I was four, maybe five, when I asked her for the first time.
"Mama, where's Daddy?"
Elene Ferza laughed. Not the warm kind you hear in fairy tales. It was a dry laugh, soaked in alcohol, sharp like the jagged edge of a broken bottle. She looked at me with tired, glassy eyes and said,
"You don't need a father, Hena. You've got me. That's enough."
It wasn't.
Growing up, I saw the difference on the playground, in classroom corners, during school events. Other girls ran into strong arms that lifted them into the sky. Fathers cheered from the sidelines, praised drawings, picked up their daughters with pride.
Me? I had Elene. When she showed up.
Most days, I woke up alone. The front door was still half-open after her last client or last bar crawl. I'd close it, lock it, clean up what was left behind. Empty bottles. Used tissues. The lingering smell of men.
By twelve, I was her mother. I made sure she didn't choke on her own vomit. I cooked. I worked after school, cleaning a restaurant while pretending to be sixteen. Anything to pay rent, to keep the lights on. I started lying to myself. Pretending it wasn't hell.
She wasn't always like that. I saw photos once—when I was ten. Hidden in a drawer under old clothes. My mother looked radiant. Perfect makeup. Bright eyes. She was holding a baby. Me. And someone else—half cut out of the frame. A piece of him remained: a hand on her shoulder, a silver ring, a half-hidden tattoo.
I asked about the photo.
She slapped me.
After that, I stopped asking questions.
People talked. They always do.
"Like mother, like daughter."
"You see the way she walks? That Ferza girl's selling herself, I swear."
Lies, but they felt real. Their looks cut deeper than fists. Teachers looked at me differently. Boys laughed when I walked by. I hated my body for maturing, for drawing attention I never wanted.
Bérénice was the only one who stayed. My best friend since second grade. She saw the filth but didn't look away. She covered for me when I skipped class. Brought food when the fridge was empty. Held me when my world threatened to crush me.
The first day of my last year of high school felt like walking through a storm without an umbrella. Same cracked sidewalk. Same cold stares. My uniform didn't quite fit; the skirt was second-hand, the blazer was missing a button. But I had my pride.
"That slut thinks she's better than us now."
I heard them behind me. I didn't look back.
I reached my locker. It barely closed. Rusted on the side. I pulled out my books, stuffed them in my bag, and focused on surviving another day.
Scene: Shadows in the Classroom
Mr. Keller's voice droned from the front of the literature class.
"Jane Eyre is a novel of resilience and identity. The female voice is central to the narrative…"
I tuned out. I'd read it. Twice. Charlotte Brontë made sense. She knew what it meant to live in shadow, to be judged, to claw your way toward worth.
A paper ball hit my chair.
I didn't turn around. I knew who it was. Brent and Lila. The usual mocking duo. They'd been whispering since I walked in.
"Whore."
It wasn't whispered this time. It was said just loud enough for the girl next to me to flinch.
Mr. Keller kept talking.
I clenched my jaw.
This was my life. Invisible bruises. Public shame.
After class, I walked fast. Bérénice caught up.
"Ignore them," she said, looping her arm through mine.
"Easy for you to say. Your mom's not lying naked on the kitchen floor."
She didn't laugh. She just squeezed my arm.
We went to the rooftop during lunch. Our refuge.
"You're stronger than all of them," Bérénice said, biting into an apple.
"Doesn't feel like it."
"This is your last year. Just finish. Get out of this town. Leave it all behind."
I nodded, staring at the horizon.
That's what I wanted. Freedom. Silence. A life where no one knew the name Ferza.
But fate had other plans.
---
Daniel Nim
Daniel Nim—a tall guy with dark hair and piercing grey eyes—was fairly popular. He'd pulled away for a moment from his fanbase clinging to him like flies in the school courtyard. He was bored.
He leaned against a wall near the courtyard, watching the sea of students pass like insects.
He wasn't looking for anyone in particular.
And then he saw her.
Not because she was beautiful—though she was, in a worn-down sort of way. Not because she smiled—she didn't. But because she moved like someone who didn't belong. Like someone with walls inside walls. Like prey with hidden teeth.
Black hair tied up carelessly. An oversized blazer. Eyes that met no one's. She didn't see him.
But he saw her.
He tilted his head, studying the curve of her spine, the stillness in her steps. She walked like a ghost no one had invited.
Hena Ferza.
He'd heard the name. Rumors floated. Trash family. Lazy mother. Probably a whore too.
All of that made her even more interesting.
Daniel smiled faintly.
He didn't talk to her.
Not yet.
But in his mind, gears began to turn. Plans started forming.
She didn't know it yet, but she was already his.
Soon, he'd peel her open, piece by piece.
And when she broke—because they all did—he'd make her beg.
Not for mercy.
Daniel Nim was a creature of masks.
To the world, he was flawless—tall, graceful, dressed in tailored uniforms that seemed stitched to perfection. His laugh was just loud enough to be charming, his gaze just intense enough to make hearts race. Teachers adored his eloquence. Girls whispered his name like a prayer. Boys either envied him or tried to imitate him.
But under the surface, Daniel was rot.
He sat alone in his father's office that evening, long after school had ended, staring at the flames in the marble fireplace. The air smelled of leather and old whiskey. He was swirling a glass of water—he didn't drink, never had, not like his father—and thinking about her.
A group of girls huddled near the lockers fell quiet as he passed. One of them, a sophomore with trembling fingers, clutched her notebook tighter. Her friend whispered, a little too loud:
"That's him."
"Who?"
"Daniel Nim. The one from the Liora story."
The name hung like smoke.
Liora.
Everyone remembered. Beautiful, bright-eyed Liora with poems scribbled on her arms and a smile that lit hallways. She had dated Daniel for three months. Three months of paradise, of late-night calls and stolen kisses. Then, one morning, Daniel had stopped answering.
She jumped from the school's rooftop the week after.
No note.
No explanation.
Just silence.
They called it a tragedy. The counselors talked about mental health. The headmaster asked for a moment of silence.
But the students… they whispered something different.
"When a boy that perfect leaves you," they said with a shrug, "what else is there to live for?"
Daniel never cried at her funeral. He didn't even attend.
Some said he wasn't allowed.
Others said he didn't care.
But no one ever accused him out loud.
Because Daniel Nim was untouchable.
And Liora was just another n
ame in the growing silence around him.