Chapter Text
Chapter 9 Vicky
Matteo
Matteo felt it before he saw it.
Eyes on them.
Staring into their souls.
Intent. Like fingers pressing into his back, straight through skin and muscle, right into his spine. He didn’t dare turn his head. His body had gone rigid the moment Alex wrapped his arms around him. Not because he didn’t want it—because for a second, being held like that felt dangerously close to safe.
Too safe.
When Alex’s breathing finally slowed and evened out, Matteo carefully pulled away, as if sudden movement might shatter something fragile between them. He sat up, rubbing a hand over his face.
“So,” Matteo said, forcing casualness into his voice, “did you actually sell anything last night?”
“Yes, I did, surprisingly!” Alex replied with a grin. “I can’t remember to who though…”
While Alex frowned in thought, Matteo finally allowed himself to look around the streets.
The air felt wrong. The place that had felt normal just minutes ago now buzzed with something thick and uncomfortable. His eyes flicked to the busstop again.
Empty.
But he knew what he had seen.
He hadn’t dreamed it. Emily had been standing right there, across from the window, staring straight in with wild, unblinking eyes. Her phone held up, angled just right. Filming. Not the window downstairs—the one here. Alex’s room.
The thought made his stomach twist.
“Does Emily live close by?” Matteo asked suddenly.
Alex looked at him, confused.
“Why are you asking me that?”
“She waited at the bus station for you last time I slept here,” Matteo said, his mind still racing. “Wouldn’t it be awkward if you saw her every morning on the bus?”
“I guess so, but normally her parents drive her. Her siblings always go by car,” Alex said. “She just went with the bus for no reason.”
No reason.
Yeah. Right.
“Okay,” Matteo said. “Good. That’s a relief.”
“Matt, do you want to do homework at your place?” Alex asked. “I really don’t feel like failing. I’ve got, like, three tests.”
Matteo’s heart sank.
He couldn’t just say it. He couldn’t say I don’t have a home. He couldn’t say I ran away or I sleep in an abandoned house with no electricity or water. He swallowed hard.
“Uhhh… I need to go to the gang, you know…” Matteo said. It wasn’t even a lie.
“Oh right!” Alex reached into his pockets, pulling out crumpled bills. Some were dirty. Some were wrinkled almost beyond recognition.
“This is everything I sold last night,” he said. “Here’s the bag with the ones I didn’t. I’m still new to this. So… do I need to go with you?”
Matteo froze.
He knew the answer. And he hated it.
He didn’t want Alex there. He remembered Elian too clearly. How things had gone wrong. How fast everything had fallen apart. He didn’t want Alex anywhere near that world.
But he didn’t really have a choice.
“Uhh… yeah,” Matteo said. “But we can just go in and out.”
“Alright!” Alex said easily.
“Also, we need to walk to the party house first,” Matteo added. “My motorcycle is still there. You can hop on behind me, and then we’ll go to the gang.”
As he said it, Matteo tried not to think about one thing.
Liam.
He hoped—really hoped—Liam wouldn’t be there.
And if he was, that he wouldn’t say weird shit.
Nicole
Vicky added Nicole to the school group chat.
Normally, Nicole hated those chats. Endless spam. Stupid jokes. People talking just to hear themselves talk. But now, she stayed. She needed to see what people were saying.
And they did not disappoint.
“Omg Cas definitely beat up Ilyano, but idk why guys!”
“I heard it was because he beat up a girl for no reason.”
Nicole’s fingers tightened around her phone.
Were they talking about Vicky?
She didn’t want rumors starting about Vicky too. But responding wasn’t really an option.
“Yeah, I’ve heard that too. I have a video of the night where he punched a ginger girl.”
Shit.
A video.
If someone had filmed her and Ilyano, she was done for.
Then the video was uploaded.
Twenty-seven seconds. Horrible quality. Shaky. You could see a guy dancing, laughing, before the camera shifted. And there it was—clear enough.
Ilyano’s hands all over Vicky.
Even with the bad quality, you could see it. The way Vicky stiffened. The fear. The discomfort. And then—fast, brutal—him screaming something and punching her. Twice.
Nicole felt sick.
Now the video was everywhere.
Vicky was in the group chat too. Nicole’s chest tightened. She hated attention. This must’ve been hell for her.
But surprisingly… people were supportive.
“Omg poor girl!! She didn’t even do anything. Men.”
“Gosh, Ilyano got what he deserved!!!”
“Cas is a real one.”
“Imagine hitting a woman.”
“Omg she’s in my class!! She’s super sweet!”
Hundreds of messages like that.
Not once did someone mention Nicole.
“@vicky_peak are you okay girly?”
“Yes, I’m all good, don’t worry about me! Tysm for everyone’s messages!”
The chat exploded again.
People wanted details. Explanations. Stories. Vicky answered what she could. She didn’t hide the fact that she was trans.
Not once did anyone care.
How weird.
Normally, people would’ve torn her apart. But now? Acceptance. Even from the guys. Nicole didn’t know how to feel about it.
Vicky was the topic now.
“If he didn’t want her, I sure as hell do.”
Nicole stared at that message.
That would definitely boost Vicky’s self-esteem.
So why didn’t Nicole feel happy?
God. She felt disgusting. Selfish. Only thinking about how badly she wanted Vicky for herself.
She texted her privately. Asked if she was okay. Asked if she wanted to hang out.
Then she dropped her phone onto her bed and stared at the ceiling.
Minutes passed. Felt like hours.
No message came through.
Ahmed
He heard the door click.
The sound was small, barely anything, but it sliced straight through him.
Shit.
For a split second, his body went into panic mode. His mind raced through possibilities before logic could catch up. Baran? His mother? Someone he didn’t want to see him like this?
He grabbed the first thing he could find—a big gray hoodie—and pulled it over his head, hiding himself inside it like fabric could erase him.
“Ahmed?” a high voice called.
Mariah.
Relief flooded his chest so fast it almost hurt.
Thank God.
No—actually, screw God. If God existed, He wouldn’t have made him like this.
Ahmed didn’t answer. His stomach growled, loud enough to annoy him. Hunger always hit at the worst times.
He stepped out of his room slowly. Mariah was sitting on the couch, legs tucked under her, tablet balanced on her knees. She looked tired in that careless way kids did after staying up too late.
“Oh, you’re here!” she said brightly. “Had a nice party?”
“Hmm… kinda,” Ahmed replied. “You?”
“Oh yeah! It was really fun! We were with five and slept all in the same bed!”
“Oh wow,” he said. “Didn’t have much sleep, huh.”
He didn’t look at her. He focused on opening cupboards, grabbing food, anything that gave his hands something to do. He really tried sounding normal, which wasnt really hard since he never was happy or talkitive anyways.
“Well, I don’t really remember a lot of what happened at night though… I was really tired.”
Lucky.
“You didn’t drink, did you?” Ahmed asked, frowning.
“What? I’m eleven?” Mariah said, looking up at him like he was stupid.
“Oh. Right. Just making sure…”
He gathered his food and retreated to his room like he always did.
The apartment was quiet.
It always was.
His mom worked herself into exhaustion, and when she was home, she was usually too tired to talk.
Sometimes Ahmed tried to remember his father. It never worked. He never even knew him.
His stepfather had left too—right after Mariah was born.
What he did remember was his mother crying at night. Quietly, but constantly. Losing weight. Losing sleep. Losing hope.
They moved to a cheaper apartment. Ahmed hadn’t minded. He never had friends anyway.
At five years old, he met Leo.
That was the closest thing he had to a childhood.
Still, most of his childhood felt empty. Baran started working young, leaving Ahmed alone with Mariah. He hated his mother for that sometimes. She should’ve never had another kid.
But then Mariah would laugh. Or smile at him like he was her entire world.
And the thought disappeared.
They were inseparable.
Ahmed barely spoke, but Mariah understood him anyway.
He raised her. Or tried to. Mostly she watched YouTube while he cooked or sat in his room doing nothing.
When their mom was around, it wasn’t easy. She was strict. Always stressed. Muslim. When Mariah turns thirteen, their mom wants her to wear a hijab. Mariah doesn't want to. There was no discussion.
Baran agreed.
Ahmed obeyed.
Being Muslim was the right option. The only option.
But did he believe?
If this was faith—why did he feel so wrong inside his own body?
Why was he like this?
Emma
A black-haired girl, now with snake bites, lay on her bed with her head pressed into her pillow.
She didn’t cry. She physically couldn’t anymore.
Whatever tears she had were already spent, drained sometime during the night.
But fear didn’t need tears to exist. It sat heavy in her chest, sharp and constant.
Her phone wouldn’t stop buzzing.
Message after message after message.
This is it, she thought. This is the end.
When she finally forced herself to look, her hands were shaking.
The school group chat had exploded.
Not her new friend group.
She exhaled shakily.
She had panicked for nothing.
The messages weren’t about her.
Not her name. Not her past. Not that school.
If she just pretended it never happened—if she kept acting like that version of herself didn’t exist—maybe she could survive this.
“Okay so when we meeting up today?” one message read.
Lucille.
Emma recognized the profile picture immediately. Quiet girl. Was there, wasn't loud. Almost invisible, but in a comforting way. Very basic looking despite her friendgroup.
“Around 3 pm in the park right?” another message said.
Enzo.
Someone she hadn’t met yet. Art as a profile picture. Interesting.
There were going to be so many people she hadn’t seen before.
Luckily, Emma didn’t have social anxiety. If anything, distraction helped. She actually found herself looking forward to it.
The school chat was still spawning. She scrolled again.
Her chest tightened.
She hadn’t imagined it. She hadn’t dreamed it. She knew Nicole did it. Not Cas. Nicole.
She could still see her face. Her hands. Bloody. Shaking.
Emma started typing. Her fingers hovered over the screen.
Then she stopped.
This wasn’t her story to tell. Starting drama would only drag attention back to her. And she had been drunk too. Maybe she could be wrong.
But deep down, she knew she wasn’t.
No one invents an image like that about someone they barely know.
Still, she erased the message.
She got dressed quickly and went downstairs.
Then it hit her.
Oh shit.
Her piercings.
She froze when she saw her mother’s reflection in the bathroom mirror. Emma was just standing there, toothbrush in hand, trying to act normal.
Her mother looked up.
The smile vanished instantly.
Her face dropped.
Then screaming.
Emma had known this would happen.
She had prepared herself for it.
She didn’t care.
She wanted this—wanted something that was hers for once—so she accepted the screaming as part of the deal.
“TAKE THEM OUT”
What? Is she crazy? She knew her mother was gonna go crazy but taking them out?
“No.”
Emma didn’t raise her voice. She didn’t have to. The word sat between them like a stain that wouldn’t come out.
Her mother smiled.
It wasn’t a warm smile. It was the kind people use when they already know they’re going to win.
“Ah,” she said softly. “So this is what we’re doing now.”
Emma’s fingers curled around the porcelain sink. She kept her eyes on the mirror. On her mouth. On the metal. If she looked at her mother, she’d feel small again.
“You always do this,” her mother continued, voice calm, measured. “You get these phases. Remember the last one?”
Emma’s stomach dropped.
“Don’t,” she muttered.
Her mother ignored that. Of course she did.
“New clothes. New friends. New attitude. And look how well that ended.”
The words slid under Emma’s skin.
“That school,” her mother went on, pretending to tidy something on the counter, “was very patient with you. Too patient, if you ask me.”
Emma’s heartbeat thudded in her ears. She could already feel it — the heat in her face, the familiar spiral.
“It wasn’t my fault,” she said, quietly.
Her mother hummed. “Funny. That’s not what people said.”
Emma finally looked at her.
Her mother met her gaze easily. Almost kindly.
“You do have a talent for attracting trouble, Emma. And then acting surprised when it follows you.”
Silence.
“You send the wrong signals,” her mother added. “Always have. And now you’re advertising it on your face.”
Emma felt sick.
“That has nothing to do with—”
“Everything has to do with it,” her mother cut in. “People don’t just do things for no reason. You should know that by now.”
The implication hung heavy. Sticky. Intentional.
Emma’s nails dug into her palms. She forced herself to breathe. In. Out.
“You promised,” she said. “You said we wouldn’t talk about that anymore.”
Her mother sighed, like Emma was exhausting.
“I promised I wouldn’t bring it up if you didn’t repeat the behavior.”
Emma laughed once. A broken sound.
“So existing is repeating it now?”
Her mother’s eyes hardened.
“Don’t twist my words. I’m trying to protect you. Clearly you can’t do that yourself.”
She stepped closer, close enough that Emma could smell her perfume.
“Take them out,” she said again, softly. “Before people start remembering things.”
That did it.
Emma felt something snap — not loudly, but cleanly.
“You already do,” she said. “You never let me forget.”
For a moment, her mother said nothing.
Then, quietly:
“Well. Maybe you shouldn’t.”
Emma stared at her reflection. At the girl who survived. At the girl who was still being punished for it.
And suddenly, the piercings weren’t rebellion.
They were proof she was still here.