The sting of her father’s hand wasn’t new—it was almost a part of her routine. Every time his knuckles struck her skin, it reminded her that she existed only to be broken in this house. The smell of cheap whiskey hung thick in the air as he threw another punch, this one to her ribs. She didn’t scream. Not anymore. It wasn’t worth it.

“You useless brat!” he roared, stumbling against the wall. “You bring nothing but damn misfortune into this house!”

Elysia collapsed against the kitchen counter, arms trembling as she tried to stay upright. Her father was already turning away, grumbling curses under his breath, his rage spent. That was his pattern—lose at cards, come home drunk, take it out on her. If he won? They’d get a box of greasy takeout and a few hours of fake peace.

Tonight, though, he had lost again.

She clutched her side, biting down on the inside of her cheek to stay silent. No one would come to help. Not her neighbors. Not her mother. Especially not her mother.

Their house—left behind by her late maternal grandfather—had long since rotted into a shell of what it once was. Cracks split the walls like scars. The old wood groaned beneath every step. But it was all they had. A decaying house filled with broken people.

Elysia limped to the stove. She still had to make dinner.

With trembling hands, she prepared a modest meal—rice, eggs, and the last of the pickled vegetables. She set it all on the table in silence. Her mother, Maribel, had just returned from the clinic, her uniform wrinkled and faded. She barely glanced at Elysia.

"Your father?" she asked without emotion.

"Sleeping it off," Elysia replied, eyes fixed on the chipped plate.

Maribel didn’t respond. She sat down, pulled her food toward her, and ate in silence.

Elysia didn’t touch her own plate.

She waited until her mother finished, cleaned the dishes, and quietly made her way to her room. Her stomach growled in protest, but she ignored it. Hunger had become just another ache to bury.

She curled up on the thin mattress without a blanket. Her arms wrapped around herself, as if she could hold the pain in place.

---

Morning crept in like a thief—silent and cold. Elysia woke before the sun, the stiffness in her bruised side reminding her of last night. She pulled on a long-sleeved sweatshirt, carefully hiding the blue and purple marks that painted her arms. Her reflection in the cracked mirror made her stomach twist. She didn’t look like a university student—she looked like someone losing a war no one knew she was fighting.

Downstairs, her mother was sipping lukewarm tea, already dressed for work.

“I’m leaving early,” Maribel said, not looking at her. “There’s a new doctor coming in.”

Elysia hesitated. “Mom… do you—” Her voice cracked. “Do you ever think about leaving him?”

Maribel’s eyes stayed on the steam rising from her cup. “There’s no such thing as escape when you’ve got nothing waiting for you,” she said softly.

There was no warmth in her tone, no fight, just exhaustion.

Elysia didn’t ask again.

She grabbed her bag and stepped outside into the crisp morning air, walking to the bus stop with her head low. The same worn-out path, the same tired streets. She boarded the bus, sitting alone at the back as usual. Her clothes were clean but faded. Her shoes—scuffed and duct-taped at the soles—barely held together.

At the university, she walked through the gates like a ghost. No one greeted her. No one asked how she was. She drifted past students in luxury cars and designer backpacks, people with dreams she couldn’t afford to chase.

She made her way to the scholarship board with trembling hope. Maybe, just maybe…

But her name wasn’t there.

Not this time.

Elysia stared at the list for what felt like hours. Her name was nowhere. Her scores had dipped slightly—likely because she’d missed a few deadlines when her father’s beatings left her bedridden. That was all it took to fall behind in a world that expected perfection from those who had nothing.

“No,” she whispered. “No, no, no…”

Without the scholarship, she couldn’t afford next semester. The tuition bill was more than what her mother made in three months. And there was no backup plan.

---

Later that afternoon, she stood in front of the campus job listings board. Her fingers trailed the flyers. Babysitting. Tutoring. A café server. Nothing paid enough. She took a flyer for the café job anyway.

She walked two blocks from the university to find the place—a tiny shop tucked between a florist and a tailor. It looked clean, small, but decent.

Inside, the air smelled of coffee and burnt sugar. The man behind the counter looked her over with skeptical eyes. He was in his fifties, balding, with a name tag that read Mick.

“You here for the job?” he asked.

“Yes,” Elysia replied, trying to sound confident.

He raised an eyebrow. “You ever worked in a café before?”

“No,” she admitted, “but I’m a fast learner. I need this job.”

Mick leaned on the counter. “You look like you need sleep more.”

“I can do both,” she said quickly. “Just give me a chance.”

He sighed, then gestured toward the back. “Kitchen’s small. Dishwasher’s busted. It’s messy work, and the pay’s crap.”

“That’s okay.”

“You sure? I don’t need someone running out crying after a week.”

“I won’t cry.”

He stared at her a moment longer, then handed her an apron. “Come in tomorrow morning. Trial day. No promises.”

Elysia clutched the apron like it was a lifeline. “Thank you.”

---

She left the café with a mix of exhaustion and relief.

It wasn’t much. But it was something.

And for someone like her, something was enough to keep going.

---

The clock on the lecture hall wall struck 5:10 PM just as Elysia shoved her books into her bag and rushed out, nearly tripping over her own feet. Her last class had run longer than usual, and Mr. Renner—the café manager—hated tardiness. Especially from her, who was still new to the job.

Her worn sneakers slapped against the pavement as she weaved through the thinning crowd of students. Wind tangled her long hair, and she hastily pulled it into a messy bun, her breath growing shallow with every stride. The sun was already dipping, casting long shadows across the buildings.

"Come on, come on..." she whispered, darting across the street.

By the time she reached the back alley behind Café Mornings, she could hear the low chatter of early evening customers and the familiar clink of porcelain mugs. She slipped through the employee entrance, her chest heaving.

“You’re late,” barked Mr. Renner without even turning to look.

“I’m sorry. My class—”

“I don’t care. Apron on. Tables three and five are waiting. And smile, for God’s sake. No one wants a gloomy face serving them coffee.”

Elysia bit back the sting. She nodded silently, grabbing her apron and notepad.

As she stepped out to the floor, the warmth of the café did nothing to ease the cold pit in her stomach. Her eyes flicked around at the customers, finding Table 3—a young couple—and Table 5, where a sharply dressed man in a black suit sat alone, tapping something into his phone.

His gaze lifted the moment she approached. He looked detached but observant, as if nothing around him missed his notice. His eyes were... unsettling.

“Good evening, sir. What can I get you?” she asked, voice soft but professional.

His gaze lingered on her face for a second too long. “Black coffee. No sugar.”

She nodded quickly and turned away, but she could still feel the weight of his stare on her back.

---

By 8 PM, her feet throbbed and her back ached. Mr. Renner had barked at her three more times, and one of the regulars had grabbed her wrist a little too tightly when he asked for more cream. She muttered her goodbyes and left through the back door, the darkness outside thick and unsettling.

The streets were quieter than usual. Normally, she took the bus home, but her shift had ended too late—she’d missed the last one. She checked her wallet, already light to begin with, and sighed. Not even enough for a cab.

So she walked.

And walked.

The streetlights flickered above her as the path twisted away from the familiar rows of cafés and bookstores. Her shoes scuffed against uneven pavement as she passed a narrow road lined with old buildings and a bar tucked between two grimy storefronts. Laughter and music bled into the night from behind its fogged windows.

She picked up her pace.

That was when she heard them.

“Hey, sweetheart.”

Two men leaned against the side of the building. One of them—tall, lean, eyes too alert—stepped into her path.

“You walking all by yourself this late? Dangerous out here.”

Elysia tried to move past him, but the second man blocked the other side. Her heart began to pound.

“I—I’m fine, thank you,” she said, voice tight.

“Oh, we can see that. Real fine,” the second one smirked, his breath reeking of alcohol as he stepped closer.

“Please, let me go.”

One of them reached out, brushing a finger down her arm.

She slapped his hand away. “Don’t touch me!”

But that only seemed to excite them.

The taller one grabbed her wrist tightly, yanking her close. She cried out, struggling in vain.

“Help! Somebody—help!”

The alley seemed to swallow her voice.

Until it didn’t.

Suddenly, a blur of motion struck the man holding her. A sickening crunch echoed as he flew back, colliding hard with the wall. The second man didn’t even have time to react.

The stranger moved like a shadow. Precise. Merciless.

A fist collided with the second man’s jaw, sending him sprawling to the ground. The air filled with the sound of fists against flesh—raw, brutal, unrelenting. Bones cracked. Blood splattered.

Elysia backed away, breathless, clutching her wrist as she stared at the figure who had materialized from the night.

Tall. Dressed in all black. Unshaken.

It was the man from the café.

The man in the suit.

He stood now, towering over the groaning bodies at his feet, his knuckles bloodied but steady. His gaze didn’t shift, didn’t tremble. And when he finally looked at her, it wasn’t with concern.

It was with recognition.

Elysia swallowed hard. “Thank you... I don’t know what would’ve—”

He stepped forward, his presence sharp and direct. “You work at Cafe,” he said quietly.

She nodded, uncertain.

He pulled out a photograph from the inside of his coat and held it out. “Have you seen this man?”

Elysia leaned closer. Her eyes widened slightly.

“Yes,” she said.

She remembered the man clearly—he had come into the café just yesterday. She had served him personally. There had been something off about him—his eyes had been shadowed with unease, his shoulders tense, as if he carried the weight of something too heavy to name. He hadn’t said much, just ordered quietly and left soon after.

“I don’t know anything more about him,” she added honestly.

Aldric’s eyes stayed on her for a moment, unreadable. Then he pulled a small card from his coat and handed it to her. “If you see him again, contact me immediately.”

She accepted it without question.

“There will be a reward,” he said simply. “A large one.”

Before she could say another word, he turned and walked away without pause or farewell, disappearing into the shadows like he had never been there.

Elysia stood frozen, the card clenched in her hand, the night slowly swallowing the last trace of him.

---

The streets were quiet when Elysia reached the edge of the neighborhood she never called home. The house loomed ahead like a memory that never faded—cracked walls, paint peeling off like neglected skin. She stood before the door, hesitation in her breath.

But hesitation didn’t stop fists. So she stepped inside.

Her father was already there. Slouched on the couch, bottle half-empty in one hand, remote in the other.

“You think you can walk in late and act like nothing happened?” His voice was thick with alcohol and venom. “You’ve got a good-for-nothing brain just like your mother.”

“I wasn’t late. I just—”

The slap was swift. Her cheek stung, her body reeled back, but she caught herself against the doorframe. She didn’t cry out. She never did. He didn’t like when she made noise.

Her mother sat in the far corner of the room, folding laundry, eyes blank. She didn’t even flinch.

Elysia’s throat tightened. “Mama…”

Still, no reply. Just the soft folding of a shirt.

The silence wasn’t new. Her mother had long since learned that words made her a target. But what Elysia couldn’t understand, even after all these years, was why the violence never touched her.

Her father only beat Elysia. Always her. Never the woman who stood by him, never the woman who should’ve protected her.

Maybe because her mother agreed to be invisible. Maybe because Elysia still had the audacity to dream.

Her father often raged, “You have her face. That same look in your eyes. As if you’re better than this place. You’re not. You’re nothing.”

Maybe that's why she was the target—because she looked like someone who once rejected him. Because she reminded him of a life he could never control.

That night, when he stormed out of the house to refill his bottle, Elysia collapsed onto her bed. The mattress was thin and cold, the sheets older than most of her memories.

She curled up, bruises stinging beneath her clothes. Her tears soaked the pillow, but her sobs were silent.

Is this all life is?

A part of her—small and foolish—still wished for someone to rescue her. Not a knight. Not a hero. Just someone who would care. Who’d notice she was breaking. Someone who could see the quiet scream behind her smile.

But dreams like that weren’t for girls like her.

She remembered her first crush back in high school—a boy who smiled kindly, who shared his notes when she forgot hers. He asked her out once, and she had said yes with trembling hope. For three days, she believed in a future where someone might choose her.

Then she saw him walking hand-in-hand with someone else. Laughing, as if Elysia never existed.

He didn’t even deny it. Just scoffed and walked away.

That was the first time she told herself: Never again.

If the person destined to love me is someone like that… may love never find me at all.

---

Morning came, cold and gray. Elysia dressed carefully, choosing a high-collar sweater that would cover the bruise on her neck. Her Psychology textbook felt heavy in her bag as she stepped through the university gates.

As she walked through the hallway, she saw him—her old crush.

Again, with someone new.

Different girl. Same pattern.

Elysia turned her head, heart hardening. I was so stupid to feel anything for you.

This time, there was no pain. Just quiet, simmering disgust at herself—for being so easy to hurt.

With a whispered curse under her breath, she walked to her classroom and slipped into the back seat near the window, her usual safe corner.

The chatter in the room buzzed around her until the door opened, and silence fell like a curtain.

Footsteps—calm, measured—echoed across the floor.

A young man stepped inside.

Late twenties. Tall, confident, yet not in an overbearing way. His dark hair was neatly styled, his features composed but not cold. Dressed in a simple blazer and a navy shirt tucked into fitted trousers, he looked effortlessly professional—too young to be a typical professor, but far too commanding to be mistaken for a student.

“I’m Professor Kieran Vale,” he began, his tone even and direct. “I’ll be taking over Behavioral Psychology for the semester. For those who don’t know, I also teach Emotional Cognition and Trauma Processing at the advanced level. You’ll need to pay attention. I don’t teach to pass time.”

A few students exchanged wide-eyed looks.

Elysia sat still, fingers curled under the desk.

Behavioral Psychology.

Her major. Her pain.

Something about him felt different. Not just because of his looks or youth—but because of how he scanned the room, pausing on each face as if he was reading more than expressions.

When his eyes reached her, they stayed longer than they should have.

But not in the way other men looked at her.

There was no hunger. No smirk.

Just… awareness.

As if he saw something—beneath the silence, beneath the hoodie and the tucked-away scars.

She quickly dropped her gaze, heat creeping up her neck.

He moved on without a word.

But the moment lingered.

---

The class passed in a blur of terms, theories, and clinical studies. Professor Vale spoke clearly, efficiently, but his voice had a certain softness when he explained difficult topics—like trauma responses, anxiety loops, or emotional suppression.

Elysia found herself listening. Not to the words, but to the way he said them.

Like someone who understood.

When the bell rang, students packed their bags, buzzing with excitement about the new teacher.

But Elysia stayed still, reluctant to move. Her hands gripped her book as if letting go meant breaking something fragile.

She didn’t glance at him as she passed. She couldn’t.

But she could feel his gaze follow her. Quiet. Questioning.

And for the first time in a long time, she wondered:

Does someone see me?

Not the bruises.

Not the broken pieces.

Me.