Adrian's POV
Then he walked in. My father.
The smell of alcohol hit before his voice did. He staggered into the living room, slamming the door so hard the frame shook.
His eyes were bloodshot, his shirt half untucked, and his tie dangled loosely around his neck.
"Grace!" he barked, glaring at my mom. "Where's my food? You think I stay out all day just to come home to nothing?"
Mom froze near the kitchen counter. She was still in her apron, her hair pulled back. "Dinner is on the table," she said softly. "I kept it warm."
Father's face twisted. He grabbed the plate, sniffed, and threw it down hard. The rice scattered across the floor, mixing with the sound of his anger.
"Cold," he spat. "Always cold. You can't even keep food hot for your husband?"
Sophie stood up from the couch. She had her laptop open with her design sketches. Her voice was calm, though her hands trembled. "What is wrong with you??? Mom worked hard to cook it. You should be grateful."
Father's head snapped toward her. His lips curled in a nasty smile. "Grateful? For this? And you? Wasting your time at that silly fashion school. What has it given you, Sophie? Nothing. Just sketches nobody cares about."
Sophie's jaw clenched, but she said nothing.
Claire stepped in, standing close to Sophie. "At least she's doing something. At least she's working."
Father laughed, cruel and sharp. "Working? A daycare? Taking care of brats? That's not work. That's babysitting. Worthless. Just like your mother."
Mom flinched. "Robert, please, not in front of the children—"
The slap came so fast I almost didn't see it. His hand cracked across her cheek, and the sound echoed in the room.
"Don't tell me what to do, woman!" Father shouted.
"Mom!" I shouted, stepping forward. My fists shook, but I forced myself to stay still. I knew better. I knew if I pushed, it would only get worse.
He turned to me, his eyes sharp. "And you. My only son. The one who should have been a man. Look at you; acting like a girl, dressing like a girl, you're not even a man"
I bit my lip so hard I tasted blood. My chest burned, but I didn't let my tears show. I couldn't.
"You're weak," he continued, pointing at me with the same hand that hit my mom. "Soft. Useless. A shame to my name."
He stood there, breathing hard, daring anyone to speak. Nobody did. Sophie gripped Claire's hand. Mom pressed her palm to her cheek, her eyes glassy.
Father grabbed his coat, still muttering curses under his breath. He staggered toward the door, slammed it again, and left.
The house fell silent.
Sophie let out a shaky breath. Claire bent down to pick up the spilled rice, her hands trembling.
I stood frozen, my fists still tight. Every word he said cut deep, but I forced myself to swallow it. This was normal. This was our life.
I swore to myself again, like I always did: One day, I'll protect them. No matter what it takes.
The next morning, school felt like an escape. For a while, the noise of lockers slamming and kids laughing drowned out the memory of Father's voice.
I walked into the gym during free period, where the basketball team was practicing. And there he was. Damien Caldwell.
He moved across the court with easy confidence, dribbling the ball like it was part of him. His shirt clung to his back, and when he jumped for a dunk, his muscles flexed. The other players cheered. Girls at the sidelines giggled, whispering about him.
I caught myself staring. My chest tightened, and I quickly looked down at my shoes, pretending to tie them.
Too late.
"What are you staring at, glasses?"
His voice was smooth, mocking but not cruel. I looked up, and Damien asked me, sweat glistening on his forehead.
Heat rushed to my face. "N-nothing," I stammered, pushing my glasses up.
He chuckled, tossing the ball to a teammate without breaking eye contact. Then he walked past me, the faint smell of cologne and sweat brushing by. My stomach twisted.
"Adrian, look at him," a voice whispered next to me.
"I just can't get over how handsome he is" Eleanor my best friend said.
I rolled my eyes, trying to hide my embarrassment. "You say that about everyone."
She grinned. "Not everyone. Just him."
Before I could reply, a voice cut through the noise.
"Well, well, if it isn't Miller."
My heart sank. Tyler. He stood with his friend Michael, both grinning like they had already won.
"Watching the boys again?" Tyler said loud enough for everyone to hear. "Careful, or people will start calling you names."
Michael snickered. "Too late for that."
Eleanor stepped forward. "Leave him alone, Tyler."
But Tyler just smirked wider. "Why? He likes the attention." His eyes darted to me, sharp and cruel. "Don't you, Miller?"
I clenched my fists, the same way I had at home. I wanted to punch him, to scream at him, but I stayed quiet. That was the only way to survive.
Tyler laughed, shoved my shoulder, and walked off with Michael. My chest burned, but I forced myself to take a deep breath.
"Don't listen to him," Eleanor said softly.
"Yes, don't listen to him Adrian, he's a big bully and nobody likes him" Jenna said and Amelia nodded. Jenna and Amelia were Eleanor's friends, they followed her everywhere
I nodded, even though the words still stung.
After school, I changed into my uniform for my part time job at the coffee shop. The air smelled like roasted beans and sweet pastries. Customers filled the tables, chatting and laughing.
I took orders, cleaned tables, and tried not to think about Father or Tyler. Work was easier, it gave me something to focus on.
During a short break, I heard a group of college students at the corner table squealing over a phone screen.
"Have you seen Nocturne's new video?" one girl said. "It's already trending."
Another leaned in. "His voice gives me chills. I swear, I'm in love with him."
A boy laughed. "He's probably some forty year old in his basement."
"No way," the first girl argued. "He has to be young. Did you see his hands on the guitar? They're perfect."
I looked away and continued what I was doing.
When my shift ended, I walked out into the cool night. The streets were quiet, the city lights glowing faintly. I carried my guitar case, my mask tucked safely inside.
I climbed the old fire escape to my favorite rooftop. From here, the world felt far away. The stars above, the city below it was the only place I felt free.
I pulled the mask over my face. A simple black mask that covered my identity but gave me power. With my guitar in hand, I sat down, adjusted the camera, and pressed record.
The first chords echoed into the night. My voice followed, steady, raw, filled with everything I couldn't say out loud.
When I finished, I uploaded it to my channel.
Nocturne.
Fifty million subscribers. Millions waiting for every word I sang.
To the world, I was a mystery. A masked singer with a voice they couldn't forget.
To me, it was my hidden identity, my escape from the real painful world.
I was Nocturne the Masked Singer, and no one could take that from me