"Before I was untouchable… I was in love."
Almond was eighteen the first time someone looked at her like she wasn't dangerous.
And that's what made it dangerous.
His name was Kairo, and he was the kind of boy you'd write poems about in secret notebooks. The kind who played piano in abandoned churches, read banned books, and had eyes that felt like safety.
She met him on a rooftop. Not metaphorically. Literally.
The city had just swallowed the sun whole, and Almond had climbed six flights of rusted stairs just to breathe air that didn't reek of regret. Her hoodie had holes. Her boots had blood on them—not hers. She was halfway through a stolen cigarette when she realized she wasn't alone.
"You always smoke like the world's about to end?" he'd asked, not looking at her.
She turned slowly. "You always talk like you wanna die cute?"
He laughed, deep and honest. It irritated her.
Kairo had no tattoos. No piercings. No darkness—at least not the kind you can taste. He was… good.
He was sunlight in a black world.
And that's why she wanted to ruin him.
They became something that wasn't quite a relationship but wasn't anything else either.
He'd show up wherever she went. He'd sneak her books about warlocks and ancient bloodlines. He'd bring her coffee laced with cinnamon and draw pictures of her hands when she wasn't looking. And Almond? She'd let him talk to her without interruption. She'd let him hold her when the visions came. She'd let him touch her scars—but never ask questions.
"Why are you like this?" he whispered once, his fingers brushing the mark under her collarbone—the one shaped like a crescent moon with teeth.
She shrugged. "Because life made me too early."
But Kairo wasn't stupid.
He saw the bruises she didn't earn from street fights.
He saw the way her magic flared when she slept—when she screamed in her dreams.
He saw the shadows gather when she cried.
And he stayed.
God, the fool. He stayed.
Then came the day she kissed him.
It was raining. They were under the city bridge, hiding from a gang of hex-runners who thought she'd stolen something from them (she had). Kairo was bleeding from the lip. She had a knife tucked in her boot.
He said, "I'd kill for you."
She said, "You shouldn't say things like that."
And then she kissed him.
Rough. Desperate. Bruised-lipped. A kiss that tasted like a warning.
She pressed him against the cold concrete and whispered, "I don't love you."
He smiled, bleeding. "I don't care."
And that was the moment she realized something terrifying:
She'd love him forever.
But love doesn't save people like her. It curses them.
Two weeks later, Kairo disappeared.
One moment there.
Next moment—ashes.
No note. No blood. No body.
Only the necklace he always wore, left on her windowsill… melted.
And the message burned into the wall behind her bed:
"TOUCHED BY A DEMON. CLAIMED BY NONE."
She never cried. Not once.
Instead, she walked into the church that night and carved her first tattoo—herself.
"Nothing breaks me. Not twice."
The needle was jagged. The blood was real. The pain was quiet.
And after that, she stopped kissing anyone unless it meant power.
Stopped touching unless it meant control.
Stopped feeling unless it could cut her deeper.
Back in the present…
Aren is dreaming of her again.
But this time—it's not just a dream.
His bed smells like her. The sheets twist like ropes. And his chest aches. Like something is trying to claw out of it.
And when he wakes—dripping in sweat, gasping—he finds this:
Her chain belt. On his floor.
He didn't bring it there.
She never gave it to him.
She's never even been inside his apartment… right?