teachers, strangers. No. The real one. The one I wear when I'm alone. The one I wear when things are about to change. In this family, we don't ask for trust. We test for it. And once you break it—You don't get to try again.
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