"Three, two, one."
The screen flickered to life. Four men sprawled across a black leather couch under warm studio light, a live viewer count climbing fast in the corner of the feed.
Damien Fuller leaned forward first, dreads pulled into a loose half-tie, a few strands framing his jaw. He cleared his throat.
"Yo, it's been a minute." His voice was low, easy. "Y'all wondering where we ghosted to? First off — our bad."
His eyes flicked to the chat.
MRLARPINATER donated $5: "Where did y'all go that was so important you ditched us?"
Beside him, a silvery-white ponytail swayed as someone stifled a laugh.
"Alright, alright — settle." Damien leaned back. "We got pulled into a high school reunion. Old classmate, four or five years back — timeline's fuzzy, I scrubbed most of that era clean." Something flickered behind his eyes before he shook it off. "Point is, all four of us flew out to Dubai for it. Why us specifically? Hell if I know. Host kept it cryptic. But before I get into the reunion — lemme rewind. Others'll share theirs. First, my high school hell."
---
Damien's Past
Lincoln High never noticed Damien the way it should have. Six-foot-three, good looks, a face people remembered — and completely invisible anyway. Not bullied, not mocked, just erased. Wasted potential, teachers called it, and left it there.
Home was worse than school. His father hit his mother behind closed doors, then made Damien listen to why it was his fault. *Guess who's crying, Damien. Guess whose fault that is.* He learned early to disappear into himself — quiet enough that nobody at school clocked what he was carrying, until the day someone did.
"Yo, Damien." A kid with jet-black hair turned around, grinning. "Heard your bitch mom gets beaten by your dad."
The room went still. "What?" Damien's voice came out flat, dangerous.
"My boy's your neighbor. Says he hears it through the wall." The kid shrugged, enjoying himself. "Me? I'd never let a man touch my mom."
It didn't stop there. By the time Damien was on his feet, three more voices had joined in — needling, laughing, daring him to snap. He did.
"SHUT THE FUCK UP!"
That was the mistake. Someone kicked him low, and then it was boots — ribs, back, the floor rushing up to meet him — while they told him exactly whose fault all of it was. A teacher's shout finally broke it up. Too late to matter.
Five months later, Damien sat on a bench behind the school, bruised and done pretending it didn't hurt. Three shadows stepped out of the isolation around him.