Gloria
The fire roared around me, smoke clawing at my throat as walls collapsed in flashes of orange and black. I ran, barefoot, hands scraping against splintered wood, trying to make sense of the screaming and chaos. Men fell before me, blood spraying the floor, faces twisted in terror. Every step brought the metallic stench closer.
And then I saw a light.
A boy, glowing in the firelight, reaching toward me. His hand stretched out, trembling and desperate, hair a halo in the flames. For a moment, the world fell away.
"Hold on," he whispered, barely audible above the roar.
A shot rang out, splitting the air and shattering everything. He jerked violently, eyes wide with shock as he fell. Blood blossomed across his chest, dark and vivid. I screamed, reaching for him, my fingers brushing against nothing.
The flames twisted, smoke thickened, and just as I leaned closer, hand trembling over his, my eyes opened.
A flash of light blinded me. I was on the airplane with my family.
My heart slammed against my ribs, sweat soaking my hair. Gunfire still echoed in my ears, the weight of blood and fire pressing into my chest. My mother slept beside me, but her tightened grip on my hand didn't soften.
I swallowed hard, listening to the hum of the plane and the soft snores of Dad and Nico. Nico, always protective, had his arm draped over the armrest like a shield. I smiled, but the fear the dream planted lingered. This scene had haunted me for years, replaying again and again. My childhood was fragmented, most of it forgotten—but the gunshots, that night, I could never forget.
As of now, I was heading to England, leaving New York behind.
I blinked against the morning light piercing the window. London was waiting. Reality sank in: I was being forced to start over, again, because of one person.
I drew a shaky breath. I had been bullied—ignored at lunch, mocked during presentations, erased in hallways where everyone pretended I didn't exist. Being invisible, I could handle. Hated, I could not.
Luca Moretti had made sure that hatred was carved into my reputation. He transferred mid-year and became untouchable within weeks. His Russian accent, smug smile, and impossible charm bent everyone to his will. He shifted events, opinions, even teachers' favors. I hated him for it, every ounce of me.
My family discovered it immediately. The moment they realized, the decision was made: leave New York, move to London. The flight was long, but I was not alone.
My mother slept beside me, protective, hand brushing mine as if she could ward off every danger. My father sat in front, silent, alert, carrying a weight I didn't understand. Nico behind us, keeping watch until he finally drifted to sleep.
Even hearing Luca's last name made my parents flinch. I didn't understand why. It was as if our world held secrets I wasn't yet allowed to see.
I curled into my seat, feeling the hum of the plane beneath me. Shadows of the past danced in my mind, mingling with the uncertainty ahead. London awaited, a life I could not yet comprehend.
***
I never doubted my father when he made decisions that could change everyone's life instantly. That was something my mother drilled into me: obey, trust, survive. Our lives had always been stitched together quickly, disappearing from one place and emerging somewhere else like smoke.
A week after the incident with Luca, my parents had packed us up and moved to London, shutting down everything behind us. I didn't question it, even if it left me feeling untethered.
My quiet life always carried secrets I couldn't know. My family knew something I wasn't allowed to, something that threatened our peace, always in the air—a hush of words, silent tears. I gave up trying to understand it as I grew older.
The house was big, old, filled with pale sunlight that felt too clean, too clinical. Birds outside sounded foreign. I had lain down after unpacking, not to sleep, but to rest.
Morning peeked through the window. It felt strange, waking in a room that wasn't mine, pale sunlight sliding through cream curtains, soft and cold like church light.
I had decided on Ashwood Hall, a school nearby. Others seemed better—flashier, prestigious—but Ashwood Hall looked normal. Grey stone, crooked windows, heavy doors that creaked like they held secrets. Grounded. Honest. Maybe that's why I picked it.
"Gloria!" my mother's voice echoed, accent brushing softly. "Breakfast!"
I swung my legs off the bed, toes pressing the rug. The house was big—not new money big, but old and wise. It had witnessed lives and stayed quiet. My father had found it, always in secret, at night.
Breakfast was quiet, punctuated by my father's lingering gaze on the brochure and Nico's rare but meaningful words. I kissed my mom goodbye, trying not to show my nerves, and left.
The car ride was short.
The first day at Ashwood Hall was colder than I expected. The classroom smelled of varnished wood and cold air, untouched. I slipped into a seat near the window, second row, far left. No one looked up. No one cared. I didn't mind.
I curled my fingers around my bag strap, listening to voices buzz around me—laughter in pockets, whispers behind palms. Students who had known each other for years didn't spare a glance. Outside, the grey sky swirled, as if holding something back. It wasn't like home, where the sun baked everything golden and people wore cruelty in smiles. No, here it was quieter. Colder. Where no one needed to raise their voice to ruin you.
That's when I smelled it.
Sharp, clean, like smoke, with something darker underneath—metal or musk. It didn't belong.
I turned my head to the window, scanning the courtyard.
He was looking straight at me.
Standing beneath the archway, carved into the frame like he belonged there. Motionless, every detail perfect—dark hair windswept, eyes grey and deep, jaw sculpted with precision. Black clothing, aura sharp, exuding control. His stare wasn't admiration. It assessed, measured, commanding.
And I couldn't look away.
A shiver climbed my spine, slow, precise. I held his gaze.
The bell rang.
I blinked. When I stood with the class, the moment shattered. The teacher had entered, books in hand, greeting everyone. I turned back instinctively—he was gone. Like he had never been there. Only the scent lingered.
"...And between us today we have a new student..." The teacher's voice brought me back, but not fully. Whispers trailed around me. My vision blurred, my chest tightened, and for a moment, everything went dark—obsidian as his eyes.